CHAPTER III.
Turning Dervishes—Appearance of the Tekiè—The Mausoleum—Duties of the Dervishes—Chapel of the Convent—The Chief Priest—Dress of the Brotherhood—Melancholy Music—Solemnity of the Service—Mistakes of a Modern Traveller—Explanation of the Ceremony—The Prayer—The Kiss of Peace—Appearance of the Chapel—Religious Tolerance of the Turks—The French Renegade—Sketch of Halet Effendi, the Founder of the Tekiè.
I paid two visits to the convent (if such, indeed, it may be termed) of Turning, or, as they are commonly called in Europe, Dancing Dervishes, which is situated opposite the Petit Champs des Morts, descending towards Galata. The court of the Tekiè is entered by a handsomely ornamented gate, and, having passed it, you have the cemetery of the brethren on your left hand, and the gable of the main building on your right. As you arrive in front of the convent, the court widens, and in the midst stands a magnificent plane tree of great antiquity, carefully railed in; while you have on one side the elegant mausoleum in which repose the superiors of the order; and on the other the fountain of white marble, roofed in like an oratory, and enclosed on all its six sides from the weather, where the Dervishes perform their ablutions ere they enter the chapel. The mausoleum is of the octagon form, the floor being raised two steps in the centre, leaving a space all round, just sufficiently wide for one person to pass along. The sarcophagi are covered with plain clay-coloured cloth, and at the head of each tomb is placed the geulaf, or Dervishes’ hat, encircled by a clear muslin handkerchief, embroidered with tinted silks and gold thread. A large gilt frame, enclosing the representation of a hat wrought in needlework, and standing on a slab, on which is inscribed a sentence from the Koran, rests against one of the sarcophagi, and huge wax-candles in plain clay-coloured candlesticks are scattered among the tombs.
The Tekiè is a handsome building with projecting wings, in which the community live very comfortably with their wives and children; and whence, having performed their religious duties, they sally forth to their several avocations in the city, and mingle with their fellow-men upon equal terms. Unlike the monks of the church of Rome, the Dervishes are forbidden to accumulate wealth in order to enrich either themselves or their convent. The most simple fare, the least costly garments, serve alike for their own use, and for that of their families: industry, temperance, and devotion are their duties; and, as they are at liberty to secede from their self-imposed obligations whenever they see fit to do so, there is no lukewarmness among the community, who find time throughout the whole year to devote many hours to God, even of their most busy days; and, unlike their fellow-citizens, the other Mussulmauns, they throw open the doors of their chapel to strangers, only stipulating that gentlemen shall put off their shoes ere they enter.
This chapel, which has been erroneously designated a “mosque,” is an octagon building of moderate size, neatly painted in fresco. The centre of the floor is railed off, and the enclosure is sacred to the brotherhood; while the outer circle, covered with Indian matting, is appropriated to visiters. A deep gallery runs round six sides of the building, and beneath it, on your left hand as you enter, you remark the lattices through which the Turkish women witness the service. A narrow mat surrounds the circle within the railing, and upon this the brethren kneel during the prayers; while the centre of the floor is so highly polished by the perpetual friction that it resembles a mirror, and the boards are united by nails with heads as large as a shilling, to prevent accidents to the feet of the Dervishes during their evolutions. A bar of iron descends octagonally from the centre of the domed roof, to which transverse bars are attached, bearing a vast number of glass lamps of different colours and sizes; and, against many of the pillars, of which I counted four-and-twenty, supporting the dome, are hung frames, within which are inscribed passages from the Prophets.
Above the seat of the superior, the name of the founder of the Tekiè is written in gold on a black ground, in immense characters. This seat consists of a small carpet, above which is spread a crimson rug, and on this the worthy principal was squatted when we entered, in an ample cloak of Spanish brown, with large hanging sleeves, and his geulaf, or high hat of grey felt, encircled with a green shawl. I pitied him that his back was turned towards the glorious Bosphorus, that was distinctly seen through the four large windows at the extremity of the chapel, flashing in the light, with the slender minarets and lordly mosques of Stamboul gleaming out in the distance.
One by one, the Dervishes entered the chapel, bowing profoundly at the little gate of the enclosure, took their places on the mat, and, bending down, reverently kissed the ground; and then, folding their arms meekly on their breasts, remained buried in prayer, with their eyes closed, and their bodies swinging slowly to and fro. They were all enveloped in wide cloaks of dark coloured cloth with pendent sleeves; and wore their geulafs, which they retained during the whole of the service.
I confess that the impression produced on my mind by the idea of Dancing Dervishes was the very reverse of solemn; and I was, in consequence, quite unprepared for the effect that the exhibition of their religious rites cannot fail to exert on all those who are not predetermined to find food for mirth in every sectarian peculiarity. The deep stillness, broken only by the breath of prayer, or the melancholy wailing of the muffled instruments, which seemed to send forth their voice of sadness from behind a cloud in subdued sorrowing, like the melodious plaint of angels over fallen mortality—the concentrated and pious self-forgetfulness of the community, who never once cast their eyes over the crowds that thronged their chapel—the deep, rich chant of the choral brethren—even the very contrast afforded by the light and fairy-like temple in which they thus meekly ministered to their Maker, with their own calm and inspired appearance, heightened the effect of the scene; and tacitly rebuked the presumption and worldliness of spirit that would have sought a jest in the very sanctuary of religion.
The service commenced with an extemporaneous prayer from the chief priest, to which the attendant Dervishes listened with arms folded upon their breasts, and their eyes fixed on the ground. At its conclusion, all bowed their foreheads to the earth; and the orchestra struck into one of those peculiarly wild and melancholy Turkish airs which are unlike any other music that I ever heard. Instantly, the full voices of the brethren joined in chorus, and the effect was thrilling: now the sounds died away like the exhausted breath of a departing spirit, and suddenly they swelled once more into a deep and powerful diapason that seemed scarce earthly. A second stillness of about a minute succeeded, when the low, solemn music was resumed, and the Dervishes, slowly rising from the earth, followed their superior three times round the enclosure; bowing down twice under the shadow of the name of their Founder, suspended above the seat of the high priest. This reverence was performed without removing their folded arms from their breasts—the first time on the side by which they approached, and afterwards on that opposite, which they gained by slowly revolving on the right foot, in such a manner as to prevent their turning their backs towards the inscription. The procession was closed by a second prostration, after which, each Dervish having gained his place, cast off his cloak, and such as had walked in woollen slippers withdrew them, and, passing solemnly before the Chief Priest, they commenced their evolutions.
I am by no means prepared, nor even inclined, to attempt a Quixotic defence of the very extraordinary and bizarre ceremonial to which I was next a witness; but I cannot, nevertheless, agree with a modern traveller in describing it as “an absurdity.” That it does not accord with our European ideas of consistent and worthy worship is not only possible, but certain; yet I should imagine that no one could feel other than respect for men of irreproachable character, serving God according to their means of judgment.
The extraordinary ceremony which gives its name to the Dancing, or, as they are really and much more appropriately called, the Turning Dervishes—for nothing can be more utterly unlike dancing than their evolutions—is not without its meaning. The community first pray for pardon of their past sins, and the amendment of their future lives; and