On arriving in Constantinople for the first time, one is much surprised, after all he has heard of the thraldom of the Turkish women, to see them, everywhere and at all hours of the day, coming and going with apparently the same freedom as the women of any other city in Europe. It seems as though all these imprisoned swallows must that very day have been given their liberty, and a new era of freedom and independence dawned for the fair sex among the Mussulmans. At first the impression is very odd: one is in doubt whether all these females enveloped in white veils and long, variously-colored mantles are nuns or masqueraders or lunatics; and, as you never by any chance see one of them accompanied by a man, they seem not to belong to any one, being all, apparently, young girls or widows or inmates of some huge asylum for the “unhappily married.” It is some time before you can realize that all these Turkish men and women, who meet and jostle one another in the streets without ever walking along together or interchanging so much as a nod or look, can have anything in common, and you constantly find yourself stopping to watch them and reflect upon this singular custom. And these strange figures, you say to yourself—these actually are those “subduers of hearts,” “fountains of peace,” “little rose-leaves,” “early grapes,” “morning rays,” “life-givers”, “sunrises”, and “shining moons” about whom thousands of poets have written and sung? These are the “hanums” and mysterious slaves, reading of whom in Victor Hugo’s ballads at the age of twenty, in a shady garden, we imagined to be like beings of another world? These the unfortunate beauties, hidden behind gratings, watched over by eunuchs, separated from the world, who, passing like shadows across the face of the earth, emit one cry of pleasure and one of sorrow? Let us see how much truth lies at the bottom of all this poetry.

First of all, then, the face of the Turkish woman is no longer a mystery, and owing to this fact alone much of the poetry that surrounded her has disappeared. That jealous veil which, according to the Koran, was to be at once the “seal of her virtue and a safeguard against the world,” has become a mere form. Every one knows how the yashmac is arranged. There are two large white veils—one, bound around the head like a bandage, covers the forehead down to the eyebrows, is knotted just above the nape of the neck, and falls over the back in two long ends reaching to the waist; the other covers all the lower part of the face and is carried back and tied in with the first in such a manner as to give the effect of a single veil. These veils, however, which are supposed to be of muslin and adjusted so as to leave nothing visible but the eyes and the upper part of the cheeks, have worn away to something very thin and flimsy indeed, while they have drawn farther and farther apart, until now not only most of the face, but the ears, neck, and hair, and not infrequently a European hat and feathers worn by “reformed ladies,” are plainly visible. Hence the reverse of the former order of things has come about. Then it was the older women who were allowed to appear with their faces somewhat less closely covered, while the young ones were obliged to conceal them rigorously. Now the young ones, especially if they be handsome, show as much of their features as possible, while the older women, in order to deceive people, wear their veils thick and closely drawn. And so an infinite number of charming and romantic incidents told by poets and writers of fiction are no longer possible, and among other fables is that of the husband seeing his bride’s face for the first time on the night of his marriage. Beyond the face, however, all is still concealed, and not so much as a passing glimpse can be had of waist or bosom or arm: the ferege hides everything. This is a sort of tunic furnished with a cape and very long sleeves, full and shapeless, and falling like a cloak from the shoulders to the feet. In winter it is made of cloth, in summer of silk, all of one color, and that usually brilliant—now bright red, now orange, now green; but, whatever may be the change in color from year to year, the cut is never altered. Notwithstanding the fact that the women are enveloped in this manner, so great is the art with which they can adjust the yashmac that the pretty ones pass for beauties, and those who are ugly look pleasing. It is difficult to say just what it is they do with those two veils. How artfully they dispose of their ample folds, drawing them back and allowing them to fall in simple classic lines or arranging them like coronets or turbans! With what subtle grace they employ them to at once display and conceal their charms, offering a tantalizing suggestion, a promise, a check, and revealing unlooked-for marvels! Some of them seem to wear about their heads a white diaphanous cloud, which at a breath would melt away, others to be garlanded with lilies and jasmines: all of them apparently have the whitest skin, and seem to borrow from those veils a shining reflection and an appearance of delicacy and freshness quite captivating to behold. It is a headgear at once austere and festive, with something of a sacerdotal or nun-like character. Beneath it, one would think, nothing but kind thoughts and innocent, child-like fancies could have birth. But it appears that a little of everything is born there.

It is not altogether easy to define the beauty of the Turkish women. In thinking of them, I may say I always see a very white face, two black eyes, a crimson mouth, and a sweet expression. But then they almost all of them paint, whiten their skin with almond and jasmine paste, lengthen their eyebrows with India ink, color their eyelids, powder their necks, draw dark circles around their eyes, and put patches on their cheeks; but in all this they employ taste and discretion, unlike the belles of Fez, who use whitewash brushes to beautify themselves with. Most of them have pretty oval contours, noses a little arched, lips somewhat thick, round, dimpled chins—many of them have dimples in their cheeks as well—handsome necks, long and flexible, and tiny little hands, generally covered—more’s the pity!—by the sleeves of their mantles. They are usually plump, and many of them above the medium height. One rarely sees the dumpy or scrawny type of our countries. One universal defect they have—their manner of walking; they shuffle and stumble along like big children who have grown too fast: this, it is said, comes from a weakness of limb resulting from the abuse of the bath, and also, in a measure, from the wretched shoes they wear. Elegant-looking women, whose feet must be very small indeed, may sometimes be seen wearing men’s slippers or long, wide, wrinkled shoes, such as a European peasant-woman would scorn. But even that ungainly walk has something child-like about it that, once you are accustomed to it, appeals to you. There are none of those stiff-looking individuals, like the figures in fashion-plates, whom we see in our cities going along with little mincing steps like pieces on a chess-board. They have not yet lost the free, careless gait natural to the Oriental, and when they do, although they may gain in dignity, they will be less attractive. Occasionally one sees a face of great beauty, and not always the same type either, since there is Circassian, Persian, and Arabian blood mingled with the Turkish. There is the matron of thirty, whose ample form the ferajeh cannot entirely conceal, very tall, with great dark eyes, protruding lips, and delicate nostrils, the kind of hanum who makes a hundred slaves tremble at her glance, and the mere sight of whom turns into ridicule the boast made by Turkish gentlemen that they are four times the husband. Then there are others, chubby little ladies with everything round about them—face, eyes, nose, mouth—and such a guileless, childish, kindly air of entire and sweet resignation to their lot, which is that of never being anything more than a plaything and source of recreation, that you feel tempted to slip a sugar-plum into their mouths in passing. And there are the slender, graceful figures of sixteen-year-old brides, vivacious and passionate, whose bright coquettish eyes arouse a sentiment of pity in one’s breast for the poor effendi who has undertaken the care of them, and the unfortunate eunuch whose duty it is to mount guard over them.

The city is wonderfully adapted to form a background and framework for the beauty of the women and the picturesque style of their dress. You should see, for instance, one of those graceful figures, with its white veil and crimson ferajeh, seated in a kÄik on the surface of the blue Bosphorus, or extended on the grass surrounded by the vivid green of some cemetery, or, better still, coming toward you down one of the steep lonely side-streets of Stambul, closed in at the end by a great plane tree, when the wind is blowing and veil and ferajeh flutter about and reveal neck and foot and ankle. I can assure you that if the indulgent decree of Suleiman the Magnificent were in force at such a moment, levying a fine upon every kiss given to the wife or daughter of another, even the avarice of a Harpagon would receive a severe shock. And even when the wind is high the Turkish women do not feel called upon to struggle very hard to keep down the ferajeh, their modesty not including their ankles, and sometimes stopping quite short of them.

It is at first somewhat astounding to see how they look at you, laughing too in a manner which certainly encourages the taking of liberties. It not infrequently happens that a young European, looking attentively at a Turkish lady even of rank, finds his gaze smilingly returned, sometimes by an actual laugh, or, again, a pretty hanum driving by in her carriage waves a graceful salute behind the eunuch’s back to some good-looking Frank who has struck her fancy. Occasionally in a cemetery or some retired street a lively young woman goes the length of tossing a flower as she goes by or dropping it on the ground, with the manifest intention of having it picked up by the young gentleman who is walking behind her. Hence it follows that a fatuous traveller is sometimes betrayed into making grave mistakes, and more than one fool of a European is quite saddened at the close of his month’s visit to Constantinople at the thought of the hundred or so unfortunates whose peace of mind he has destroyed for ever. No doubt there is in some of these carryings on a frank avowal of preference, but they are chiefly dictated by a spirit of rebellion nursed in the heart of Turkish women and born of their hatred of the subjection in which they are kept. This they give vent to at every opportunity, and these little mischievous acts of secret spite toward their masters are more the result of childishness than coquetry. What coquetry they have is of a most singular kind, a good deal like the first experiments of young girls when they begin to find people looking at them. It consists of a great deal of laughing, gazing up with the mouth open as though very much astonished, pretending that they have hurt their head or foot, certain gestures of impatience with the ferajeh, which is in their way, and various other school-girl tricks, which certainly seem to be done more to make one laugh than with any view of fascinating. They never pose as if for a photograph or the drawing-room; what little art of that kind they possess is of the most rudimentary kind. It is plain to be seen that they have not, as, Tommaseo would say, many veils to lift, that they are unaccustomed to long courtships—to being “surrounded by the pack” like Giusti’s hieroglyphical women; and when they take a fancy to any one, instead of wasting time in sighs and languishing glances, they would like to say quite frankly, “Christian, I like you.” Being unable to say the actual words, they make their meaning clear with equal frankness by displaying two shining rows of pearls or laughing outright in your face. They are just pretty tamed Tartars.

And, after all, Turkish women are free—a discovery which the foreigner makes as soon as he lands. It is an exaggeration for Lady Mary Wortley Montague to say that they have more liberty than European women, but any one who has been to Constantinople cannot help but laugh when he hears people talk of their “bondage.” When a lady wishes to go out she tells the eunuch to order her carriage, and goes without asking any one’s permission, and stays as long as she wants to, provided, of course, she returns before nightfall. Formerly she was always accompanied by a eunuch or female slave or friend. The bolder spirits, when they wanted no one else, would at least take a child with them as a sort of passport to public respect. One of them appearing entirely alone in some retired spot would quite probably have found herself stopped by a city guard or a straight-laced old Turk, and subjected to a severe cross-examination: “Where are you going? Where have you been? Why is there no one with you? Is it thus that you respect your effendi? Go home at once.” But now-a-days all this has changed, and hundreds of Turkish women may be seen at all hours of the day quite alone in the Mussulman streets and suburbs, and in the Frankish cities as well. They pay each other visits from one end of Stambul to the other, spend half a day in the bath-houses, make excursions by water to the Sweet Waters of Europe on Thursday, and on Sunday to the Sweet Waters of Asia. On Friday they visit the cemeteries of Skutari, on the other days of the week the Isles of the Princes, Terapia, Buyukdereh, or Kalender, to eat luncheon in parties of eight or ten with their slaves. They say their prayers at the tombs of the pÂdishahs and sultanas, visit the dervishes’ monasteries, and go to see the public exhibitions of wedding-outfits. And not a man would presume to join or follow one of them, or even so much as to accost her. For a Turk to be seen in some retired street in Constantinople, not arm-in-arm or walking beside, but merely pausing an instant to exchange half a dozen words with one of the “veiled,” would be considered most unseemly, even were it written on their foreheads that they were man and wife; or, to speak more correctly, it would be looked upon as an audacious piece of impudence, as though two individuals should select the centre of one of our crowded streets in which to make mutual declarations of love. In this sense, then, Turkish women really have more freedom than ours, and no one knows how highly they value it or how eagerly they grasp at the noise and crowd and open air and light of the streets and public resorts. In their own houses they see but one single man, while their windows and gardens are like those in convents; so it is perfectly natural to find them running about the city with all the enjoyment of liberated prisoners. It is great fun to follow one of them—at a safe distance—and see how she has mastered the art of chopping the joys of vagrancy into the smallest possible pieces. First she will drop into the nearest mosque to say her prayers and loiter under the arches of the courtyard for a quarter of an hour or so, chatting with a friend; next she will go to the bazÂr, glance into half a dozen shops, turn one or two upside down, and finally, after purchasing some trifle, take the tramway down to the fish-market, cross the bridge, and examine at her leisure every wig and headdress in every hair-dresser’s shop in the Rue de Pera; next we find her in a cemetery, where, after settling herself comfortably on one of the tombs, she will sit for some time munching sweetmeats; then back to the city and down to the Golden Horn again, making numberless dÉtours to right and left, and watching everything out of the corner of her eye—shop-windows, signs, posters, the other ladies who pass her, carriages, the open doors of theatres, advertisements; then she will buy a bunch of flowers, give a trifle to some beggar, drink a glass of lemonade from a water-carrier, and, recrossing the Golden Horn, in a kÄik this time, make some fresh excursions about Stambul; after which she will again take the tramway, alighting at her own door. But even on the threshold she is fully capable of turning back merely for the purpose of walking a little way up the street and making the circuit of a half-dozen houses or so before being shut in for the night, just as some young girl who has been allowed to go out for once alone tries to crowd a little of everything into that one short hour of liberty. A poor fat effendi who should undertake to follow and watch his wife to see if she were up to any mischief would certainly have a hard time of it: he would very probably find himself distanced at the end of the first half hour.

To really get a good view of the Mussulman fair sex, you must go to the Sweet Waters of Europe, at the head of the Golden Horn, on one of the great feast-days, or to those of Asia, near the village of Anadoli-Hissar. These are two extensive public gardens, watered by two little rivers, and thickly sprinkled with trees, fountains, and cafÉs. There, on a vast grassy plain, beneath the shade of walnuts, terebinths, palm trees, and sycamores, forming a succession of leafy pavilions, through which not so much as a ray of sunshine can penetrate, may be seen thousands of women seated in circular groups surrounded by their slaves, eunuchs, and children, lunching and passing away half a day in each other’s company, while all around them crowds are coming and going. On arriving you are at once captivated by this scene, which resembles a festival in the Islam Paradise. The myriads of white veils and scarlet, green, yellow, and gray ferajehs; the groups of slaves dressed in every hue of the rainbow; the crowds of children in their fanciful costumes; the great Smyrna rugs spread on the grass; the gold and silver vessels passed from hand to hand; the Mussulman waiters from the cafÉs in gala dress running hither and thither carrying plates of fruit and ices; the gypsies dancing; the Bulgarian shepherds playing on their pipes; the horses with silk and gilded trappings stamping beneath the trees to which they are tied; the pashas and beys and young gallants who gallop along the river’s bank; the swaying of the distant crowd like the movement of the wind over a bed of tulips and hyacinths; the gayly-painted kÄiks and elegant carriages which every moment deposit fresh loads of color in that sparkling sea; and the mingled melody of flute and pipe and tambourine, of voices singing and children calling to one another; the play of light and shade across the grass and thick foliage of the trees and shrubs, with here and there a little glimpse of some distant view,—all combine to form an effect of light and color, sound and movement, so perfect that one’s first impulse is to clap his hands enthusiastically and cry, “Bravo! bravissimi!” as though it were a masterly production on the stage.

Even in such a scene as this, notwithstanding the opportunities afforded by the crowd and confusion, it is extremely rare to find Turkish men and women making eyes at one another or exchanging so much as a smile or glance of intelligence. Gallantry, coram populo, does not exist there as it is seen in our countries; there are none of those melancholy sentinels who march up and down beneath the loved one’s windows, or those devoted followers who will walk for three hours behind the beloved object. Their love-making is carried on entirely within doors. If by chance you should happen to come upon a young Turk in the act of gazing up at a grated window behind which may be detected the flash of an eye or a white hand, you may take it for almost certain that they are a pair of fiancÉs. To engaged couples alone are meetings and rendezvous permitted and all the other childish accompaniments of authorized courtship, such as conversing together at a distance by means of a flower or ribbon or by the color of the dress or scarf. In this art the Turkish women are very proficient. There are a thousand small objects, such as flowers, fruits, grass, feathers, stones, to each one of which some especial meaning is attached, an epithet or verb, or even a whole sentence, so that an entire letter may be expressed in a single bunch of flowers, and any number of things be said with a little box or purse full of odds and ends apparently collected by merest chance; and, as the signification of the various objects is usually expressed in verse, every lover is in a position to compose an amorous couplet, or even a polymetrical poem, in five minutes. A few cloves, a scrap of paper, a slice of pear, a bit of soap, a match, an end of gold thread, a grain of cinnamon and one of pepper, signify, “I have long loved you. I pant, languish, die with love for you. Give me a little hope; do not repulse me. Answer me with a word.” And not only love-affairs, but thousands of other matters, can be expressed with equal facility—reproof, counsel, warning, news. Young girls just beginning to be conscious that they have hearts find endless occupation and amusement in committing all this symbolic language to memory, and in composing long letters addressed to imaginary sultans of twenty. Then there is the language of signs or gestures, some of which are extremely graceful, such, for example, as that of the man who, wishing to imply that he has been wounded by the force of his love, stabs himself in the heart with an invisible dagger, to which the woman responds by letting her arms fall at her sides in such a way that the ferajeh opens a little in front, which means, “I open my arms to you.” No European, however, has probably ever witnessed the actual interchange of these signs, which have now almost passed into traditions, and are only to be learned, moreover, from some ingenuous hanum who has confided them to a Christian friend. Were you to interrogate a Turk in regard to them, you would cover him with confusion.

We learn through the same channels what the dress of the Turkish women is in the seclusion of the harem—the details of that charming costume, at once rich and fantastic, which every one has some idea of, and which lends to every woman who wears it the dignity of a princess and freedom and grace of a child. We will never see it unless the fashion should be adopted in our own country, for even should the ferajeh be some day discarded, every Turkish woman will by that time be found dressed like a European underneath. What anguish for the artists, and what a pity for all concerned! Just fancy a Turkish beauty, “slender as a cypress,” with the coloring “of all the blended tints of a rose’s petals,” wearing a little red-velvet or silver-brocade cap slightly on one side, her black hair falling down over the shoulders, clad in a garment of white-silk damask embroidered in gold, with wide, open sleeves, and a long skirt parted in front so as to show the full trousers of rose-colored silk falling in close folds over little feet encased in tiny pointed slippers turned up in Chinese fashion; a sash of green satin around the waist, and diamonds flashing from neck and arms and hair, the tassel of the cap, slippers, girdle, forehead, so that she glitters from head to foot like the Madonna in a Spanish cathedral as she lies extended on a wide divan in an attitude of childish grace, surrounded by a circle of pretty Circassian, Arabian, or Persian slaves, enveloped like statues of antiquity in long, sweeping garments; or imagine a bride, “white as the summit of Olympus,” arrayed in sky-blue satin with a large gold-embroidered veil falling over her entire person, seated upon a pearl-embroidered ottoman; or picture to yourself the adored favorite in the most retired apartment of the harem, wearing the jacket and trousers which set off to the utmost advantage the exquisite contours of her person, making her look like a graceful, well-formed boy. Then you can realize what those beasts of “reforming” Turks, with their bald heads and black coats, have to answer for. These house-costumes, however, vary with the changing fashions. The Turkish women, having nothing else in the world to occupy them, devote a large part of their time to trying to devise some new style of dress: they cover themselves with finery and trinkets, stick feathers and ribbons in their hair, tie scarfs around their heads and fur around their necks and arms, borrowing something from all the different styles of Oriental costume; they combine the fashions of Europe and the East, wear wigs, dye their hair black, red, yellow, indulge every sort of fancy, and vie with one another every whit as much as the leaders of fashion in other lands. If at one of the gatherings at the Sweet Waters a fairy should suddenly wave her wand and all the ferajehs fall off, no doubt we would find some of the ladies attired like Asiatic queens, others like French Christians or in full ball-costume or in the gala dress of tradespeople, riding habits, Greek costumes, gypsy dresses, or like vivandiÈres—just as great a variety, in short, as may be seen among the men on the bridge of the ValidÊh Sultan.

The apartments occupied by beautiful and wealthy Mohammedan ladies correspond, to a certain extent, with their fanciful and captivating style of dress. The rooms reserved for the women are usually well situated, commanding charming views of sea or country or else overlooking a wide expanse of the city. Beneath the windows are gardens enclosed between high walls covered with ivy and jasmine, overlooked by terraces; over the street extend small rooms built out from the walls and enclosed with glass, like the miradores of Spanish houses. The interiors are simply enchanting. Almost all the rooms are small, the floors covered with Chinese matting and rugs; screens painted with flowers and fruits stand about; a wide divan runs all around the wall, and in the centre of the room a fountain plays; vases of flowers stand in the windows, and over all falls that soft, subdued light so characteristic of the Oriental house, like the dim light of the forest or—what shall I say?—the cloister or some sacred spot, so that one is inclined to walk on tiptoe and speak in whispers, saying nothing but what is humble and tender, talking only of God and love. This soft, mysterious light, the perfumes wafted in from the gardens, the murmur of the fountains, the figures of the slaves flitting back and forth like phantoms, the stillness which broods over everything, the distant blue of the Asiatic mountains seen between the bars of the windows with their leafy screen of honeysuckle, awaken in the breast of a European, who finds herself for the first time within those mysterious walls, an inexpressible sensation of languor and of melancholy.

The decoration of most of these harems is simple in the extreme, almost severe, but there are those which are very magnificent, having walls hung with satin and gold damask, screens of cedar-wood, gilded gratings, and costly furniture, from whose character it is easy enough to judge what sort of life is led by the inmates. You find only arm-chairs, big and little ottomans, rugs, stools, low seats, cushions of every possible size and shape, and mattresses covered with shawls and brocades; everything is soft, yielding, inviting, saying in a thousand different ways, “Rest, take your ease: love, sleep, dream.” Here and there are hand-mirrors and large fans of ostrich feathers; chased chibuks hang on the walls and bird-cages in the windows; braziers for burning perfumes stand in the middle of the rooms, and musical boxes, bric-À-brac, and ornaments in every direction; sufficiently indicating the tastes of an idle and weary woman. Nor does this luxury exist only on the surface: in some establishments all the table service is of gold—of solid gold the vessels for perfumed water, of gold the fringe of the satin napkins—while brilliants and precious stones glitter from the various utensils, the coffee-cups, goblets, pipes, table-linen, and fans. In others—and these by far the greater number of houses, it must be understood—little if any change has been made from the ancient order of things in the tent or hut of the Tartar, whose entire outfit could be packed upon the back of a single mule, and everything stood in perpetual readiness for a fresh migration across Asia. These houses are distinctively Mohammedan and severe in character, where, when the hour of departure sounds, nothing is heard but the resigned voice of the master pronouncing the word “Olsun!” (So be it).

The Turkish dwelling, as every one knows, is divided into two parts, the harem and the selamlik. The selamlik is the part reserved for the man. Here he works, eats, sees his friends, takes his siesta, and sometimes sleeps at night. The wife never enters it, but, just as the man rules in the selamlik, so does she govern in the harem. She orders and arranges everything just as she chooses, and does whatever she wants to, except that of course she cannot receive male visitors. If she does not feel like seeing her husband, she can even refuse to do that, sending a polite message requesting him to return at some other time. Although the selamlik is, as a rule, only separated from the harem by one small door and a narrow corridor, they are, in reality, like two distinct houses, far away from one another. The male friends of the effendi who come to see him, and the ladies who call upon the hanum, neither encounter nor hear each other, and frequently are mutually unknown. In the same way, the two establishments are supplied with different servants and very commonly separate kitchens. Husband and wife seek their amusements in their own way, spending their time and their money without reference to each other, and rarely even dine together, having almost nothing in common. It is very unusual for the man to enter the harem in the character of husband or companion or as the guide and educator of his children; his visits are those of the lover: on crossing that threshold, he puts away all his cares and worries, giving himself up entirely to the soft distractions of the moment: his object is to be amused and diverted, and it would never occur to him to look there for the light and guidance of a mind more clear and serene than his own, or for even a sympathetic interest in his affairs; and, indeed, the women of Turkey would be found to be but poorly adapted to satisfy such demands were they made. The husband, moreover, is at no pains to surround himself with that halo of wisdom or strength or intelligence which might be calculated to increase his importance in his wife’s eyes. What would be the use? He is already the god of the temple, claiming worship and adoration as a right. There is no need for him to make himself more attractive. The honor which, of his bounty, he pays his wife in going to see her at all itself calls for a sentiment of gratitude sufficiently like love to satisfy him. The word “woman” has for him absolutely no association with the mind or with any of his outside interests and occupations. She belongs exclusively to his private life, and on this account he dislikes to so much as hear the word pronounced in public. If he has to announce the birth of a daughter, he will say, “‘A veiled one’ or ‘a hidden one’ or ‘a little stranger’ has been born to me.” And so it is that any real intimacy between husband and wife is out of the question: all those depths and secret recesses of the soul which can only be discovered by the light of entire mutual confidence must, from the nature of things, remain for ever hidden; their intercourse lacks the necessary quality of an assured footing. The wife, never knowing at what hour she may receive a visit from her husband, is constantly decked out in expectation of that event: intent upon outdoing a rival or preserving a pre-eminence which is continually threatened, she is always something of a courtier, doing violence to her own feelings in order that everything may look smiling and cheerful for her lord, and often enough, when her heart is heavy within her, assuming the gay and laughing mien of a happy, contented woman in order to prevent his growing weary of and neglecting her. And so it happens that the Turk never really knows woman as a wife, just as he has never known her as a mother, sister, or friend, and never will as a daughter, while she, finding that her nobler qualities are neither used nor prized, allows them to become blunted and warped, valuing only those for which she is sought, and often resolutely checking the natural and finer dictates of her own heart in order to find, if not happiness, at least peace, in the apathy of a purely animal existence. She has, it is true, the comfort of her children, and very often her husband sends for them to pet and caress them in her presence; but whatever satisfaction this might have given her is marred by the knowledge that within the hour he may well have done the same to the children of another wife, and an hour later be embracing those of a third, and—who knows?—within a year of still a fourth. Lover-like devotion, parental affection, friendship, confidence, all, are divided and subdivided, each portion having its own hours, regulations, and boundaries. Hence his visit is cold and formal, while through and beneath it all there is a bitter humiliation, a deadly insult, in the love of a husband who pays a eunuch to mount guard over his wife. He says to her, in substance, “I love you, ‘my joy,’ ‘glory,’ ‘pearl of my house,’ but I am quite sure that you cannot be trusted.”

The conditions of married life, however, vary very greatly according to the worldly possessions of the husband, even apart from the fact that a man who can only support one woman can, of course, have but one wife. The rich man lives apart from his wife in body as well as in spirit; he is able to afford a separate suite of apartments or even a house for her, and does so in order that he may carry on his occupations and receive his friends and acquaintances without running any risk of the ladies of his household being seen or interfered with. The Turk of moderate means is forced, from motives of economy, to live on terms of much greater familiarity with his wife, and, dwelling under the same roof, sees her much more frequently. The poor Turk is obliged to occupy the smallest possible space, and so eats, sleeps, and passes all his leisure time in the company of his wife and children. Wealth divides, while poverty unites. The life led in the houses of the poor differs very little whether the inmates be Turks or Christians. The woman who cannot keep a slave does the work herself, and labor increases her dignity and authority. Not infrequently she may even be found routing her lazy husband out of the neighboring cafÉ or tavern and driving him home with blows from her slipper. Here, at least, husband and wife are on an equality: they spend their evenings together, seated side by side in the doorway of their house, and in the more retired suburbs even go together, sometimes, to make the family purchases. Not infrequently you may see in an out-of-the-way cemetery a father and mother, with their children gathered around them, seated near the grave of some relative, eating their luncheon, just like a laboring family in any other part of the world; and from the mere fact that it is uncommon, one finds himself strangely moved by this simple scene. You realize, as you watch them, how natural, how essential, and eternally and universally fitting is that junction of soul and body; that in that group, so complete in itself, there is no room for any one else; that a single additional note and the harmony would be spoiled or destroyed outright; that, talk and argue as you may, the fact remains that the first condition, the elementary force, the cornerstone of an orderly and well-balanced society, is there before you; that every and any other combination of affections and interests violates a natural law; that this is a family, the other a herd; that this, and this only, corresponds to a home, the other to a wolf’s den.

There are those who maintain that the women of the East are not only satisfied with polygamy, but that they do not so much as understand its injustice. To believe this one would have to be ignorant, I do not say of Oriental life, but of the human heart itself. And how is it, if this be so, that almost every Turkish girl, when she agrees to marry, makes it a condition that during her lifetime there shall be no other wife, or that large numbers of wives return to their own homes on account of the husband’s failure to keep this promise? and what is the meaning of the Turkish proverb, “A house with four wives, a vessel in a storm”? And even supposing her husband worships her, an Oriental woman can hardly fail to curse polygamy, obliging her, as it does, to live with that sword of Damocles suspended over her head—the daily dread of a rival, not hidden and distant and always in the wrong, as the rival of a European wife must necessarily be, but installed beside her in the same house, with the same name, and entitled to equal rights with herself. She is liable at any time to have one of her own slaves suddenly lift her head in her presence, treat her as an equal, and have children whose rights are the same as those of her own. It is quite impossible that she should be blind to the injustice of such a state of things; and when the husband whom she loves introduces another wife into his house, it may well happen that, reflecting upon the fact that he is but taking advantage of the code of the Prophet, and knowing full well at the bottom of her heart that an older and more sacred law has denounced that act as an infamous abuse of power, she rebels against and curses the conditions which have taken her husband from her, cut the knot which bound them together, and destroyed the happiness of her life. On the other hand, suppose she does not love him: she still has good cause to detest a law which so seriously interferes with the rights of her children, wounds her self-respect, and permits her husband to either neglect her altogether or seek her society solely from motives in which affection plays no part. It may be urged that Turkish women know that such misfortunes as these sometimes overtake European women as well: perhaps they do, but they also know that the latter are not obliged by the law, both civil and religious, to treat with respect and give the title of sister to the women who have poisoned their lives, and have, moreover, the comfort of being looked upon as martyrs, as well as a hundred ways of vindicating and consoling themselves without the husband being once able to say, as the polygamist can to his rebellious wife, “I have a right to love a hundred women, while it is your duty to love no one but me.”

The Turkish woman has, however, many rights and privileges under the law to console her. She is treated on all hands with a certain chivalric tenderness. No man would dare to raise a hand against her in public. Not a soldier, even in the midst of the general license and disorder of a riot, would attempt to maltreat even the most insolent woman of the people. The husband observes toward his wife a sort of formal deference, and the mother is always the object of especial veneration. Nor would a man dream of making his wife work in order that she might support him. It is the husband who settles the dot upon his wife; she is expected to bring him nothing but her wedding outfit and some female slaves. In cases of repudiation or divorce he is obliged to provide for her maintenance, and this is also the case when he treats her badly and she demands a separation in consequence. The facility of divorce remedies, to some small extent, the unfortunate consequences of marriages made almost always in the dark on account of the peculiar conditions of Turkish society, which oblige the two sexes to live entirely apart. It requires very little to enable a woman to obtain a divorce: it is only necessary to show that her husband has ill-treated her once, or spoken of her in conversation with others in offensive terms, or neglected her for a certain length of time. When she has a complaint to make, she has only to lay her grievance before the court in writing, or she may, if she choose, present it in person before a vizier—the grand vizier himself, if she wishes to—he being almost always ready to receive and listen to her kindly and patiently. If she cannot get on with his other wives, she may require her husband to provide her with a separate establishment, to which, indeed, she has a right in any case, or at least to separate apartments. The husband is forbidden to take either as wife or odalisque any slave whom his wife has brought from her father’s house. A woman who has been betrayed and abandoned can require the man to marry her unless he already has four wives: in that case she can oblige him to support her in his house and recognize her children. There are no illegitimate children in Turkey. Bachelors and old maids are very rare, and forced marriages far less common than one would suppose, as the guilty fathers are liable to punishment under the law. The state pensions all widows without relatives or means, and also provides support for orphans; often female children who have been abandoned are taken from the street by women of wealth, who educate and marry them off, and it is unusual for women to be reduced to absolute want. Now, all of this is not only true, but very admirable, but at the same time one cannot refrain from laughing outright when the Turks solemnly compare the social privileges enjoyed by their women with those of European countries, to the advantage of the former, or try to persuade us that they are blessed with an immunity from the corruption which, they declare, exists among us. What possible value in the eyes of a woman is an outward show of respect, when her very position as a suppliant wife is in itself a humiliation? Of what avail the facility of divorce and right it gives her to remarry, when the second husband can at any time repeat the offence for which she left the first? What great matter is it for a man to be required to recognize his illegitimate son, when he has not the means to support him, and can have fifty others “legitimately,” who, if they are spared the opprobious epithet of “bastard,” are not spared from want and neglect? The social evils which exist in European lands are to be found in Turkey under different conditions and names, and the fact that they are tolerated, and even sanctioned, certainly does not extenuate them, while it may and does make them more common. For a Turk to attempt to criticise any one else in this regard is to the last degree blind and fatuous.

From the foregoing it is very easy to imagine what sort of women the Turkish ones are—merely “pleasing females” for the most part, who, barely knowing how to read and write, as a matter of fact do neither; miraculous beings those who have a little superficial smattering of education. It would not be agreeable to the men, in whose eyes they are endowed with “long hair and little brains,” for them to cultivate their minds, as it might be very inconvenient were they to become equal in this respect, or even superior to, themselves. And so, as they never read and are debarred from picking up any stray crumbs of knowledge by association with men, they grow up in a state of crass ignorance. The separation of the sexes also results in the loss of gentleness on the one hand and of high-mindedness on the other. The men grow rough as they grow older, and the women become gossips: even in old age, from never having moved in any society beyond the narrow circle of their female friends and relatives, the women retain something puerile in all their ideas and habits, are excessively curious, everything astonishes them, and they make a great deal out of every trifle; they have spiteful little tricks, too, and are inclined to look down on and despise education; they burst out laughing when any one speaks to them, and pass hours at a time over the most childish games, such as chasing each other from room to room, and snatching sugar-plums out of one another’s mouths. On the other hand, to paraphrase the French saying, they have good qualities in their defects: their natures are frank and open, easily read at a glance; they impress you as being “real persons,” as Madame de SÉvigne said of them, not masques or caricatures or apes; free, natural, and, even when they are unhappy, “all of one piece;” and if, as it is said, one of them has only to affirm and reaffirm a thing for every one to discredit it, it only means that she has too little art to deceive with success. At all events—and it is no small praise—there are no dull blue-stockings among them, or wearisome pedagogues who can talk of nothing but language and style, or those spiritual creatures who dwell on a loftier plane than ordinary mortals. It is, however, perfectly true that in their narrow lives, cut off from all elevating association or occupation, with the instinctive desire of youth and beauty for love and admiration constantly thwarted and dissatisfied, their souls remain undeveloped. When once an evil passion gets control of them, having none of the checks and self-restraints imposed by education, they run into violent excesses. Their idle, purposeless life fosters the growth of all manner of foolish tastes, which they pursue with the utmost obstinacy, determined to satisfy them at whatever cost. Moreover, in the sensual air of the harem, surrounded constantly by women inferior to themselves in birth and education, and away from men, whose presence would act as a check, they abandon themselves to the most indecent crudities of language; ignorant of all shades of expression, they say things right out with brutal frankness, using words at which they ought to blush, and indulging in equivocal jests, becoming at times openly abusive and insolent: sometimes the ears of a European who understands Turkish are treated to a flood of invective and abuse directed against a rude or impolitic shopkeeper, which, coming as it does from the lips of a hanum to all outward appearance of the highest breeding, would never, among us, be heard from the mouth of any but the lowest class of women. It seems as though their virulence increased in proportion with their knowledge of European customs and intercourse with the women of other lands—as though the spirit of rebellion was stirred up within them by these means. A Turkish woman, finding herself really beloved by her husband, takes advantage of the fact to visit him with all manner of petty acts of tyranny in revenge for the great social tyranny of which she is the victim: she is often represented as being all sweetness and bashful timidity, but there are fierce, bold spirits as well, and in popular uprisings it is not uncommon to find women in the front ranks: they assemble and arm themselves, and stop the carriages of unpopular viziers, covering them with abuse, stoning them, and forcibly resisting arrest. They are, indeed, like all other women, sweet and gentle when unmoved by passion, treat their slaves with great kindness when they are not jealous of them, and are tender and affectionate with their children, though even if they were willing to take the trouble to have them educated or trained, they have no idea how to set about it. They contract the most ardent friendships with each other, especially those who are separated from their husbands or are suffering from the same kind of misfortune: these friendships are of the most exaggerated character; they wear the same colors, use the same perfumes, put on patches of the same size and shape, and make enthusiastic demonstrations and protestations of undying regard. I might add here the remark that has been made by more than one lady traveller from Europe, that there “exist among them all the vices of ancient Babylon,” were I not unwilling in so serious a matter to make a statement which rests wholly on the assertions of others.

The manners of Turkish women reflect their characters. They are all more or less like young girls of good family, who, having been brought up in the country and arrived at the transition stage between childhood and womanhood, keep their mothers in a constant state of uneasiness by their want of conventionality. It is very funny to hear a European lady’s account of a visit to a harem. The hanum, for instance, after sitting for the first few moments in a dignified attitude upon the sofa, just as she sees her visitor doing, will suddenly and without any warning clasp her hands over her head, or begin to yawn loudly or to nurse one of her knees. Accustomed to the liberty, not to say license, of the harem, and to the easy attitudes of idleness and fatigue, and weakened as they are by their prolonged and frequent baths, they quickly tire in any erect or constrained position, and, throwing themselves on the divan, toss continually from one side to the other, twist and tangle up their long trains, roll themselves into balls, catch hold of their feet, put a cushion on their knees and rest their elbows upon it, straighten themselves out, twist, turn, stretch, arch their backs like cats, roll from the divan on to the mattress, from the mattress on to the rug, from the rug on to the marble pavement, and go to sleep like children wherever and whenever they happen to feel sleepy. One French lady traveller declares that they are something like mollusks, and they are nearly always in such a position that one could take them in his arms like a ball. Their most conventional attitude is sitting cross-legged, and it is said that the defect of slightly crooked legs so common among them comes from their having sat in this position since childhood. But how gracefully they do it! You can see them in the public gardens and cemeteries. They drop straight down without so much as putting out a hand, erect as statues, and rise with the same ease, perfectly straight and without leaning upon anything, as though they were being drawn out. But this is about the only free, strong movement they have. The grace of a Turkish woman seems to consist entirely in those attitudes of repose which display to their best advantage the charming curves of her figure. With head thrown back, hair streaming loosely over the pillow, and arms hanging down, she can draw money and jewels from the husband’s pocket and drive the unfortunate eunuch to the verge of despair.

Nor is the practice of such arts as these the only occupation by which they seek to enliven the deadly monotony of the greater number of lives passed in a harem—a monotony resulting not so much from the absence of employment and distractions as from their all being so much alike, just as certain books are tiresome from their uniformity of style, while their subjects may be entirely different. They do everything in their power to combat ennui: the whole day is often nothing but a prolonged struggle with this dreaded enemy. Seated upon rugs and cushions, with their slaves grouped around them, they hem innumerable little handkerchiefs to give away to their friends; embroider night-caps and tobacco-pouches as presents for their husbands, fathers, and brothers; tell the beads of the tespi a hundred times; count as high as they know how; spend hours at a time watching the movements of the ships on the Bosphorus or Sea of Marmora from the small round windows of their elevated apartments; or weave interminable romances of love and liberty and riches as they watch the smoke from their cigarettes curl upward in blue wreaths. Tired of their cigarettes, they betake themselves to the chibuk and inhale the “blond hair of Latakia,” then a cup of Syrian coffee and a few sweetmeats, or some fruit or an ice, which they can spend half an hour in eating; then comes a little more smoking, the narghileh this time, perfumed with rose-water, and after it a piece of mastic gum, which they suck to get rid of the taste of the smoke; then some lemonade to do away with the taste of the mastic. They dress and undress, try on all their costumes, make experiments with all the colors in their little boxes, put on and take off patches cut like stars and crescents; and arrange a dozen or so mirrors and hand-glasses in such a way that they can see themselves on all sides; finally, when they are tired out, two young slaves will dance for their amusement accompanied by tambourine and tabor, while a third repeats the well-known song or fairy-tale that every one can say by heart, or the usual couple of mascottes dressed like acrobats perform the regular wrestling-match, which always ends in a stamp on the floor and an artificial, mirthless laugh. Sometimes a troupe of Egyptian dancers will present themselves, and this event is made the excuse for a little fÊte, or a gypsy comes and the hanum must have her fortune told from the palm of her hand, or purchase a talisman that will preserve her youth, or a decoction to bring her children, or a love-philter. She will pass hours with her face pressed against the window-grating watching the people and dogs pass in the street below, or teaching the parrot a new word; then go to the garden to swing: returning to the house, she says her prayers or throws herself upon the divan to play a game of cards; then a visitor is announced and she jumps up to receive her, and there follows the customary round of coffee, tobacco, lemonade, and sweetmeats, of empty laughter and tremendous yawns, until, the visitor having departed, the eunuch appears in the doorway, saying in a low voice, “The effendi.”—“At last! Really, Providence has sent him; I don’t care if he were the ugliest husband in Stambul.”

Such is the life in a harem where there is at least peace, if nothing more, but there are others in which the dulness is relieved, not to say annihilated, by the storms of passion which sweep across them, and there the life is something altogether different. All is peaceable enough in a harem where there is but one wife whose husband loves her, pays no attention to the slaves, and has no outside intrigues. There is also, if not happiness, quiet, in those where the several wives are equally cold or indifferent, none of them caring particularly for the husband, who on his part does not distinguish among them, but bestows upon each in turn a sufficient amount of attention—where no one is impelled by love or jealousy or ambition to try to supersede the others. These good-natured wives have for a common object the getting as much money as possible out of the effendi; they occupy the same house, never quarrel, call each other sister, and join in one another’s amusement. The boat is made after the devil’s pattern, but it goes ahead all the same, and there is peace or the semblance of it, in a harem where the wife, finding herself set aside to make room for another, accepts the situation in a spirit of resignation, and, while declining the shreds of love her husband is still willing to allow her, continues to live in his house on friendly terms with him and the other inmates, consoling herself in a sort of dignified retirement with the society of her children. But when, as is sometimes the case, it is a question of a woman of high spirit and fiery passions, it is an altogether different matter. She declines to submit quietly to her rival’s triumph or to the shame of desertion, and will not consent without a fight to see her children set aside to make room for those of a new-comer. Life in one of these harems is a fore-taste of the infernal regions. There are weeping and lamentation, breaking of crockery and glass; slaves die from having long pins driven into them; plots are hatched, crimes contemplated, and sometimes committed—stabbing, poisoning, or throwing vitriol in the face of the enemy. Existence is nothing but a series of persecutions, implacable hatreds, fierce and deadly acts of revenge. The man, in short, who has several wives must either, if he loves one, sacrifice his peace, or else care for them equally and purchase quiet at the expense of love; in either case he usually walks straight to his ruin. If his wives are not jealous by reason of their love for him, they are from motives of ambition and rivalry in luxury and dress. So, then, if he gives his favorite a piece of jewelry or a carriage or a villa on the Bosphorus, he has to do the same for each of the others, or he soon has the house down about his ears, and so buys his peace for its weight in gold. And the same difficulties extend to the children, those of the neglected mother being filled with hatred and envy for those of the favorite; and it is not hard to imagine what sort of training they must get, brought up in harems whose very air is heavy with violence and intrigue, surrounded by slaves and eunuchs, with no help from their fathers, no examples set them of application or self-control, in that sensual, enervating atmosphere, the little girls in especial being taught from earliest infancy to build all their hopes of future success upon their ability to arouse a sentiment for which “love” seems too lofty a title, and receiving the necessary training partly from their own mothers, partly from slaves, and mostly from Kara-Gyuz.

There are, besides the peaceful and tempestuous, two other types of harem—that of the young and liberal-minded Turk, who encourages his wife in the cultivation of European ideas, and that of the Turk of the old school, who is either strict by nature or else is under the influence of relatives, especially of an old mother if she happens to be one of those inflexible Mussulman women sternly opposed to change of any sort, and determined that he shall manage his house according to her ideas. Nothing can exceed the contrast between the two. The former has the air of a European lady’s house: there is a piano on which the hanum is being taught to play by a Christian music-mistress; there are work-tables, straw chairs, a bedstead, and writing-desk; a good crayon portrait of the effendi by an Italian artist of Pera hangs on the wall; in one corner stands a small bookcase containing two or three dozen books, among which may be found a little French and Turkish dictionary and the last number of La Mode illustrÉe, which is sent to the mistress by the wife of the Spanish consul after she has done with it; moreover, there is a complete box of water-colors, with which the hanum paints fruits and flowers, and she assures her friends that she never suffers for a moment from ennui. Among other things, she is writing her memoirs, and at a certain hour of the day her French master arrives to practise French conversation with her (of course it must be understood that he is old and bent and feeble). Sometimes a German female photographer comes from Galata to take her photograph. When she is ill a European doctor attends her, who may even be young and handsome, her husband not being such a jealous beast as some of his more antiquated friends; and now and then a French dressmaker is summoned to cut and fit a costume in the very latest style as it is given in the fashion-plates, so that she may give her husband a charming surprise on the following Thursday evening, that being the special feast-day of Mussulman couples, when the effendi pays particular court to his “rose-leaf.” And then the effendi, being a person of high position, has promised that she may watch the first large ball given at the English embassy during the following winter from the crack of some retired doorway. In short, the hanum is a European lady of the Mussulman faith, who says to her friends with intense satisfaction, “I live like a Cocona”—a Christian. And her friends and relatives, though they may be unable to do the same, would like to; and among themselves they talk of the fashions and theatres, telling each other stories of the “superstitions,” the “pedantries,” and the “bigotry” of Old Turkey, winding up every discourse with the remark, “And it is high time that we should change all this and begin to lead lives more like rational human beings.”

But that other harem! Here there is nothing that is not severely Turkish, from the costume of the mistress to the smallest article of furniture—not a book except the Koran, the only newspaper the Stambul. Should the hanum fall ill, instead of a doctor, one of those innumerable Turkish doctresses, with a miraculous specific for every kind of disease, is summoned. If her parents have become tainted with the European craze, they are only permitted to see their daughter once a week. Every door and window in the house is furnished with bars and bolts: absolutely nothing European but the air is allowed to enter the household, unless the mistress has unfortunately been taught a little French in her girlhood, in which case the mother-in-law is perfectly capable of thrusting a coarse romance of the worst type into her hands, so as to be able to say, “There! you see now what fine sort of people these are you are so crazy to imitate! what pretty things they do and say! what a beautiful example they set!” And, notwithstanding all their restrictions, Turkish women’s lives are full of plots and schemes and scandals to a degree that at first sight would seem impossible in a society where there is so little direct communication between the two sexes. In one household, for example, the old mother has made up her mind to prejudice her son against one of his wives, so that another, her favorite, may occupy the chief place. So she tries, among other things, to keep the first one’s children in the background and prevent them from being educated or made attractive in their father’s eyes, hoping that he may neglect them for those of the second. In another the deserted wife revenges herself upon her rival by throwing a beautiful slave, whom she has sought over land and sea, in the husband’s way, hoping to make him leave the second one, as he has her. Another with a genius for matchmaking manages so that one of her own family shall see and fall in love with a certain young girl of her acquaintance, and by marrying her himself balk her husband, whom she suspects of having views in the same direction. A number of wealthy women club together to purchase and present a handsome slave to the Sultan or the grand vizier, to further some private scheme they have on hand; other women of good family, by means of secret wirepulling and their influence over powerful relatives, can accomplish almost anything they want—the disgrace of a prominent official, the elevation of a friend, the divorce of this one, the dismissal of that to some distant province; and, although there is so much less social intercourse than among us, they do not know any less about one another’s affairs. A woman’s reputation for wit or insane jealousy or stupidity or a slanderous tongue extends far beyond the circle of her immediate acquaintances, while a clever speech or one of those plays upon words to which the Turkish language lends itself so admirably flies from mouth to mouth and is repeated far and wide. Births, marriages, circumcisions, fÊtes, every little event which occurs in the European colony or the Seraglio, forms the subject of endless talk and gossip: “Have you seen the new bonnet of the French ambassadress?—Who knows anything about the pretty Georgian slave the ValidÊh Sultan is going to give the PÂdishah on the feast of Great Bairam?—Is it true that Ahmed-Pasha’s wife was seen the day before yesterday in European shoes trimmed with silk tassels?—Have the costumes for the ‘Bourgeois gentilhomme’ they are going to perform in the Seraglio theatre actually come at last?—MahmÛd Effendi’s wife has been going for a week past to the Bayezid mosque to pray for twins.—There has been a scandal in connection with such and such a photographer’s shop in the Rue de Pera, on account of Ahmed Effendi’s having found his wife’s picture among the photographs.—Madame AyscÉ drinks wine.—Madame Fatima has ordered visiting-cards.—Some one saw Madame Hafiten go in a Frank shop at three o’clock, and she never came out till four.”

The chronicle of petty gossip and malicious tattle flies in and out among those innumerable little yellow and red houses with incredible rapidity, circulates about the court, crosses over to Skutari, proceeds along both banks of the Bosphorus as far as the Black Sea, and not infrequently, finding its way to the large provincial cities, returns from thence with each particular added to and embellished to provoke fresh mirth and gossip in the thousand harems of the great metropolis.

If you could only meet in Constantinople one of those walking society chronicles with which all European cities are provided, who know everything about everybody and are always quite willing to impart their knowledge, it would be beyond measure amusing and instructive to get him to station himself by your side at the entrance to the Sweet Waters of Europe on some great fÊte-day and whisper a word or two about every noteworthy person who passed by. There could certainly be no better method of obtaining an insight into Constantinople manners and customs. But, after all, what difference does it make whether we have his help or not? As long as the incidents are perfectly well known, we can imagine the people for ourselves: for my part, it is just as though I stood there looking and listening. The people stream by, and our Turkish gossip points and whispers: “Do you see that lady passing now? She has quarrelled with her husband and gone to Skutari to live: that, you know, is where they all go when they are discontented or have a falling out with their husbands. She is staying with a friend, and will wait until her effendi, who at bottom is really very fond of her, shall go and tell her that the slave who caused the trouble has been gotten rid of, and conduct her home again pacified.—This effendi is in the Foreign Office: he has just done what numbers of others do to avoid being pestered to death with relations-in-law and relations of relations-in-law—that is, married an Arabian slave: his sister is giving her her first lessons in Turkish.—That handsome woman over there is a divorcÉe. When Effendi So-and-so has succeeded in repudiating one of his four wives, she is to take her place, having been promised it some time ago.—That one just behind her has been divorced twice from the same man, and now she wants to marry him again, he wishing it as well. So she is about, in obedience to the law governing such cases, to marry some one else, whose wife she must be for twenty-four hours, after which the capricious fair one is free to marry her first husband for the third time.—The brunette yonder with the expressive eyes was an Abyssinian slave who was sent by a great lady of Cairo as a present to a great lady of Stambul; on dying the latter left her the post of mistress of the establishment.—That effendi is fifty years old, and has had ten wives, but the old lady near him dressed in green has done better yet, having been the lawful wife of no less than twelve husbands.—There goes a personage who makes her living by purchasing young girls of fourteen or so, and, after teaching them music, singing, dancing, and the manners of good society, resells them at a premium of five hundred per cent.—Now, there goes a very handsome woman whose exact value I happen to know: she is a Circassian bought at TopkhÂneh for one hundred and twenty Turkish francs, and resold three years later for a bagatelle of four hundred.—This one near us, who is adjusting her veil, has had a somewhat checkered career. She began as a slave; then she was an odalisque; then she married, was divorced, and married again; at present she is a widow and is looking about for some fresh matrimonial venture.—Do you see that effendi? Well, you could hardly guess what has happened in his household: his wife has fallen in love with a eunuch, and they say that if he does not look out there will be something queer in his coffee one of these days, and she will be free to end her life in peace with the object of her choice; nor will it be the first time that that kind of thing has happened.—There is a merchant who has married his four wives with an eye to business: he keeps one in Constantinople, one in Trebizond, one in Salonika, and one in Alexandria. Thus at the end of each journey he finds a home awaiting him.—There is a handsome young pasha only twenty-four years old: a month ago he was nothing but a poor subaltern in the Imperial Guard, whom the Sultan promoted at a bound, so as to marry him to one of his sisters; but he is not an object of envy to the other men, for it is no joke to be the husband of one of the sultanas: as every one knows, they are as ‘jealous as nightingales.’ Probably were we to search through the crowd we would find a slave dogging his footsteps now, so as to note and report every one whom he either does or does not look at.—See that slender, graceful figure over there? One need not be very discriminating to know her at once for a flower from the Seraglio. She was one of the Sultan’s beauties: a few months ago an official of the War Office, who has managed to ingratiate himself at court, obtained her hand in marriage, and before long he will mount rapidly.—That little five-year-old girl was betrothed to-day to a youngster of eight. The groom elect was taken to see her, and, finding her to his taste, promptly flew into a violent passion because a small boy cousin about a yard high kissed her in his presence.—There goes an old hag who had two sheep killed the day before yesterday in gratitude to Allah for having removed a daughter-in-law whom she hated.—There goes the wife of a friend of mine with her face completely covered and wearing a lilac ferajeh: he is a Turk, but she is a Christian and goes to church every Sunday: don’t speak of it, though, to any one—on her account, not his. The Koran does not forbid such marriages: for one of the faithful to purify himself from the embrace of an unbeliever he has only to wash the face and hands.—Ah! what have we missed! One of the Seraglio carriages has just gone by with the Sultan’s third kaydyn inside: I recognized it by the rose-colored ribbon around the lackey’s neck. She was a present from the pasha of Smyrna, and is said to have the largest eyes and smallest mouth in the empire—a face very much on the order of that of the pretty little hanum with an arched nose who scandalized Christian and Mussulman alike the other day by flirting openly with an English artist of my acquaintance. Little wretch! When the two angels, Nekir and Munkir, come to judge her soul, she thinks she will be able to get out of it with the usual fib, saying her eyes were shut at the moment, so she did not see that it was an unbeliever.”

So then there are faithless wives among the Turks as well? There are, indeed, notwithstanding the jealousy of the effendis and vigilance of the eunuchs; notwithstanding the hundred blows of the whip with which the Koran threatens to punish the guilty one; notwithstanding the fact of the Turkish husbands being all banded together in a sort of society for mutual protection, and that an entirely opposite state of things from that existing in other countries obtains there, everything seeming to conspire tacitly to ensure conjugal felicity. It may almost be affirmed that the “veiled” of Constantinople commit no fewer indiscretions than their unveiled sisters of most Christian cities. Were this not the case, why should the word Kerata—which, translated into mythological nomenclature, would read Menelaos—be heard so frequently upon the lips of Kara-Gyuz? But you say, How is it possible? Well, in any number of ways: first, it must be remembered that women are no longer flung into the Bosphorus, either in bags or out of them, and that the bastinado on the soles of the feet, fasting, hair-cloth, enforced silence, and so on are punishments which have become merely idle threats in the mouth of some brutal Kerata. The jealous husband still does all in his power to protect his rights, but when he fails he no longer indulges in the violent scenes or summary administrations of justice of former times, it being now much more difficult to keep the knowledge of these little domestic tragedies within the walls of one’s own house. Moreover, a dread of being laughed at is one of the influences which have crept in along with other European ideas. The Turk’s jealousy, too, is a cold, apathetic, corporeal affair, proceeding more from self-esteem than from love for another, and, although bitter and suspicious, and even vindictive, it is not, in the nature of things, to be compared for vigilance and watchfulness with that which springs from a real and passionate devotion. And, then, who is going to undertake to watch a wife living apart from her husband—that is, in a separate establishment, where the husband does not even go every day? Who is going to follow her every time she goes out through all those intricate windings and twistings of the Galata and Pera streets and lanes and retired parts of Stambul? What is there to prevent any handsome young aide-de-camp of the Sultan from doing what, as a matter of fact, I did see one of them do one day—gallop his horse close by a carriage just at the corner of a street when the eunuch riding ahead had his back turned and the carriage concealed the one behind, and throw a note in the window? And then the evenings during Ramazan when the women can stay out till midnight, and the obliging Cocone—she in especial who lives on the border between a Mussulman and a Christian community—is far too hospitable to refuse admittance to a Christian gentleman just because a Mussulman lady happens to be calling on her at the moment. There are, however, no more of those thrilling and horrible incidents which once were so common. Great ladies now-a-days do not emulate the example set by a sultana of the last century, who, when she repented of her kindness toward a youth who had brought the stuffs purchased in the morning to the Seraglio, had him quietly dropped into the Bosphorus. Now everything is as prosaic as possible, and the places of rendezvous are usually those out-of-the-way shops which deal in a little of everything. It is useless to ask why the Turkish authorities do not suppress this license, when one has only to read the regulations issued to the police in regard to the preservation of good behavior during the period of some popular festivity, to see that they make every effort in their power to do so. Most of these regulations bear upon the conduct of women, many of them being addressed directly to them in the shape of admonitions and threats. For example, a woman is forbidden to go to the rear of a shop; she must stay where she can be seen from the street. She is forbidden to make use of the tramways for mere amusement; that is, she must get out at the end of the route, and cannot return immediately by the same line. She is forbidden to make signs to the people who pass her, to stop here, to go there, to linger longer than a certain specified time in a given place; and so on. Any one can easily imagine for himself to what extent such regulations as these can be enforced. And then there is that blessed veil: originally introduced in the interests of the men, it is now used as a means of outwitting them by the women, who first wear a transparent one in order to start a flirtation, and then a thick one in order to carry it on. It is said to be the cause of all manner of curious situations—favored lovers who are still ignorant of their lady-loves’ identity; women who hide themselves under others’ names in order to carry out some scheme of revenge; practical jokes, unexpected encounters, and scrapes which give rise to any amount of gossip and idle talk.

The place to hear all these things is the bath-house: here every rumor and fresh bit of scandal is discussed and commented upon and remodelled ready to be served up afresh. The bath is, in fact, the great rendezvous of the Turkish women, taking, to some extent, the place of the theatre in their lives: they go there in couples or parties, accompanied by their slaves carrying rugs and cushions, toilet articles, sweetmeats, and sometimes even their luncheon when they propose remaining the entire day. As many as two hundred women are sometimes assembled in those dimly-lighted rooms lined with marbles and musical with running fountains. The picture made by these nymph-like forms flitting about in the airiest of costumes is, according to those European ladies who have seen it, enough to paralyze the fingers of an artist. There are hanums whose dazzling skin contrasts strikingly with that of their ebony-colored slaves; handsome matronly figures, which fulfil an old-fashioned Turk’s ideal of feminine loveliness; slim young wives with their short hair turned up, looking like little girls; Circassians whose tresses fall like a golden shower below their knees; Turkish women with jet-black hair divided into a hundred or more locks hanging over the breast and shoulders, while others have theirs arranged in any quantity of wavy little tufts, like an enormous wig. One wears an amulet around her neck, another a bit of garlic bound to her head to avert the evil eye; there are savages with tattooed arms, and little ladies of fashion whose tender skin betrays the stays and shoes of modern civilization; while the shoulders of more than one poor slave bear witness to the existence of a eunuch’s whip. Everywhere groups are to be seen in an endless variety of graceful abandonment. Some lie stretched out full length upon rugs smoking, others are having their hair combed out by slaves; some are embroidering, some singing, laughing, chasing one another and throwing water about like children; shrill screams come from the shower-baths; here a party of friends are seated in a circle having a little feast together; towels fly through the air, pitched from one group to another. The less covering they have on their bodies, the more they seem to reveal the childishness of their natures. They are very fond of comparing their good points, measuring their feet, weighing their comparative attractions. One observes, candidly, “I am beautiful;” another, “I am passable.” A third wishes she had not such and such a defect, while a fourth says to her friend, “Why, do you know, you are prettier than I?” or one is heard saying to another reproachfully, “Just see how terribly fat Madame Ferideh has gotten; and you telling her to eat rice-balls, when you know she ought to live on dried crabs!” When an amiable cocona is present they all crowd around and ply her with questions: “Is it true that you go to balls with your neck bare down to here? What does your effendi think of it? And what do the other men say? How do they hold you when you dance? This way? Really and truly? Well, I will believe such things when I see them!”

Not only at the bath, but everywhere else and on all possible occasions, they try their best to meet and talk with Europeans, being especially delighted if they can manage to receive one in their own homes. On such occasions a number of friends are asked to meet her, all the women of the establishment are marshalled in force, and a small feast is prepared at which the guest is crammed with fruit and sweetmeats, and seldom allowed to depart without receiving a present of some sort. Of course it is not a mere wish to be hospitable that moves the hanum to take this trouble, but curiosity; and so, just so soon as she feels sufficiently at ease with her new friend, she begins to ask questions, inquiring into every minutest detail of European life, examining her costume piece by piece, from the bonnet to the shoes, and will not rest satisfied until, having persuaded the foreigner to accompany her to the bath, she can see for herself how those extraordinary women are made who study all sorts of things, paint, write for publication, work in public offices, ride on horseback, and climb to the tops of lofty mountains. Since the “reform” movement set in, making this sort of intercourse possible, the Turkish women have abandoned some of the more extraordinary ideas they once entertained regarding their European sisters, which made them look upon them with dislike and contempt, and mistrust even their education and breeding, which, moreover, they were quite unable to appreciate. Now it is quite different. They realize their own ignorance, and are ashamed of it, and, very much afraid of seeming childish or ill-mannered, they are consequently far more reserved than formerly, and it is hard to get them to talk in the same frank, ingenuous way they once did: every year they imitate the West more and more in their dress and customs, studying European languages—not from any especial thirst for knowledge, but so as to be more like other people, and to enable them to converse with Christians or introduce French words into their conversation; even those who do not speak French pretend that they understand it at least, and they all love dearly to be called “Madame,” sometimes frequenting certain Frankish shops for no other purpose; and Pera, the all-powerful, attracts them as the candle does the moth; their footsteps, their imaginations, and their money, all are irresistibly drawn in that direction, to say nothing of the field it affords for their little shortcomings. Their eager desire to make friends among European women is perfectly natural: they are to them like revelations of another world. They are never weary of hearing descriptions of some grand theatrical performance or ball or state reception—of the doings of women of the world, the brilliant society, adventures during Carnival time, long journeys, and all the other strange features of that wonderful Western life; and these glowing scenes take complete possession of the poor little brains, sick to death of the dull monotony of the harem and gloomy shadow of the garden-walls. Just as Europeans dream of the mystery and dreamy tranquillity of the Orient, they sigh enviously for the varied and feverish life of the West, and would willingly exchange all the splendors of the Bosphorus for a gloomy quarter of Paris. It is really, though, not so much the excitement and variety of society that they want: the feature which they care most about and long for most ardently is the domestic life, the little world of the European house, the circle of devoted friends, the family board surrounded with sons and daughters, the happy, honored old age, that equal sharing of sorrow and joy, the confidences, mutual respect, and sacred memories which can make the union of two lives a beautiful and enviable thing even where there is not passionate love—that sanctuary called “home” to which the heart turns even after a life of wandering and sin, a safe place of refuge even amid the storms and passions of youth, the thought of which comforts and sustains one in times of suffering and misery with a promise of peace in the years to come, like the glory of a clear sunset seen from some dark valley.

But all those who really take to heart the unfortunate lot of woman in Turkey can find comfort in one undeniable fact—the daily increasing disfavor with which polygamy is regarded there. The Turks themselves have always considered it rather in the light of a permitted abuse than man’s natural right. Mohammed says: “He who marries but one wife does well,” although he himself married several; and, as a matter of fact, all those Turks who wish to be looked up to as models in the community do have but one; those with more, while they are not blamed exactly, are certainly not commended. Comparatively few Turks openly advocate polygamy, and fewer still approve of it in their own consciences, being, for the most part, fully alive to its injustice and the unfortunate consequences resulting therefrom. There is a party strongly opposed to its practice at all, while the higher officials of state, officers of the army, magistrates, and religious dignitaries—all those, in short, whose social position requires them to adopt a certain respectability and dignity in their mode of life—have but one wife; and this being of necessity the case among the poor and persons of moderate means as well, four-fifths of the entire Mussulman population of Constantinople are no longer polygamists. This, it is true, is largely due to the craze for European manners and customs, while many of them have odalisques in addition to the one wife; but the European mania itself is the result of a growing, if confused, idea that some change in the social conditions of Mussulman society is imperatively demanded, while the custom of having odalisques, already openly denounced as a vice, is sure to disappear with the suppression of slavery—an abuse still tolerated—and become merged into that form of corruption common to all European countries. Will a still greater corruption be the result? Let others be the judges; but here are the facts. To transform Turkish into European society the position of woman must be established; that can only be done through the death of polygamy, and polygamy is dying. Possibly were the Sultan to issue a decree suppressing it outright to-morrow, not one dissentient voice would be raised. The edifice has crumbled to pieces, and nothing now remains to be done but to cart away the dÉbris. Already the light of a new day is tingeing the balconies of the harems with rose color. Take heart, beautiful hanums! Soon the doors of the selamlik will swing open; the bars will fall from the windows, the ferajeh be relegated to the museum of the Great BazÂr, and the word “eunuch” mean no more than a dark memory of your youth. Then the whole world will be free to admire your charms of mind and person. When the “pearls of the Orient” are spoken of in Europe, the words will refer to the charming Mussulman women, beautiful, refined, and witty, not to those useless stones which adorn your foreheads amid the cold, wearisome splendors of the harem. Be of good cheer. Surely your sun is rising at last. For my own part, as I tell my incredulous friends, old as I am, I have not abandoned the hope of one day giving my arm to the wife of a pasha passing through Turin and repeating a few pages of I Promessi Sposi to her as we walk together on the banks of the Po.