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Gérard de Nerval

Travels in the Near East (Voyage en Orient, 1843)

Part XIV: Ramadan Nights (Les Nuits Du Ramazan) – Theatres and Festivities

Portrait of Hussein Agha Pasha, 1828, Charles Emile Champmartin

Portrait of Hussein Agha Pasha, 1828, Charles Emile Champmartin
Rijksmuseum

Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved

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Contents

Chapter 1: Ildiz-Khan (The Khan of the Star)

After resting, I inquired about how I might attend the nocturnal festivals being celebrated in the Turkish city. My friend the artist, whom I saw again during the day, being familiar with the customs of the country, saw no other way than to have me lodge within Istanbul; which presented great difficulties.

We took a caique across the Golden Horn, and disembarked on the same landing-place near the fish-market where we had witnessed that blood-stained scene of the day before. The shops were everywhere shut. The Egyptian bazaar nearby, in which groceries, dyes, and chemical products were sold, was hermetically sealed. Beyond, the streets were inhabited and roamed only by dogs, surprised, as always, during the first days of Ramadan, at no longer receiving food at the usual hour. We finally arrived at a shop near the bazaar, occupied by an Armenian merchant whom my friend knew. His boutique seemed closed but, not being subject to Muslim law, he allowed himself to work during the day and sleep at night, as normal, without any outward display.

We were able to dine at his house, since he had taken the precaution of buying provisions the day before; otherwise, we would have had to return to Pera to seek them. The idea I proposed of living in Istanbul seemed absurd to him at first, since no Christian has the right to take up residence there: Christians are only allowed to visit during the day. Not a hotel, not an inn, not even a caravanserai is established for their use; exception is made only for those Armenians, Jews, or Greeks who are subjects of the empire.

However, I held fast to my idea, and pointed out to him that I had found a means to lodge in Cairo, outside the Frankish quarter, by adopting the dress of the country, and passing myself off as a Copt.

— ‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘there is only the one means here, which is to pass yourself off as a Persian. We have in Istanbul a caravanserai called Ildiz-Khan (The Khan of the Star), in which they receive all the Asiatic merchants of various Muslim denominations. These people are not only of the sect of Ali; there are also Guebres and Parsees (both sects of Zoroastrians), Korahites, and Wahhabis; which creates such a mix of languages ​​that it is impossible for Turks to know to which part of the East these men belong. So that by abstaining from speaking a northern dialect, which could be  recognised by its pronunciation, you will be able to lodge there’

We went to Ildiz-Khan, situated on the highest level of the city, near the Burnt Column (The Column of Constantine), one of the most curious relics of ancient Byzantium. The caravanserai, built entirely of stone, possessed the appearance of a barracks within. Three levels of gallery occupied the four sides of the courtyard, and the lodgings, each vaulted by a rounded arch, had all the same arrangement: a large room which served as a storeroom, and a small closet with a plank floor where one could bed down. Moreover, the tenant had the right to lodge a camel or a horse in the common stables.

Having neither mount nor merchandise, I necessarily had to pass for a merchant who had sold his goods already, and came there with the intention of restocking his wares. The Armenian was in business relations with merchants from Mosul and Basra, to whom he introduced me. We enjoyed pipes and coffee, and explained the matter to them. They saw no objection to receiving me among them, provided that I adopted their dress. And, as I already had several items, notably the camel’s hair mishlah, which had served me in Egypt and Syria, all I needed was a pointed astrakhan cap in the Persian style, which the Armenian provided me with.

Several of these Persians spoke the Frankish language of the Levant, in which one always ends up understanding one another, if one has lived in the commercial areas of the cities; so, I could easily befriend my neighbours. I was highly recommended to all those who lodged in the same gallery, and had only to worry about their too great eagerness to entertain me, and to accompany me everywhere. Each floor of the khan had its cook, who served meals; we could therefore perfectly do without outside communication. However, when evening came, the Persians, who, like the Turks, had slept all day in order to be able to celebrate the nights of Ramadan thereafter, took me with them to see the continuous festival which was to last thirty of such nights.

If the city was splendidly illuminated, to one who gazed upon it from the heights of Pera, the streets within seemed to me even more dazzling. All the shops open and adorned with garlands and vases of flowers, radiant without with mirrors and candles; the artistically-adorned merchandise; the external, coloured hanging-lanterns; the freshened paintings and gilding; the pastry-sellers especially, the confectioners; the dealers in children’s toys; and the jewellers, displaying all their riches, this is what everywhere dazzled the eyes. The streets were full of women and children, and in even greater numbers than the men; for the latter spent the greater part of their time in the mosques and cafés.

Think not that the cabarets were closed, moreover; a Turkish celebration is open to all; the Catholic rayas (non-Muslim subjects), Greeks, Armenians, and Jews were permitted to frequent such establishments. The outer door must always be closed; but one pushes it open, and can then drink a good Tenedos wine, for ten paras (five centimes) a glass.

Everywhere there were fried-food sellers, and traders in fruit or boiled maize, with which a man can feed himself for a whole day for ten paras — as well as sellers of baklavas, a sort of cake heavily impregnated with butter and sugar, of which women are especially fond. Sérasquier Square was the most brilliant of all. In the form of a triangle, lit by the two mosques to right and left, and in the background by the warships, it presented a wide passage for the various cavalcades and processions which traversed its open spaces. A large number of stalls of itinerant merchants adorned the fronts of the houses, and a dozen cafés assaulted the eye with various posters announcing theatricals, music, and Chinese-shadow puppets. The most entertaining cafés, to any literary person, are naturally those where poems are recited or where stories and legends are told.

Chapter 2: A Visit to Pera

Not being obliged, during the blessed month of Ramadan, which was at once Lent and Carnival, to sleep all day and spend the whole night seeking pleasure as the Muslims were, I often visited Pera to renew my contact with Europeans. One day, my eyes were struck by large posters on the walls, announcing the opening of the theatre season. An Italian troupe were about to commence three months of performances, and the name that shone in large letters as the operatic star of the moment was that of Ronzi (the soprano, Giuseppina Ronzi de Begnis, a pupil of Nicolas Tacchinardi). Ronzi, who had performed in Rossini’s finest roles, and to whom Stendhal devoted some notable passages (see his ‘Life of Rossini’, and other writings), was no longer young, alas! She had chosen to visit Constantinople, as had the illustrious tragedienne Margerite Georges, a few years before, who, after having appeared at the Pera theatre and also before the Sultan, had afterwards performed in the Crimea, playing the title role in Gluck’s Iphigénie en Tauride on the very spot where the temple of Thoas once stood. Eminent artists, like great geniuses of all kinds, have a profound feeling for the past; they also love adventurous journeys, and are forever drawn towards the sunrise, as if possessed of an eagle’s nature. Giuseppe Donizetti (Donizetti Pasha) presided over the orchestra, by special permission of the Sultan whose father (Mahmud II) had long since engaged Donizetti as his Instructor General of Music.

It is true that Guiseppe was only the elder brother of the famous composer whom we so admire; but his name on the poster gave it a particular charm for Europeans; so, the Frankish portion of the city eagerly awaited the next performance. Tickets, distributed in advance via the hotels and cafés, had become difficult to obtain. I thought of ​​visiting the editor of the principal French newspaper in Constantinople, whose offices were in Galata. He seemed charmed by my appearing there, offered me dinner, and then did me the honours of his theatre-box.

— ‘If you have not forgotten your former profession as a columnist,’ he said to me, ‘you can give me your critiques of the various performances, and you’ll be guaranteed entry.’

I accepted; a little imprudently perhaps, since, when one lives in Istanbul, it is inconvenient to return to Galata every two days or so, in the middle of the night, after the show ends.

Gaetano Donizetti’s Buondelmonte was being performed; the auditorium, situated in the upper part of Pera, is much longer than it is wide; the boxes are laid out in the Italian style, without balconies; they were almost all occupied by ambassadors and bankers. Armenians, Greeks, and Franks made up almost the entire audience, and only in the orchestra could a few Turks be discerned, doubtless those whom their parents had sent when young to Paris or Vienna; for, though no prejudice prevents a Muslim from visiting our theatres, it should be remembered that our music is only moderately pleasing to them; theirs, which proceeds by quarter tones, is also incomprehensible to us, unless it is translated, so to speak, into our musical system. The Greek or Wallachian airs alone seem to be understood by all. Gaetano had instructed his elder brother to collect as many as possible, and doubtless utilised them for his operas.

The director of the Journal de Constantinople wanted to introduce me to the French ambassador; but I declined this honor, since he would have invited me to dinner, and I had been warned against that eventuality.

This official lived all summer in Therapia (Tarabya), a village on the Bosphorus, some fifteen miles from Constantinople. It is necessary to hire a caique with six oarsmen for half a day, to reach the place, which costs about twenty francs. One sees that the ambassador’s dinner invitations proved somewhat costly.... One might also add, to that unfortunate aspect of an invitation, the annoyance of returning by sea at a fairly late hour, sometimes in poor weather, in a boat shaped like a fish, only a hand’s breadth in thickness, while accompanied by a tireless throng of dolphins dancing in a mocking manner over the crests of the waves, perhaps in the hope of dining on the late guests of the French ambassador.

The performance took place as if in an Italian theatre. Ronzi was showered with bouquets, and recalled twenty times; she was satisfied with this Byzantine enthusiasm. Then everyone relighted their lanterns, the ambassadors and bankers summoned their carriages, others mounted their horses; as for me, I prepared to return to Ildiz-Khan; for, in Pera, one could not find lodging for a single night only.

I knew the long road that leads to Istanbul, via the pontoon bridge over the Golden Horn, well enough not to fear setting out beneath the clear light of the Ramadan moon, on one of those nights that equal our dawns in beauty. The dogs, who patrol the streets so diligently, never attack any but imprudent folk who, in defiance of the ordinances, fail to carry a lantern. So, I set out, traversing the cemetery of Pera by a path which leads to the Galata gate, the site of the Navy buildings; the fortified enclosure ends there; but one cannot cross the Golden Horn without entering it. One knocks at a wicket-gate, and the gatekeeper opens it for a payment of bakshish; one responds to the greeting of the people of the guardhouse with a wa ‘alaykumu s-salām (‘and peace be with you’); then, at the end of a street which descends to the shore, one reaches the magnificent bridge (Hayratiye), a third of a mile long, which Sultan Mahmud II had built.

Once on the other bank, I was pleased to see the festive lights again, a most delightful sight when you have just travelled two miles or so at night amidst the cypress-trees and tombs.

The Fener quay, crowded with fruit-sellers, pastry-stalls, confectioners, and itinerant fried-food vendors, and with Greeks selling anisette and rosolio (an Italian rose-scented liqueur), is the haunt of sailors, whose ships are ranged in hundreds in the bay. The cabarets and cafés, illuminated by translucent gauze lamps, and lanterns, can be seen for some time among the surrounding streets, then the lights and sounds gradually diminish, and one must traverse a long series of solitary and silent districts, since the festivities only takes place in the commercial areas of the city. Soon the tall arches of the Aqueduct of Valens appear, their immense stone construction dominating the humble Turkish houses built of wood. Sometimes, the path rises in terraces about fifty feet above some street which crosses it, or which it follows for a time, before ascending toward the hills, or descending towards the sea.

Istanbul is a very hilly city, and art has done little to correct Nature. One feels on firmer ground when one reaches the end of the long street of the Mosques, which forms the principal artery, and which ends at the grand bazaar. It is an admirable sight, especially at night, because of its magnificent gardens, open galleries, marble fountains with gilded grilles, kiosks, and porticos, and its multiple minarets outlined in the vague light of a bluish day; the gilded inscriptions, lacquer-paintings, grilles with gleaming meshes, and sculpted marble ornaments enhanced with colour, dotted here and there, enhance with their bright hues the dark-green aspect of the gardens, where festooned vines suspended on high trellises quiver. At last, one’s solitude ends, the air is filled with joyful noises, the shops shine forth again. The rich and populous districts unfold their splendour; the shop-windows of the sellers of children’s toys display a thousand foreign designs which attract kind mothers and fathers delighted to return home with a Punchinello of French manufacture, toys from Nuremberg, or some charming Chinese creation brought by the caravans. The Chinese are the people in the world who best understand what it takes to entertain a child.

Chapter 3: Karagöz

Among these toys, one distinguishes on all sides the bizarre puppet called Karagöz, whom the French already know by reputation. It is unbelievable that this figure of indecency should be placed without scruple in the hands of children. Yet it is the most frequent gift that a father or mother grants them. The East has other ideas than we do as regards education and morality. They seek to develop the senses, as we seek to suppress them....

I had arrived at Sérasquier Square: a large crowd had gathered in front of a shadow-puppet theatre marked by a transparent screen on which one could read in large letters: Karagöz, victim of his chastity!

A terrible paradox for anyone who knows about this character.... The words I have just translated were doubtless crying fearfully at finding themselves linked with such a name. I entered however, braving the risk of gross disappointment with the spectacle.

At the door of this eheb-bazi (night-theatre) stood four actors, who were to take part in the second item; for, after Karagöz, The Husband of Two Widows was promised; a farce, of the kind which are called taklid.

The actors, dressed in gold-embroidered jackets, had long braided hair like that of women, under their elegant tarbouches. With their eyelids highlighted in black and their hands dyed red, with sequins applied to the skin of their faces and specks of glitter on their bare arms, they gave the public a benevolent welcome, and accepted the entrance fee with a gracious smile from these effendis who paid more than the common folk. An irmelikalten (a gold coin worth one franc twenty-five centimes) ensured the spectator an expression of lively gratitude and a reserved place among the front rows. Moreover, no one was required to pay more than a simple contribution of ten paras. It must be added that the entrance fee also granted everyone the right to coffee and tobacco. The sherbets (sorbets) and various other refreshments were paid for separately.

As soon as I was seated on one of the benches, a young boy, elegantly dressed, his arms bare up to his shoulders, who, from the modest grace of his features, might have passed for a young girl, came to ask me if I wanted a chibouk or a narghile, and, when I had decided, he also brought me a cup of coffee.

The hall gradually filled with all sorts of folk, though not a single woman was to be seen; but many children had been brought to the show, by slaves or servants. They were most of them well-dressed, and, these being days of festivity, the parents had doubtless wanted them to enjoy a spectacle, but chose not to accompany them; for, in Turkey, a man does not bother himself with either wife or child: each goes their own way, and the little boys no longer accompany their mothers after the first few years. The slaves to whom they are entrusted are, moreover, regarded as part of the family. Exempted from hard work, limited, like those of the ancients, to domestic service, their fate is envied by the simple rayas, and, if they are intelligent, they almost always attain their freedom after a few years of service, gaining the annuity with which it is customary to endow them in such cases. It is shameful to think that Christian Europe proved crueller than the Turks, in condemning its colonial slaves to hard labour.

Let me return to the performance. When the hall was sufficiently full, the orchestra, seated in a high gallery, struck up a kind of overture. During this, one corner of the hall was illuminated in an unexpected manner. A transparent screen, festooned with ornaments, designated the place where the shadow-puppets were to appear. The lights which had lit the hall at first, were quenched, and a happy cry resounded from all sides as the orchestra ceased playing. A silence fell; then, behind the canvas, a resonant noise was heard like that of smooth pieces of wood being shaken in a bag. These were the puppets, which, according to custom, announced themselves with this sound which was received with transports of joy by the children.

Immediately, a spectator, probably one of the theatre-company, called out to the puppeteer in charge of making the dolls appear to speak:

— ‘What will you give us today?’ To which he replied:

— ‘It is written over the door for those who can read.’

— ‘But I forget what the khodja (the religious person in charge of instructing children in mosques) taught me.’

— ‘Well, this evening it concerns the illustrious Karagöz, victim of his own chastity.’

— ‘How can you justify that claim?’

— ‘By relying on the intelligence of people of taste, and by imploring the help of dark-eyed Ahmad’.

Ahmad is the nickname, the familiar name, that the faithful give Muhammad. As for the qualification of dark-eyed, well take note that it’s a translation of the name Karagöz....

— ‘You speak eloquently!’ replied the interlocutor, ‘it remains to be heard whether you’ll continue so!

— ‘Have no fear!’ replied the voice behind the screen, ‘my friends and I are proof against criticism.’

The orchestra resumed; then a stage-set appeared behind the canvas, representing a square in Constantinople, with houses, and a fountain in the foreground. Then there passed by successively a cavasse (policeman), a dog, a water-bearer, and other wooden characters whose clothes revealed distinct colours, and which were not simple silhouettes, as in the Chinese-shadow plays we know.

Soon a Turk was seen coming out of a house, followed by a slave carrying a travelling bag. He seemed anxious, and, suddenly making a decision, went to knock at another house in the square, shouting:

— ‘Karagöz! Karagöz! My dear friend, are you still asleep?’

Karagöz put his nose out the window, and, at the sight of him, a cry of enthusiasm resounded throughout the audience; then, having asked for time to dress, he swiftly reappeared and embraced his friend.

— ‘Listen,’ said the latter, I ask a great service of you; an important matter requires me to visit Bursa. You know I’m the husband of a most beautiful woman, and I confess that it pains me to leave her alone, not having much confidence in my people.... Well, my friend, an idea came to me last night: it is to make you the guardian of her virtue. Knowing your delicacy, and the deep affection you have for me, I’m happy to show you this proof of my esteem.

— ‘Unhappy man!’ cried Karagöz, ‘What madness! Admire me for a moment!’

— ‘Well?’

— ‘What! Surely you realise that your wife, on seeing me, will be unable to resist the urge to be mine?

— ‘I don’t see that, at all’ said the Turk, ‘she loves me, and if I fear her being seduced, it is not by you, my poor friend; your sense of honour tells me so ... and then ... Ah! By Allah! You are so singularly built.... finally, I am counting on you.’

The Turk departed.

— ‘The blindness of men!’ cried Karagöz. ‘I! Singularly built! Say, rather: too well built, too handsome, too seductive, too dangerous!... Well,’ he mused, in monologue, ‘my friend has entrusted me with the care of his wife; I must respond to his trustfulness. Let me enter his house as he wished, and seat myself on his sofa.... Oh! Woe! But his wife, curious as women are, will wish to view me ... and, from the moment her eyes have fallen upon me, she will be filled with admiration and lose all sense of reserve. No! Let me not enter!... Let me remain at the door of this dwelling like a spahi on sentry-duty. Seducing a woman is so slight a matter ... and a true friend such a rare possession!’

This phrase excited real sympathy in the theatre’s male audience; it was framed in a couplet, such kinds of dramatic effect being mingled with the vaudeville, as in many of our performances; the refrains often reproduced the word bakkaloum, which is a favourite comment among the Turks, meaning: ‘What does it matter!’ or ‘It’s all the same to me.’

As for Karagöz, through the light gauze that merged the characters with the stage-set, he stood out admirably with his dark eyes, his clearly-drawn eyebrows, and his most salient feature! His self-esteem, from the point of view of a seducer, appeared to cause the spectators little astonishment.

After his lines of verse, he seemed lost in thought.

— ‘What to do?’ he asked himself. ‘Watch at the door, no doubt, while waiting for my friend to return.... But this woman might view me, secretly, through the moucharabias (blinds). Moreover, she may be tempted to go out with her slaves to visit the baths.... no husband, alas, can prevent his wife from going abroad on such a pretext.... Then, she will be able to admire me at leisure.... O imprudent friend! why have you given me this guardian’s task?’

Here the piece seeks help from pure fantasy. Karagöz, to escape the gaze of his friend’s wife, places himself on all fours, saying:

— ‘I’ll pretend to be a bridge....’

One must appreciate the particular conformation of his body to understand the scene’s eccentricity and obscenity. One must imagine Punchinello raising his humped back in an arch, and representing a bridge with his feet and arms. Only, Karagöz has no hump between his shoulders, but rather a central column, below…. Over him pass a crowd of people, horses, dogs, and a military patrol, then, finally, an araba, drawn by oxen and burdened with women, is about to navigate the passage. The unfortunate Karagöz rises to his feet in time to avoid serving as a bridge for such a load.

A scene more comical in its representation than easily described follows the former in which Karagöz, in order to hide himself from the eyes of his friend’s wife, sought to seem like a bridge. To comprehend it, one must recall the Latin atellanae (a form of farce originating in Atella in Campania) .... Karagöz himself is none other than the Punchinello of the Osci (a pre- and post-Roman tribe), of which we can view fine examples in the Naples Museum. In this next scene, of an obscenity that would scarcely be tolerated in our country, Karagöz lies flat on his back, his organ projecting like a stake. The crowd passes by, and everyone comments: — ‘Who planted that stake here? There wasn’t one yesterday. Is it cut from an oak, or a fir-tree?’ Some washerwomen arrive, returning from the fountain, who hang their linen on a line attached to Karagöz. He sees with pleasure that his ruse has succeeded. A moment later, slaves are seen entering leading four horses to a watering-place; a friend meets them and invites them to enter a sort of tavern to refresh themselves; but where to tether the horses?

— ‘Here; here’s a stake.’

And they tether the horses to Karagöz.

Soon joyful songs, provoked by the pleasant warmth of Tenedos wine, echo from the tavern. The horses, impatient, become agitated: Karagöz, dragged about by all four creatures, calls the passers-by to his aid, and demonstrates that he’s the victim of a painful error. He is freed, and set back on his feet. At this moment, the wife of his friend exits their house to visit the baths. He has no time to hide, and the woman’s admiration bursts forth in transports that the audience comprehend perfectly.

— ‘What a handsome man!’ cries the lady, ‘I’ve never seen one to compare.’

— ‘Excuse me, Madame (khanum),’ says Karagöz, always polite, ‘I am not one to whom you should speak.... I am one of the night-watch, who beats on the door with my halberd to warn the public if there’s a fire in the neighbourhood.’

— ‘Then why are you here at this time of day?’

— ‘I’m an unfortunate sinner... though a good Muslim; I let myself be dragged to the tavern by some giaours. Then, I know now how, I was left dead drunk in the square: may Muhammad forgive me for having broken his law!’

— ‘Poor man!... You must be tired.... Enter the house, and rest there.’

And the lady seeks to take Karagöz’ hand as an indication of sympathy.

— ‘Don’t touch me!’ cries the latter in terror, ‘I am impure!... I could not, moreover, enter an honest Muslim house.... I have been defiled by contact with a dog.’

To understand this heroic reference to the threatened contact Karagöz mentions, it is necessary to know that the Turks, though respecting the life of dogs, and even feeding them piously, regard it as an impurity to touch them or to be touched by them.

— ‘How did that happen?’ cries the lady.

— ‘Heaven has rightly punished me; I had eaten some preserves during my dreadful nocturnal debauchery; and, when I awoke, there, on the public highway, I felt, with horror, a dog licking my face.... That is the truth; may Allah forgive me!’

Of all the methods Karagöz tries to repel the advances of his friend’s wife, this one seems to be the most effective.

— ‘Poor man!’ she says with compassion, ‘no one, in fact, can touch you till you have performed five ablutions, each of a quarter of an hour, while reciting verses from the Koran. Go to the fountain, but be here when I return from the baths.’

— ‘How bold the women of Istanbul are!’ cries Karagöz, once alone. ‘Behind the féredjé which hides their faces, they are even more audacious, insulting honest people’s modesty. No, I will not let myself be taken in by her artifices, by that honeyed voice, by those eyes which glow through the holes in her gauze mask. Why do the police not force impudent women to cover their eyes, also?’

It would take too long to describe Karagöz’ other misfortunes. The comic element of the scene always lies in the situation of him being a guardian to this woman who has been entrusted to one who seems to be the complete antithesis to those in whom the Turks ordinarily place their trust. The lady returns from the baths, to find the unfortunate guardian of her virtue, whom various mishaps have kept rooted to the spot, still at his post. But she could not help speaking to the other women at the baths of the stranger so handsome and so well-made whom she has met in the street; so that a crowd of women follow their friend. One can imagine Karagöz’ embarrassment, in the grip of these latter-day Maenads.

His friend’s wife tears her clothes, tears her hair, and spares no means to combat his reticence. He is about to succumb ... when suddenly a carriage appears, parting the crowd. It is a carriage in the old French style, that of a Frankish ambassador. Karagöz seizes this last chance; he begs the ambassador to take him under his protection, and let him enter his carriage to escape the temptations that besiege him. The ambassador descends; he is wearing a very gallant costume: a tricorn hat over an immense wig, an embroidered coat and waistcoat, short breeches, and a sheathed sword; he declares to the ladies that Karagöz is under his protection, that he is indeed his best friend .... The latter embraces him effusively and hastens to enter the carriage, which vanishes, bearing away with it the dreams of the desolate bathers.

The husband returns and congratulates himself on learning that Karagöz’ chastity has preserved his wife’s purity. The play is thus a triumph of friendship.

I would have offered less of a description of the play, if it did not present a view of the customs of the country. Given the ambassador’s costume, one judges that it dates back to the last century, and is played like our traditional harlequinades. Karagöz is ever a prominent actor in these farces, in which however he does not always take the leading role. I have reason to believe that the customs of Constantinople have changed since the Reform, but, in the eras which preceded the advent of Sultan Mahmud II, one may readily believe that the weaker sex protested in their own way against their oppression, which might explain the readiness with which women yield to Karagöz’ merits.

In modern plays containing this character, he almost always belongs to the political opposition. He is either the mocking bourgeois, or the common man whose common-sense counters the actions of the lesser authorities. At the time when the regulations ordered, for the first time, that one could not wander about without a lantern after nightfall, Karagöz appeared with a lantern, suspended in a most striking manner, mocking the powers that be, and with impunity, since the order failed to dictate that the lantern must contain a candle. Arrested by the cavasse and released, according to the legal correctness of that observation, he reappeared on stage with a lantern adorned with a candle he’d neglected to light.... This jest is similar to that in the popular tale re-told by Jean de Falaise (Charles-Philippe, Marquis de Chennevières-Pointel, see his Contes Normands); which proves that people are the same everywhere. Karagöz shares that frankness; he always defies the stake, the sabre, and the rope.

After the intermission, during which the audience’s tobacco and varied refreshments were replenished, we suddenly saw the gauze screen, behind which the puppets had performed, lowered, and human actors appeared on the stage to present The Husband of Two Widows. There were roles for three women and only one man; however, there were only male actors to play them; though, in female costume, the young oriental men, with a most feminine grace, delicacy of movement, and intrepidity in mimicry, which one would not see among us, succeeded in producing a complete effect. The actors are usually Greeks or Circassians.

First, a Jewess appeared, one who dealt in female fashions, and encouraged the intrigues of the women to whose presence she was admitted. She was counting the money she had earned, and hoping to make even more from a new affair she was involved in, being allied to a young Turk named Osman, in love with a rich widow, the principal wife of a bimbachi (colonel) who had been killed in the war. Since the woman was able to remarry after three months of widowhood, it was believed that the lady would choose the lover she had already favoured during her husband’s lifetime, and who had several times offered her, via the Jewess, bouquets emblematic of his attentions.

So, the latter hastened to introduce to the house the fortunate Osman, whose presence in the house was now without risk.

Osman trusts it will not be long before the fire is lit, and urges his lover to comply.... but, oh ingratitude, or rather the eternal caprice of women! She refuses to consent to the marriage, unless Osman promises to marry the bimbachi’s second wife as well.

— ‘By Shaitan (the Devil)!’ cries Osman to himself, ‘to marry two women is a more serious business.... ‘But, light of my eyes,’ he says to the widow, ‘what could have given you this idea? It is a strange requirement.’

— ‘I’ll explain,’ says the widow. ‘I’m young and beautiful, as you are forever telling me.... Well, there is in this house a woman less beautiful than I, older too, who, by a ruse, was made love to, then married, by my late husband. She imitated me in everything, and ended up pleasing him more than me.... Well, certain as I am of your affection, I desire that in marrying me you should also take this ugly creature as your second wife. She has made me suffer so much by the power that her ruse gave her over the weak mind of my husband, that I want her from now on to weep and suffer, on seeing me preferred, and finding herself the object of your disdain... so she might be, in the end, as unhappy as I have been.’

— ‘Madame,’ Osman replies, ‘the picture you paint of this woman does her no favour in my eyes. I gather she is very disagreeable ... and that to the happiness of marrying you would be added the inconvenience of a second union which may embarrass me greatly.... You know that, according to the law of the Prophet, the husband must treat each of his wives equally, whether he takes but two or as many as four ... which I shall refrain from doing.’

— ‘Well, I made a vow to Fatima (the daughter of the prophet), and I will only marry a man who will do as I say.’

— ‘Madame, I ask your permission to reflect on it.... How unhappy I am!’... says Osman to himself, once he’s alone, ‘To marry two women, one of whom is beautiful and the other ugly. One must taste the bitter to arrive at the sweet.’

The Jewess returns, and he informs her of his position.

— ‘What are you saying? says the former, ‘the second wife is charming! Never listen to a woman who speaks of her rival. True, the one you love is blonde and the other brunette. But, do you dislike brunettes?’

— ‘I?’ the lover exclaims. ‘I have no such prejudice.’

— ‘Well,’ says the Jewess, ‘are you afraid of wedding two equally charming women? For, though different in complexion, they are as lovely as one another.... I know what I speak of!’

— ‘If you’re telling the truth,’ Osman replies, ‘the law of the prophet which obliges every husband to treat each of his wives equally will prove less harsh indeed.’

— ‘You shall see her,’ says the Jewess, ‘I told her you are in love with her, and that when she sees you passing in the street and halting beneath her window, it is always with her in mind.’

Osman hastens to reward the clever messenger, and soon the second widow of the bimbachi enters. She is beautiful, indeed, though a little dark of complexion. She appears flattered by the attentions of the young man and does not shrink from marriage.

— ‘You loved me in silence,’ she says, ‘and I was informed that you did not declare yourself out of shyness.... I was touched by this feeling. Now I am free and desire to reward your wish. Send for the cadi.’

— ‘That is easy to do,’ says the Jewess, ‘only, this unfortunate young man owes money to the great lady (the first wife).

— ‘What!’ cries the second, ‘that ugly, wicked creature is engaged in usury?’

— ‘Alas, yes!... And it was I who got involved in this matter, eager as always to render service to youth. This poor boy was saved from a poor situation, thanks to my intervention, and, as he cannot return the money, the khanum will only release him from the debt in exchange for his marrying her.’

— ‘Sadly, that’s the truth,’ says the young man.

(The first wife appears).

— ‘But think what pleasure you’ll take,’ says the Jewess to her, in an aside, ‘in seeing that cunning woman scorned and disdained by the man who loves you!’

It is in the nature of a proud woman, convinced of her superiority, to credit that such must be the result.

The contract is signed. From then on, the question is which of the two women will be pre-eminent. The Jewess brings the happy Osman a bouquet, to signify which of them the new husband will choose on the wedding-night. An embarrassment, indeed: each of the women holds out her hand to receive the token of preference. But, as he hesitates between the blonde and the brunette, a great noise fills the house; the slaves run about in fright, saying they have seen a ghost. Drama ensues. The bimbachi enters the scene equipped with a stick. The previous husband, so little regretted, had not been killed as was thought. He was merely missing in action, which had caused him to be counted as dead, while in fact he had merely been held prisoner. A peace treaty between the Russians and the Turks has seen him return him to his homeland ... and the objects of his affection. He soon comprehends the scene taking place, and administers a volley of blows with his stick to all those present. The two women, the Jewess, and the lover, flee after the first blows, while the cadi, less agile, is beaten on behalf of all, to the enthusiastic applause of the audience.

Such is the scene, the moral outcome of which delights all husbands present at the performance.

These two pieces give an idea of ​​the state of dramatic art as it is found still in Turkey. It is impossible not to recognise that feeling for primitive comedy found in Greek and Latin theatre. But, here, the drama has advanced no further. The organisation of Muslim society is a barrier to the establishment of serious theatrical art. Theatre is impossible without female performers, and, however hard one tried, one would never be able to induce their husbands to allow them to appear in public. The puppets, even the actors who appear in the performances of the cafés, serve only to amuse the regulars of these establishments, who are usually not very generous.... The rich man pays for performances to be given in his home. He invites his friends; his wives invite their acquaintances; and the performance takes place in the largest room of the house. So that it is impossible to establish a professional theatre, except it be in the homes of great personages. The Sultan himself, though fond of dramatic performances, has no dedicated theatre in the palace; It often happens that the ladies of the seraglio, hearing of some brilliant performance which has been given at the theatre in Pera, wish to enjoy it in their turn, and the Sultan then hastens to engage the troupe for one or more evenings.

Then, a temporary stage is immediately constructed at the Summer Palace, attached to one of the building’s façades. The windows of the qadens (ladies) which are closely barred, become boxes, from which bursts of laughter or signs of approval sometimes arise; and the amphitheatre-shaped room between these boxes and the theatre is filled only with male guests, diplomatic figures, and others invited to such theatrical festivities.

The Sultan recently desired that a Molière comedy be performed before him: it was the comic-ballet Monsieur de Pourceaugnac; the effect was immense. His interpreters explained the action on stage, as it transpired, to the folk at court who had no French. But it should be recognised that most Turkish statesmen know our language more or less, since, as we know, French is, at present, the universal diplomatic language. Turkish officials, in order to correspond with foreign ones, are obliged to use our language. This explains the existence in Paris of Turkish and Egyptian language-schools.

As for the women of the seraglio, they are well-educated: every lady belonging to the Sultan’s household receives serious instruction in history, poetry, music, painting and geography. Many of these ladies are artists or poets, and one often hears in Pera verses, or lyrical fragments, owed to the talent of these charming recluses.

Chapter 4: The Water Drinkers

Pause for a moment, to consider that performance in Sérasquier Square, that drama which is presented in all the poorer districts, and which everywhere takes on a mystical hue quite inexplicable to Europeans. Who, on reflection, is Karagöz, that extraordinary character, blending fantasy with obscenity, who only appears publicly at religious festivals? Is he not a stray memory of the god of Lampsacus, Priapus, the universal begetter, for whom Asia still mourns?...

On leaving the café, I walked about in the square, thinking of what I’d seen. Feeling thirsty, I sought out the drink stalls.

In this country where fermented or spirituous liquors are not permitted to be sold outside, one notes a curious industry, that of the water-sellers, who exercise their trade by the measure, and by the glass.

These unusual tavern-keepers have stalls where a host of vases and cups are displayed filled with more or less sought-after types of water. In Constantinople, water is supplied via the Aqueduct of Valens, and is retained in reservoirs built by the Byzantine emperors, where it often acquires an unpleasant taste.... So much so, that due to the rarity of the element, a host of water-drinkers are established in Constantinople, true gourmets as regards that precious liquid.

In these taverns, water from various countries, and of differing age, is sold. Nile-water is the most highly regarded, since it is the only one the Sultan will drink; it is part of the tribute pledged to him by Alexandria. It is reputed to be favourable to fertility. Euphrates-water, a little green, a little harsh to the taste, is recommended for weak or febrile natures. Danube-water, loaded with salts, pleases those of an energetic temperament. Water from several vintages may be found. Nile-water from 1833 is much appreciated, corked and sealed in bottles that are sold at a very high price....

A European uninitiated in the dogma of Muhammad is not by nature a fanatic where water is concerned. I remember hearing a Swedish doctor, in Vienna, maintain that water was a kind of stone, a simple crystal in its natural state, as ice, and only liquefied, in sub-polar climates, by relatively intense atmospheric heat; one incapable, however, of melting other stones. To corroborate his doctrine, he carried out chemical experiments on the various waters of rivers, lakes, and springs, and demonstrated that the residue produced by evaporation, contains substances harmful to human health. It is as well to say that the doctor’s principal aim, in deprecating the use of water, was his acquiring from the government the privilege of overseeing the imperial brewery. Klemens von Metternich seems to have been impressed by his reasoning. Besides, as a great producer of wine himself, it was in his interest to adopt the idea.

Whatever the scientific truth of this hypothesis, it left a strong impression on me: I had no wish to swallow liquified stone. The Turks manage it, it is true; but to how many special diseases, fevers, plagues and various scourges are they not exposed!

Such were the thoughts that prevented me from indulging in that refreshment. I left the amateurs to their debauchery, sampling waters of various ages and rarity, and halted in front of a display where glittering flasks appeared to contain lemonade. I bought one for a Turkish piastre (twenty-five centimes). As soon as I raised it to my mouth, I was obliged to regurgitate the first mouthful. The merchant laughed at my innocence (I will say, later, what this drink was!) and I was obliged to return to Ildiz-Khan, to seek more agreeable refreshment.

Daylight had come, and the Persians, having returned earlier, had been asleep for a long time. As for myself, excited by this night of wandering and spectacle, I had trouble falling asleep. In the end, I dressed again, and returned to Pera to seek my artist friend.

I was told that he had moved and was living in Kuruçesme, with some Armenians who had commissioned a religious painting from him. Kuruçesme is located on the European shore of the Bosphorus, a few miles from Pera. I was obliged to take a caique from the Tophane landing-stage.

Nothing is more charming than this maritime quay in the Frankish city. One descends from Pera by steep streets terminating in the main throughfare, where one passes the various consulates and embassies; one finds oneself in a market place cluttered with fruit stalls, where the magnificent produce of the coast of Asia-Minor is piled high. There are cherries at well-nigh every season, being a natural product of these climes. Watermelons, cactus-figs and grapes marked the season in which we now were — and Casaba melons, the finest in the world, from Smyrna, offered every passer-by a simple and delicious lunch. What distinguishes this square is an admirable fountain in the ancient Turkish taste, adorned with carved porticoes, supported by sculpted and painted columns and arabesques. Around the square and in the street leading to the quay, there is a large number of cafes on the facades of which I could still distinguish unlit gauze lamps — which bore in gold letters that name, Karagöz, beloved of the folk here as in Istanbul.

Although Tophane is part of the Frankish quarter, it employs many Muslims, mostly as porters (hamals), or boatmen (caïdjis). A battery comprising six cannon is prominently displayed on the quay; the cannon serve to salute vessels entering the Golden Horn, and to announce sunrise and sunset to the three areas of the city separated by water: Pera (Beyoğlu), Istanbul, and Scutari (Üsküdar).

The latter appears, majestically, on the far side of the Bosphorus, piercing the azure with domes, minarets and kiosks, like to its rival Istanbul.

I had no difficulty in finding a twin-oared vessel. The weather was magnificent, and the boat, slender and light, began to cut the water with extraordinary speed — the respect Muslims hold for various creatures explains why the Bosphorus canal, which pierces, like a river, the rich slopes of Europe and Asia, is always covered with water-birds which flutter or swim, in their thousands, on the blue water, and thus enliven the wide perspective of palaces and villas.

From Tophane, the two shores, much closer in appearance than they actually are, present for many a mile a continuous line of houses painted in bright colours, enhanced by ornamentation and gilded grilles.

A series of colonnades, half a mile or more in length, soon appears on the left bank. These are the buildings of the new palace in Besiktas. They are entirely in the Greek style and white-washed; the grilles are gilded. All the chimneys are in the form of Doric columns, granting the whole an appearance at once splendid and graceful. Gilded boats are moored to the quays, whose marble steps descend to the water. Immense gardens occupy the undulations of the hills above. Umbrella-pines dominate the other vegetation everywhere. There are no-palm tree groves, since the climate of Constantinople is already too cold for them. A village, its harbour furnished with these large boats called caiques, succeeds the palace; then one passes in front of an old seraglio, the very one which the Sultana Esma, half-sister of Mahmud II, last occupied. It is in the Turkish style of the last century: with festoons and rockeries as ornamentation, and kiosks, decorated with trefoils and arabesques, which project like enormous cages with golden bars and grilles, pointed roofs, and little columns painted in bright colours.... I dreamt for a while, as we passed, of the mysteries of the Thousand and One Nights.

In a caique, the passenger lies on a mattress at the stern, while the rowers, with robust arms and bronzed shoulders, coquettishly dressed in wide silk-crepe shirts with satin bands, strive to plough the waves. They are most polite, and even affect poses during their labours displaying a sort of artistic grace.

Skirting the European coast of the Bosphorus, one sees a long line of country houses generally inhabited by employees of the Sultan. Finally, a new harbour filled with boats presents itself; it is Kuruçesme.

I retained the boatmen, to return me to Pera in the evening as is customary; they entered a café, while I, entering the village, thought I was inside some painting by Alexandre-Gabriel Decamps. The sun’s rays everywhere traced out luminous diamond-shapes on the painted shopfronts, and whitewashed walls; the glaucous green of the vegetation here and there brought relief to eyes tired of the light. I visited a tobacconist to buy some latakia (tobacco from Latakia), and inquired there about the Armenian house where my friend could be found.

I was answered in an amiable manner. In fact, the family with whom the French artist was currently lodging, was that of some notable Armenian personages. I was accompanied to their door, and soon found the artist, who was installed in a magnificent room that resembled that of the Turkish café (Jardin Turc) on the Boulevard du Temple, whose oriental decor is more exact than one might think.

Several French people, including several attachés of the French embassy, ​​a Belgian prince, and the Hospodar of Wallachia, who had come for the festivities in Constantinople were gathered there, admiring various cartoons for frescoes designed by the painter. We visited the chapel, where one could already see the greater part of the planned work. An immense painting, representing the Adoration of the Magi, filled the background to the rear of where the high altar was to be erected. The paintings at the sides, alone, were still merely sketched there.... The family who had contracted the work, owning several residences in Constantinople and in the countryside, had granted the artist the run of the whole house, along with the valets and the horses, who were equally at his command; that being so, he suggested that we went for a walk in the surrounding area. There was a Greek festival at Arnavutköy, located a few miles from there; and, as it was a Friday (the Turkish equivalent of Sunday), we might, by going a few miles further and crossing the Bosphorus, visit the ‘Eaux Douces d’Asie’ (the ‘Sweet Waters of Asia’, Küçüksu Deresi, the Göksu River).

Although the Turks generally sleep all day during the month of Ramadan, they are not obliged to do so by religious law, but simply choose to avoid thinking about food, since they are forbidden to eat before sunset. On Fridays, they rise from their couches, and take a walk, as usual, in the countryside, principally to the ‘Eaux-Douces d’Europe’ (the ‘Sweet Waters of Europe’, near the suburb of Eyüp, being the Kağıthane Suyu and Alibeyköy Suyu basins) situated at the extremity of the Golden Horn (Haliç), or to those of Asia, the goal of our excursion.

We began by visiting Arnavutköy, where the festival had not yet begun; except that, there were many people there already, including a great number of peripatetic tradesmen. In a narrow valley, shaded by pine and larch-trees, enclosures and scaffolding had been built for the dances, and performances. The central area of the festival arena was a grotto decorated with a fountain dedicated to Elijah, the water of which begins flowing each year only on a certain saint’s day whose name I have forgotten. Glasses of this water are distributed to all the faithful who present themselves. Several hundred Greek women crowded round the holy fountain; but the hour of the miracle had not yet arrived. Others were walking in the shade, or gathered on the lawns. I  recognised among them the four beautiful women I had already seen in the gaming- house at Saint Demetrios; they no longer wore the various costumes which presented, to the spectator there, the ideal of the four female types to be found in Constantinople; only, they were heavily made up, and wore beauty-spots. An elderly woman guided them; the bright light of the sun was less favourable to them than that of the lamps had been. The embassy attachés seemed to have been acquainted with them for some long while; they began to converse with them, and had a selection of sorbets brought to them.

Chapter 5: The Pasha of Scutari (Üsküdar)

While we were resting under an enormous sycamore tree, a Turk of mature age, in a fez with a blue silk tassel, and buttoned up in a long, frock-coat decorated with a small, almost-unnoticeable nishan (medal), had seated himself on the bench which encircled the tree. He had as companion a young boy, dressed like a diminutive form of himself, who greeted us with the gravity usually displayed by Turkish children when, having emerged from childhood, they are no longer under the supervision of their mothers. The Turk, hearing us praise his son’s bearing, greeted us in turn, and called to a cafedji who was standing near the fountain. A moment later, we were pleasantly surprised to see pipes and refreshments brought, which the stranger asked us to accept. We were hesitating, when the café owner said:

— ‘You may accept; it is a great personage who shows his politeness thus; he is the Pasha of Scutari. One never refuses a Pasha anything.’

I was surprised to be the only person precluded from the offering; my friend pointed this out to the cafedji, who replied:

— ‘I never serve kafirs (unbelievers).’

— ‘Kafir!’ I cried,’ it being an insult, ‘you are a kafir yourself, son of a dog!’

I had failed to realise that the man, apparently a faithful Sunni Muslim, had been provoked to insult simply by the Persian costume that I was wearing, which showed me to be a follower of Ali, and thus a Shiite.

We exchanged a few sharp comments, for one should never yield the aggressor the last word in the East; otherwise, you may be thought timid, and be assaulted, while only the gravest of insults result in one or the other triumphing in the minds of those present. However, while the Pasha looked on in astonishment, my companions, who had at first laughed at the error, confirmed that I was a Frank. I only mention this to highlight the fanaticism which still exists among the lower orders, and which, restrained as regards Europeans, is always exercised forcefully between the different sects. Moreover, things are almost the same among the Christians: the Roman Catholics hold the Turks in greater esteem than they do the Greeks.

The Pasha laughed heartily at the adventure and began to converse with the artist. After the festivities, we re-embarked with him; and, as our boats had to pass in front of the Sultan’s summer palace on the coast of Asia Minor, he permitted us a visit.

This summer seraglio, which should not be confused with that on the European coast, is the most delightful residence in the world. Immense terraced gardens rise to the summit of the hills, from which one can clearly see Scutari on the right, and, in the background, the bluish silhouette of the Olympus of Bithynia (Mount Uludağ, in Bursa). The palace is in eighteenth century style. Before entering, we had to replace our boots with the slippers that were lent us; then we were admitted to the apartments of the Sultanas, empty, naturally, at that moment.

The lower rooms are built on stilts, mostly of rare wood; we were told that some were of agarwood (oudh), which is more resistant to the effects of sea-water. After visiting the vast rooms on the ground floor, which are not used, we were shown the apartments. There was, a large room, at the centre, onto which opened about twenty others with separate doors, as in bathing establishments.

We were able to enter these rooms, uniformly furnished with a divan, a few chairs, a mahogany chest of drawers, and a marble fireplace surmounted by a column clock. One would have thought oneself in the bedroom of a Parisian woman, if the furniture had been completed by a western-style bed; but, in the Orient, only divans are employed.

Each of these rooms was that of a qaden. The symmetry and uniformity of the rooms struck me: I was informed that the most perfect equality reigned among the Sultan’s wives.... The artist offered me this fact as proof: that when His Highness ordered boxes of sweets from Pera, usually bought from a French confectioner, the shop was obliged to make them up with exactly the same number of items in each. One more papillote or candied-fruit of a particular shape, fewer or more pastilles or sugared-almonds, might cause serious complications in the relationships between these beautiful people; like all Muslims, whoever they may be, they possess a strong sense of equality.

A musical-clock was demonstrated to us in the main hall, which played airs from Italian operas. Mechanical birds, nightingales which sang, and peacocks which spread their tails enlivened the appearance of this little artefact. On the second floor were the lodgings of the odaleuk (odalisques), either singers or servants. Higher up the slaves were lodged. An order exists in the harem similar to that of well-kept boarding houses. The oldest qaden exercises the principal authority, but is always ranked below the Sultana Mother, whom she must consult, from time to time, by visiting her at the Old Palace (Eski Saray), in Istanbul.

This is what I have been able to grasp of the internal affairs of the seraglio. Everything is generally much simpler and more honest than the depraved imaginations of Europeans suppose. The question of multiple wives among the Turks is related to nothing other than the need for reproduction. The Caucasian race, so beautiful, so energetic, has diminished greatly by one of those physiological facts the reasons for which are difficult to establish. The wars of the last century especially have reduced the population, particularly the Turkish population. The very courage of the men has decimated them, as happened with the Frankish peoples of the Middle Ages.

The Sultan seems most willing, for his part, to repopulate the Turkish empire, if one considers the number of births of princes and princesses announced to the city from time to time by the sound of cannon, and by the illumination of Istanbul.

We were then shown the cellars, the kitchens, the reception rooms, and the concert hall; everything is arranged in such a way that the women can view, without being seen, all the entertainments ordered by the Sultan. Everywhere we notice grilled platforms projecting into the rooms, which allow the ladies of the harem to associate themselves deliberately with the Sultan’s politics or pleasures.

We admired the baths, built of marble, and the private mosque of the palace. Then we were led forth via a peristyle overlooking the gardens, decorated with columns, and enclosed by a glazed gallery which contained shrubs, plants, and flowers from India. Thus, Constantinople, cool because of its mountainous position and the frequent storms over the Black Sea, possesses greenhouses of tropical plants just like our northern countries.

We returned through the gardens, and were shown into a pavilion where samples of garden fruits and preserves was laid out. The Pasha invited us to this feast, but ate nothing himself, since the moon of Ramadan had not yet risen. We were almost embarrassed by his politeness, and at being able to acknowledge it only in words.

— ‘You will be able to say,’ he replied in answer to our thanks, ‘that you dined with the Sultan!’

Without exaggerating the honour of such a gracious reception, one may at least see from it something of the benevolence of the Turks, and their almost complete neglect, these days, of religious prejudice.

Chapter 6: The Dervishes

Having sufficiently admired the apartments and gardens of the seraglio of Asia, we abandoned our plan to visit the Eaux-Douces d’Asie, which would have obliged us to ascend the Bosphorus for a few miles, and, finding ourselves near Scutari, chose to visit the convent of the howling Dervishes.

Scutari is more a city of Muslim orthodoxy than Istanbul, where the population is of mixed origin, and which belongs to Europe’s orbit. Asiatic Scutari still adheres to the old Turkish traditions; the costumes of the Reform are almost unknown there; green or white turbans are obstinately displayed; it is, in a word, the Saint-Germain-des-Prés of Constantinople. The houses, fountains and mosques are of an older style; the new inventions of sanitation, surfaced streets, stone pavements, lanterns, and horse-drawn carriages, which are seen in Istanbul, are considered here as dangerous innovations. Scutari is the refuge of those old-style Muslims who, convinced that European Turkey will soon fall prey to Christianity, wish to assure themselves a peaceful grave in Anatolian soil. They trust the Bosphorus will act as the border between two empires and two religions, and that they will thereafter enjoy complete security in their Asia-Minor.

Scutari possesses nothing of note except its great mosque, and the cemetery with its gigantic cypresses; its towers, kiosks, fountains and hundreds of minarets would not otherwise distinguish it from the other Turkish city. The monastery of the howling Dervishes is located a short distance from the mosque; it is of a more ancient architecture than the tekeh of the Dervishes of Pera, who are whirling Dervishes.

The Pasha, who had accompanied us to the city, wished to dissuade us from visiting these monks, whom he termed madmen; but the curiosity of travellers is to be respected. He understood this, and left us there, inviting us to return and visit him.

The Dervishes have this peculiarity, that they are more tolerant than many a religious institution. The orthodox Muslims, obliged to accept their corporate existence, can do nothing except tolerate them in turn.

The people love and support them; their exaltation, their good humour, their accommodating behaviour, and their principles please the crowd more than the severe formality of the imams and mullahs. The latter treat them as pantheists, and often attack their doctrines, without however being able to convict them of absolute heresy.

There are two systems of philosophy which form the basis of Turkish religion and the instruction which flows from it. One is entirely Aristotelian, the other entirely Platonic. The Dervishes are attached to the latter. We should not be surprised at this relationship between the Muslims and the Greeks, since we ourselves know the later philosophical writings of the ancient world only through their translations.

That the Dervishes are pantheists, as the true Osmanlis claim, does not prevent them from possessing incontestable religious title. They were established, they say, in their houses and privileges by Orhan Ghazi, the second Sultan of the Turks. The masters who founded their orders were seven in number, a most Pythagorean number which indicates the source of their ideas. Their generic name is Mevlevis, from the name of the first founder (Mevlana or ‘the Master’, the poet Rumi); as for dervish or derwisch, it means a beggar. They are basically a sect of Muslim communalists.

Many belong to the Munasihi, who believe in the transmigration of souls. According to them, every man who is not worthy of being reborn in human form enters, after death, the body of the creature which most resembles him in character or temperament. The void which this emigration of human souls would leave is filled by the souls of those creatures found to be worthy, by reason of their intelligence or fidelity, of rising in the animal scale. This sentiment, which obviously belongs to the Indian tradition, explains the various pious foundations made in monasteries and mosques in favour of animals; for they are respected inasmuch as they might have once been human and are capable of becoming so. This explains why no Muslim eats pork, because this animal appears, by its form and appetites, closer to the human species.

The eschrakis or enlightened ones apply themselves to the contemplation of God through numbers, forms and colours. They are, in general, more reserved, kinder, and more elegant than the others. They are preferred as instructors, and seek to develop the strength of their pupils by exercises of vigour or grace. Their doctrines clearly derive from the teachings of Pythagoras and Plato. They are poets, musicians and artists.

There are also among them haïretis or ‘astonished’ ones, from whose name perhaps the word heretic derives, who represent the spirit of scepticism or agnosticism. They are in truth Epicureans. They posit as a principle that falsehood cannot readily be distinguished from truth, and that it is imprudent to seek to dissect any idea whatsoever via the subtleties of flawed human reasoning. Passion can deceive and embitter and render one unjust as regards good and evil; so that one must abstain and say:’ wa-Allahu A’alam… nahn la naerif! Allah knows… we do not,’ or, ‘God indeed knows what is best!’

Those are the three philosophical opinions dominating there, as almost everywhere, though, among the Dervishes, that fact does not engender the hatred which these opposing principles generally excite in human society; the eschrakis, spiritual dogmatists, live in peace with the munasihi, material pantheists, and the haïretis, sceptics who take care not to exhaust their lungs debating with others. Each live in their own way and according to their temperament, some by eating immoderately, others drinking heavily or using narcotic stimulants, still others simply through their affections. The Dervishes are favoured beings, par excellence, among Muslims, provided that their private virtues, enthusiasm and devotion are recognised by their brethren.

The holiness which the Dervishes profess; their poverty, embraced in principle, and in practice sometimes only relieved by voluntary gifts of the faithful; the patience and modesty which are their common qualities, place them as much above other men morally, as they by nature place themselves below. Dervishes can drink wine and spirits if they are offered, though they are not allowed to buy anything. If, when passing through the street, the Dervish desires a curious object, some ornament displayed in a shop, the owner usually gifts it to him or lets him simply take it. On meeting a woman, a Dervish who is respected by the people may approach her without being rendered impure. It is true that this no longer happens in the larger cities these days, where the police are poorly educated as regards the characters of Dervishes; but the principle which allows these liberties is that the man who abandons everything should be granted everything, since, his virtue being that of rejecting all possession, that of the faithful believer should be to compensate him for it with gifts and offerings.

By the same token, the Dervishes, possessing special sanctity, have the right to dispense with the journey to Mecca; they may eat pork and hare, and even touch dogs; which is forbidden to other Turks, despite the reverence they all have for the memory of that dog belonging to the Seven Sleepers (see the Koran: Sura XVIII, Al Kafh).

When we entered the courtyard of the tekeh, we saw a large number of these animals to whom serving brothers were distributing the evening meal. There are old and highly respected foundations which fund this. The walls of the courtyard, planted with acacias and plane-trees, were decorated here and there with small painted and sculpted wooden boxes suspended at a certain height, like embossed panels. These were dedicated to nesting birds which, wer at liberty to take possession of them, at random.

The performance given by the howling Dervishes offered me no new experience, since I had already seen similar in Cairo. These fine people spend several hours dancing, while stamping their feet hard on the ground, round a pole decorated with garlands, which is called a saariya; this produces an effect somewhat like a continual farandole. They sing, with various intonations, an eternal litany whose refrain is: Allah hay! that is to say ‘The living God!’ The public is admitted to these sessions, and seat themselves in tall stands adorned with wooden balustrades. After an hour of this exercise, some of them enter into a state of excitation which renders them majzub (inspired). They roll on the ground, and are possessed by beatific visions.

Those we saw in this performance wore their hair long, beneath felt caps in the shape of upturned flower-pots; their robes were white with black buttons; they are called kadiri (Qadiriyya Sufis) from the name of their founder (Abdul Qadir Gilani).

One of the assistants told us that he had seen the performances of the Dervishes of the Pera tekeh, who are whirling Dervishes. As at Scutari, one enters an immense wooden room, dominated by galleries and stands to which the public are freely admitted; though it is appropriate to leave a small offering. At the Pera tekeh, all the Dervishes wear white robes pleated like the Greek fustanella. Their task is, in public sessions, to whirl about for as long as possible. They are dressed all in white; their leader alone is dressed in blue. Every Tuesday and Friday, the session begins with a sermon, after which all the Dervishes bow before the superior, then take positions throughout the room so as to be able to whirl separately without touching one another. Their white skirts fly, their heads in their felt headdresses turn, and each of these religious performers takes on the appearance of a wheel. Some of them perform melancholy airs on reed flutes. The whirlers as well as to the howlers reach a certain moment of exaltation, are electrified so to speak, and achieve a specific state of ecstasy.

No one with any classical knowledge should be surprised at these strange practices. The Dervishes represent an uninterrupted tradition stretching back to the Greek Kabiri, Dactyls, and Corybantes, the adherents of which have danced and howled for many a century on this same ancient shore. Their convulsive movements, aided by drink and intoxicating substances, transport them to a peculiar state where Allah, moved by love, consents to reveal himself through sublime dreams, in a foretaste of paradise.

As we descended from the Dervish monastery to return to the jetty, we could see the moon rising to illuminate, on our left, the immense cypresses of the Scutari cemetery and, on the heights above, the houses, with gleaming paint and gilding, of the upper town of Scutari (Üsküdar), which is called the Golden City (founded by the Greeks and named Chrysopolis).

The Sultan’s summer palace (Beylerbeyi), which we had visited during the day, showed clearly on the right by the shore, its scalloped walls painted white and bordered with pale gilding. We crossed the market-place; the caique, in twenty minutes, brought us to Tophane, on the European shore.

Seeing Scutari, and its cemetery’s long avenues of yews and cypresses, silhouetted on a distant horizon pierced by bluish mountains, I remembered these phrases from Byron’s works;

‘O Scutari! Above ten thousand graves, your white mansions tower — while over them rise your evergreen cypresses, tall and sombre, whose foliage speaks of endless grief — of some unrequited love!’ (A free paraphrase of Byron’s ‘The Bride of Abydos, Canto I: XXVIII’)

The End of Part XIV of Gérard de Nerval’s ‘Travels in the Near East’