389

 SA􀀄DÂBÂD
THE SOCIAL PRODUCTION OF AN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY PALACE AND
ITS SURROUNDINGS

Title: Sa􀀄dâbâd: The Social Production of an Eighteenth-Century Palace and Its
Surroundings
Most modern history writing on Sa􀀄dâbâd, the summer palace of Ahmed III
constructed at Istanbul’s Kâ􀀃ıthane valley in 1722, has regarded the palace as the
architectural manifestation of the Tulip Age per se. As a result Sa􀀄dâbâd has become
associated with two stereotypical tropes: firstly, because Sa􀀄dâbâd was a major
location for courtly feasts it is regarded as the place where the Ottoman elite indulged
in a luxurious and morally corrupt lifestyle. Secondly, since Sa􀀄dâbâd is held to be an
imitation of French baroque palaces, it has become a symbol for the beginning of
Westernization in the Ottoman Empire.
This study challenges these assumptions by conceptualizing Sa􀀄dâbâd as a
socially produced space in the Lefebvrian sense. The multi-layered analysis of the
palace’s built form, the discourses related to it and the social practices enacted in and
around it using Ottoman archival material, chronicles and poetry as well as European
travelogues reveals that the dynamic in fact underlying the space of the palace was
sultanic visibility and display. As a stage where imperial pomp unfolded during
festivities, Sa􀀄dâbâd served to uphold sultanic legitimacy and to bind lesser power
holders to the centre. Moreover, the analysis of architectural discourse shows that
Sa􀀄dâbâd was regarded as an imitation of French models only by European observers.
Ottoman observers saw the building on the contrary as the culmination of a Turko-
Persian cultural tradition. Furthermore, the meadows surrounding the palace
constituted a public space, where moral and social norms were less strictly enforced
than in other parts of the city.
This spatial analysis of Sa􀀄dâbâd adds to our understanding of the multiple and
even contradictory meanings architecture can carry, as well as throwing a different
light on early eighteenth-century Ottoman transformations beyond the stereotypes of
Ottoman decline and Westernization.
iv
Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü’nde Tarih Yüksek Lisans derecesi için
Eva-Marlene Schäfers tarafından Mayıs 2009’da teslim edilen tezin özeti.
Ba􀀉lık: Sa􀀊dâbâd: Bir Onsekizinci Yüzyıl Sarayı ve Çevresinin Toplumsal Kurgusu
III. Ahmed’in 1722’de Ka􀀇ıthane’de in􀀉a edilen Sa􀀊dâbâd’ı konu alan modern tarih
yazınının ekseriyeti bu yazlık sarayı Lale devrinin açık bir mimari tezahürü kabul
etmektedir. Buna göre Sa􀀊dâbâd’a ili􀀉kin iki temel önkabul bulunmaktadır: Evvela
Sa􀀊dâbâd, saray çevresinin tertipledi􀀇i ziyafetlerin ba􀀉lıca mekânı oldu􀀇undan
Osmanlı elitlerinin zevk ve sefahat dü􀀉künlü􀀇ünün simgesi olarak de􀀇erlendirilir.
􀀈kinci olarak ise, Fransız Barok sarayları örnek alınarak in􀀉a edildi􀀇i
dü􀀉ünüldü􀀇ünden, Sa􀀊dâbâd, Osmanlı 􀀈mparatorlu􀀇unun Batılıla􀀉ma sürecinin miladı
olarak kabul edilir.
Bu çalı􀀉ma Sa􀀊dâbâd’ı Lefebvre’in geli􀀉tirdi􀀇i toplum tarafından kurgulanan
mekân (socially produced space) kavramı üzerinden ele alarak söz konusu
yakla􀀉ımlara kar􀀉ı çıkmaktadır. Sarayın mimari özellikleriyle buna ili􀀉kin kaynakların
ve bu bölgedeki yerle􀀉ik ya􀀉am alı􀀉kanlıklarının, Osmanlı ar􀀉ivlerinden,
vakayinamelerden, 􀀉iirlerden ve Avrupalılar tarafından kaleme alınmı􀀉
seyahatnamelerden yola çıkarak gerçekle􀀉tirilecek çok katmanlı bir analizi söz konusu
mekânın padi􀀉ahın manen ve madden varlı􀀇ının tecessümü oldu􀀇unu ortaya
koyacaktır. 􀀈mparatorlu􀀇un tüm ihti􀀉amının 􀀉enlikler vasıtasıyla sergilendi􀀇i bir sahne
olarak Sa􀀊dâbâd padi􀀉ahın me􀀉ruiyetini vurgulayarak merkezden uzak güçler
üzerindeki iktidarın peki􀀉tirilmesine hizmet etmi􀀉tir. Bununla birlikte, mimari söylem
analizinin gösterdi􀀇i üzere Sa􀀊dâbâd yalnızca Avrupalı gözlemciler tarafından Fransız
örneklerinin bir taklidi olarak kabul edilmektedir. Halbuki söz konusu dönemin
Osmanlı kaynaklarında bu saray Türk-Fars kültür gelene􀀇inin bir 􀀉aheseri olarak
de􀀇erlendirilmektedir. Üstelik, sarayı çevreleyen mesire yerleri, 􀀉ehrin di􀀇er
bölgelerine nazaran toplumsal ve ahlaki baskıların daha az hissedildi􀀇i bir kamusal
alan yaratmı􀀉tır.
Sa􀀊dâbâd’ın böyle bir mekânsal analizi bize, mimarinin tek ba􀀉ına
verebilece􀀇inden daha zengin bir anlayı􀀉 kazandıraca􀀇ı gibi erken on sekizinci yüzyıl
Osmanlı dönü􀀉ümünü Osmanlının çökü􀀉 ve batılıla􀀉ma sürecine ili􀀉kin önyargınlardan
ba􀀇ımsız bir biçimde de􀀇erlendirmemize de yardımcı olacaktır.
v
TABLE OF CONTENTS
NOTE ON SPELLING AND TRANSCRIPTIONS................................................ vii
CHAPTER 1:
INTRODUCTION: PURPOSE AND SCOPE OF THE WORK............................... 1
CHAPTER 2:
THE LEGACY OF THE TULIP AGE: A HISTORIOGRAPHIC REVIEW........... 11
The Invention of a Historical Period: Ahmed Refik’s Tulip Age ........................ 13
The Tulip Age After Ahmed Refik: From Westernization Towards New
Approaches ........................................................................................................ 18
Sa􀀄dâbâd in the Discourse of the Tulip Age........................................................ 21
New Trends: The Re-Evaluation of the Eighteenth Century................................ 23
CHAPTER 3:
PHYSICAL SPACE: SPATIAL SETTING AND ARCHITECTURE.................... 26
The Setting: Kâ􀀃ıthane....................................................................................... 27
Sa􀀄dâbâd Palace ................................................................................................. 31
Hâss Odası..................................................................................................... 35
Harem............................................................................................................ 39
Architectural Style ......................................................................................... 43
Garden ............................................................................................................... 46
Ottoman Precedents to Sa􀀄dâbâd’s Garden Layout ......................................... 54
Historical Continuity and New Trends in Garden Layout................................ 59
Grandees and Commoners: Sa􀀄dâbâd as an Amphitheatre .................................. 61
CHAPTER 4:
MENTAL SPACE I: INFLUENCE OR SA􀀄DÂBÂD BETWEEN ‘EAST’ AND
‘WEST’ ................................................................................................................. 65
The Embassy by Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi..................................................... 68
The Evidence Provided by Marquis de Villeneuve ............................................. 73
Formal Differences from French Models............................................................ 75
Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi – A Symptom or an Exception?.............................. 77
Inspiration from ‘the East’: Formal Resemblances and Differences .................... 80
Shared Aesthetics: Turko-Persian Culture .......................................................... 84
Ottomans and Safavids: Political Rivalry – Cultural Rivalry .............................. 85
CHAPTER 5:
MENTAL SPACE II: ARCHITECTURAL PERCEPTION ................................... 91
The European Perception ................................................................................... 93
Writing for an Expanding Market: The Genre of the Travelogue .................... 93
The Perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd Palace................................................................. 99
An Orientalist lieu de mémoire: The Sweet Waters of Europe .......................106
The Ottoman Perception....................................................................................121
The Perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd Palace................................................................122
Public Space and Erotic Adventures: Kâ􀀃ıthane Valley.................................135
vi
CHAPTER 6:
SOCIAL SPACE: PRACTICE AND USE ............................................................144
The Public Assembling at Kâ􀀃ıthane: Women, Non-Muslims, Dervishes and
‘Riffraff’ ...........................................................................................................146
A Burgeoning Public in Search for Leisure: Challenges to Social Hierarchies ...151
State and Public in Interaction: Sultanic Visibility.............................................154
Visibility in Architecture...............................................................................155
A Culture of Courtly Festivities.....................................................................157
In Search of Allies: Changing Power Relations and 120 Pavilions.....................164
Conspicuous Consumption and the Emergence of Taste ....................................168
CHAPTER 7: CONCLUSION..............................................................................175
APPENDICES......................................................................................................183
APPENDIX A: Transcriptions of Selected Archival Documents .......................183
APPENDIX B: Illustrative Material ..................................................................185
BIBLIOGRAPHY.................................................................................................194
vii
NOTE ON SPELLING AND TRANSCRIPTIONS
Ottoman Turkish words are spelled according to the system of transliteration by
Feridun Devellio􀀃lu (Osmanlıca-Türkçe Ansiklopedik Lûgat) and are italicised
throughout the text. Place names are written in their modern Turkish version if this is
in use and not italicised.
Where Ottoman Turkish words or paragraphs have been cited from already edited and
transcribed material, the transcription method of the original editor has in most cases
been preserved (as for example the case with the citations of Ottoman poetry).
The archival documents added in the appendix have been transcribed using the
transcription system employed by the 􀀃slam Ansiklopedisi.
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION: PURPOSE AND SCOPE OF THE WORK
Âlemi tutsa n’ola 􀀋öhreti Sa􀀌dâbâd’ın
Bî-bedeldir 􀀋eref ü behceti Sa􀀌dâbâd’ın
Hıtta-i Rûm’a gelüb revnak-ı tâze 􀀋imdi
Dü􀀋dü Hind ü Aceme hasreti Sa􀀌dâbad’ın
Fevk u tahtinde anın mâh ile mihri hayrân
􀀊erh olunmaz hele mâhiyyeti Sa􀀌dâbâd’ın
Sûret-i hüsn ü bahâ tarh-ı bedîü’l-eseri
Ma’nî-i 􀀋evk ü safâ sûret-i Sa􀀌dâbâd’ın
(…)1
Il est vrai que cet ouvrage [de Sa􀀌dâbâd] est peu de chose, si on le considere avec
attention; l’architecture, l’ordre & l’arrangement semblent en être bannis, mais
c’est un Chef-d’oeuvre pour cette Nation que la nouveauté éblouit (…)2
On auroit pû y faire quelque chose de superbe, mais n’ayant point d’Architecte
habile, ce n’est qu’une confusion de materiaux mal ordonnés, où on ne voit ni
ordre, ni proportion, ni bon goût (…) les Turcs ne poussent pas si loin les idées
de l’architecture.3
Two architectural descriptions by two contemporaries – an eighteenth-century
French traveller and an Ottoman poet of the same period – which have as object one
single architectural monument: Sa􀀌dâbâd, the sultanic summer palace of Ahmed III
at Istanbul’s suburban Kâ􀀈ıthane valley. Yet were names not indicated in these
passages, one would hardly guess that these two judgements concern the same
building – too different are they from each other; greatest praise meets paternalistic
belittlement.
The two quotations indicate the multifaceted discourse, which surrounded and
still surrounds Sa􀀌dâbâd – a discourse that set in immediately with the construction
of the building in the summer of 1722 during the so-called Tulip Period and
continues in the form of both academic research and popular literature until today.
1 Nahifi in Hasan Akay (ed.), Fatih’ten Günümüze 􀀆airlerin Gözüyle 􀀅stanbul, vol. II (Istanbul: 􀀉􀀋aret,
1997), 624.
2 Lamber De Saumery, Mémoires et aventures secrètes et curieuses d’un voyage du Levant (Liège:
Everard Kints, 1732), 135.
3 De Saumery, 139.
2
Sa􀀁dâbâd – that can be a symbol for an elite life of worldly pleasures entailing
financial wastefulness, it can signify the beginning of secularism and the advent of
Westernization or be on the contrary a metaphor for Ottoman adherence to an
overarching Islamic cultural world.
By declaring Sa􀀁dâbâd the object of my study, I intend to make it emerge
from the status of being a mere illustration for such seemingly haphazard and even
opposing general statements. I want to do so by regarding Sa􀀁dâbâd a socially
produced space. I am following here in part the theoretical work of Henri Lefebvre,4
who regards space not as an unchanging given absolute, an empty container filled
with objects but instead as a social product, which cannot be confined to its physical
aspect alone.5 By extending Marxist reasoning to space, Lefebvre arrives at
conceptualizing space as the product of social relations, which are in turn determined
by a society’s specific mode of production. Consequentially it follows that every
society produces its own distinct space as a material manifestation of its social
relations. Space in this sense is a reflection of a specific set of social relations at a
given moment in time.6 But in Lefebvre’s understanding space is much more than
only a physical product of social relations: it is at the same time a manifestation of
these relations, a relation in itself. Thus, space is not passive and dead, but instead
alive and actively involved in the production and reproduction of a society; it is at
once a medium of social relations and a material product that can affect social
relations.7 To regard space just as a physical structure would therefore mean gravely
reducing its complexity – and it is precisely evading such a reduction, which
4 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991). For interpretations and
commentaries on this highly complex work see for example M. Gottdiener, “A Marx for Our Time:
Henri Lefebvre and The Production of Space,” Sociological Theory 11 (1993): 129-134 and Andrew
Merrifield, Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction (New York: Routledge, 2006), which includes
further references.
5 Lefebvre, 25-26, 285.
6 Lefebvre, 31.
7 Gottdiener, 132.
3
constitutes Lefebvre’s main motivation in developing his theory, which he envisions
as a unitary theory that ties together the physical, the mental and the social aspects of
space.8 Apart from considerably widening the understanding of space beyond mere
physical materiality, regarding space as a social product in the Lefebvrian sense
moreover entails shifting the focus of investigation on the process of production
itself. Since space is constantly being (re)produced, it is not a static entity, but
instead subject to continuous change; and by the same mechanism, space in turn can
induce change in the field of social relations by opening potential avenues of
resistance against dominant spatial and social regimes.9
It is precisely for these two aspects, that I find Lefebvre’s approach
particularly useful for the purposes of the historical investigation concerned here: it
shifts the focus of analysis firstly on the (historical) genesis of a particular space as
well as secondly on the complex interpenetration between different spatial levels,
which go beyond the materiality of the built environment.10 Considering Sa􀀁dâbâd as
a socially produced space in this sense therefore allows tracing how the palace and
its surroundings have been socially constructed over time through physical
construction and reconstruction, through discourse and through use. What I will
investigate in this thesis is hence: firstly, the physical space of Sa􀀁dâbâd as it could
be empirically perceived, secondly, the mental space of Sa􀀁dâbâd or what it meant
8 Lefebvre, 11-12.
9 Lefebvre, 31, 36-37, 110.
10 I have decided not to employ here Lefebvre’s famous triad of spatial practice (perceived space),
representations of space or (conceived space) and representational space or (lived space). Contrary to
a common interpretation of Lefebvre’s theory, which holds perceived space to coincide with physical
space, conceived with mental space and lived with social space, according to my reading of Lefebvre,
the two triads of physical-mental-social on the one and of perceived-conceived-lived on the other
hand are two different, although certainly related, triads. (Lefebvre, 38-41) I have decided to use the
triad of physical-mental-social (or of materiality-discourse-use) in this analysis, as the source material
concerning Sa􀀁dâbâd would hardly allow an analysis in terms of spatial practice, representations of
space and representational space in the way Lefebvre thought of them. At this point of research, only
a first investigation into the multi-levelled space of Sa􀀁dâbâd beyond the mere physical seems
feasible.
4
(and still means) to different actors and observers, and thirdly, the social space of
Sa􀀄dâbâd or how, by whom and for which purposes it was used.
As far as the time frame of this study is concerned, I will consider the history
of Sa􀀄dâbâd throughout the eighteenth century from the construction in 1722 until its
first complete reconstruction in 1809 under Mahmud II. During the Patrona Halil
Rebellion in 1730 the sultanic palace saw relatively little damage – instead, it was
the more than 120 pavilions by dignitaries situated on the hillsides of Kâ􀀃ıthane
valley, which were completely destroyed. The palace building itself apparently
remained more or less intact so that it could be renovated in 1740 under Mahmud I in
its old form with little changes. Neither the rebellion in 1730 nor the renovation in
1740 did in terms of the architecture thus constitute major ruptures. It was only in
1809 that Sa􀀄dâbâd as it had been built in 1722 was completely torn down and a new
palace constructed in its place. This suggests taking the years 1722 and 1809 as the
temporal boundaries constituting the time frame of this investigation, since this
period was apparently marked by a relative continuity in the physical space – and
having subscribed to an understanding of the built environment being the physical
manifestation of social relations, an equal unity in the realms of the social and mental
might be assumed; a unity, which can of course only be relative and was certainly as
much marked by internal contradictions and continuous change. Alongside with an
investigation of the physical space of Sa􀀄dâbâd as it existed between 1722 and 1809,
this analysis shall thus also shed light on the specific society which “secreted”11 this
particular space, on the Ottoman, and in particular Istanbul’s society of the
eighteenth century, that is.
11 This is a terminology used by Lefebvre to describe how a spatial practice produces physical space.
Lefebvre, 38.
5
Sa􀀄dâbâd can probably not be called an under researched topic in the field of
Ottoman history – it is mentioned, described and analysed in numerous articles and
books and is moreover the subject of the seminal monograph by the architect and
architectural historian Sedad Hakkı Eldem, who meticulously reconstructed the
palace in its different historical stages and provided a wealth of illustrative material
in his study.12 Why have I considered it in the view of this state of research
nevertheless worthwhile to unroll Sa􀀄dâbâd’s history, to look for new archival
material and re-read the sources already considered by Eldem? I believe this is a
worthwhile undertaking, because the academic discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd has produced
a number of narrative themes, which are reproduced over and over in most of the
writings on the topic – through the spatial approach inspired by the theory of
Lefebvre, I hope to challenge and possibly overcome some of these themes.
One such a theme is the ‘imitation thesis’, which inescapably comes up when
considering Sa􀀄dâbâd. Sa􀀄dâbâd’s garden layout, in particular its water works, which
featured a straight canal of over one kilometre in length lined by trees and adorned
with water cascades, have prompted Western observers since the construction of the
building in 1722 to declare Sa􀀄dâbâd a – more or less successful – imitation of
European, in particular French baroque palace gardens. This was supposedly inspired
by the enthusiastic account of French gardens by the Ottoman ambassador
Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi, who had returned to the Ottoman capital from his
diplomatic mission to France just half a year before the construction of Sa􀀄dâbâd
began. As chapter 4 will show, until recently, the inspiration of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s design by
French models was almost universally accepted. In the line of the historiographic
narrative supported by this assumption, Sa􀀄dâbâd has become a symbol for the
Ottoman Empire’s opening towards the West in the early eighteenth century after a
12 Sedad Hakkı Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlı􀀃ı, 1977).
6
number of military defeats, which supposedly had made the Ottomans realize the
need for reform along Western lines – and Sa􀀁dâbâd is held to have been the first
manifestation of this change of attitude in the cultural field. This narrative line can
go so far as to see in the construction of Sa􀀁dâbâd a first attempt at Westernization
and the evidence of a new secular worldview. Focussing on the aspect of mental
space, that is, on the way Sa􀀁dâbâd was and is conceived of, talked about and
represented in chapters 4 and 5, will challenge this thesis by directing the focus on
the meaning the palace building and its garden carried for the various actors
involved.
By comparing the European travellers’ discourse on Sa􀀁dâbâd with that of
Ottoman contemporary poets and chroniclers in chapter 5, I furthermore want to
explore how a single physical spatial layout can be transformed by way of discourse
into very different ‘mental spaces’, which – as the citations at the beginning of this
chapter clearly show – can be so radically different as to even oppose each other. The
same material forms can thus carry multiple meanings for the different actors
involved – a fact which in the case of Sa􀀁dâbâd also throws light on the specific
development the modern historiographic discourse on the palace has taken. This
discourse has privileged European travel accounts as source material and often
uncritically taken over the sources’ implicit ideological and moral standpoints, thus
leading to the unqualified acceptance of the ‘imitation thesis.’ In the first part of
chapter 5 I will therefore attempt to critically evaluate the European source material
– mainly travelogues and the accompanying illustrations – and analyse the way
Sa􀀁dâbâd was conceived of by the European travellers, in order to then compare this
to the mental space Sa􀀁dâbâd constituted for the Ottoman contemporaries in the
chapter’s second part.
7
Whether Sa􀀁dâbâd was in the end an imitation of French palaces remains an
open question; and whether definite evidence for or against will ever appear is also
uncertain, if not unlikely. Yet as I will show in chapter 4, there is considerable
evidence, which – although not with absolute certainty – suggests that European
architectural sources were in fact a major source of inspiration. But as has been
pointed out: architectural forms can carry differing meanings; different actors
construct their distinctive mental spaces. The concrete formal language of Sa􀀁dâbâd,
even if factually inspired by European models, therefore lent itself at the same time
to making allusions to famed architectural models of the Persian and Mughal realms,
especially so in the context of the political tensions, which persisted between the
Ottoman and Safavid Empires during the first half of the eighteenth century and
which did not leave culture untouched.
By asserting the factual inspiration by European models I am arguing
somewhat against the most recent works on the topic.13 In reaction to the
ideologically highly problematic historiography, which has made Sa􀀁dâbâd into a
prime symbol for an Ottoman Empire which turned for inspiration towards the West
after realizing its own inferiority, these works argue for the primacy of Eastern, in
particular Safavid models as inspiration for Sa􀀁dâbâd. It seems that this revisionist
historiography shies away from acknowledging the Western influence in order not to
fall into the old narrative structures that couple a supposed Ottoman decline with a
linear path towards Westernization. However, the one does not need to entail the
other – in fact, it is the concept of influence that is at the heart of the matter here.
When conceptualizing influence or cultural transfer not as a relationship between an
active donor and a passive – read inferior – recipient, but when one instead
13 For example Can Erimtan, “The Perception of Saadabad: The ‘Tulip Age’ and Ottoman-Safavid
Rivalry,” in: Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee: Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth Century, ed. by
Dana Sajdi (London, New York: Tauris, 2007), 41-62 and Shirine Hamadeh, “Question of
Westernization,” 32-51.
8
acknowledges that the recipient in fact plays a crucial role in the transfer by choosing
what to receive, by appropriating, modifying or even rejecting what is being offered,
one can escape the trap of assigning a passive and inferior role to the Ottomans
simply be recognizing the significance of Western models for the physical outline of
Sa􀀁dâbâd. And it is perhaps only the appropriation of such a non-hierarchical
understanding of cultural influence, that the ““inevitable” question of
Westernization”14 with regard to Ottoman art and architecture might be overcome.
Since the historiography of Sa􀀁dâbâd is intricately connected with that of the
Tulip Age (1718-1730), the conceptual problems linked to the latter apply almost in
the same way to the former. In chapter 2 I will therefore trace the development of
both discourses in order to point out flaws as well as conceptual and ideological
predicaments. As a legacy of Ahmed Refik’s account of the Tulip Age, Sa􀀁dâbâd has
in many historiographic accounts become a symbol for moral debauchery and a
wasteful elite life. I want to question and circumvent the moralistic judgements
implicit in these accounts and will thus in chapter 6 attempt to situate the practices at
Sa􀀁dâbâd in their social and political context, focussing on the functional
requirements that the power constellation of an early modern court society entailed.
Drawing on research about the functioning of European court societies of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the picture that emerges is that the practices
observable at Sa􀀁dâbâd rather indicate new practices of sultanic legitimation vis-à-vis
both an urban public and a widened scope of power holders than a purposeless
squandering of resources. As I want to demonstrate, both Sa􀀁dâbâd’s architectural
style and layout as well as the use made of it by the Ottoman ruler indicate that it was
visibility, which – in marked difference to earlier centuries – lay at the heart of the
14 This is an expression coined by Shirine Hamadeh, “Ottoman Expressions of Early Modernity and
the “Inevitable” Question of Westernization,” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians
63 (2004): 32-51.
9
sultan’s strategy of legitimation in the eighteenth century. The sovereign now
emerged from his previous seclusion and carefully concerted his appearance in front
of both public and grandees – and Sa􀀁dâbâd, so I hold, was a primary location for
this staging of sultanic magnificence. A performance does however not function
without an audience, and despite all sultanic supremacy, the urban commoners
equally constituted a decisive element of Sa􀀁dâbâd’s social space. It is my contention
that Sa􀀁dâbâd and its surroundings constituted a public space, of a type that newly
emerged in the Ottoman capital during the eighteenth century, and that it was
precisely this quality, which made it such a suitable ‘stage’ for the sultan.
As the primary sources used for this study are concerned, archival documents have
been consulted at the Prime Minister’s Archives in Istanbul, concerning mainly
construction and renovation activities at Sa􀀁dâbâd and in the surroundings and the
sultanic festivities and diplomatic receptions of which Sa􀀁dâbâd was the location. A
second main group of primary sources are European travelogues of the eighteenth
and early nineteenth centuries, which – apart from evidently being the main source
for the analysis of the European discourse on Sa􀀁dâbâd – contain information on the
architecture of the palace and its gardens as well as on the aspect of social practice
and use. However, since the wave of European travellers to the Orient reached its
climax only in the nineteenth century, travelogues for the first half of the eighteenth
century describing Sa􀀁dâbâd are not very numerous. They only become more
frequent in the second half of the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth
century. I have therefore made use of traveller accounts beyond the border of 1809
until the mid-nineteenth century, this mainly for the analysis of the European
discourse on Sa􀀁dâbâd. Thirdly, the relevant Ottoman chronicles have been used for
the reconstruction of Sa􀀁dâbâd’s materiality and the uses made of it as well as for
10
analysing the Ottoman perception of and discourse about the palace. For the latter,
Ottoman dîvân poetry has moreover constituted a significant source. The poetry has
also been employed for reconstructing the use made of the space of Kâ􀀃ıthane by the
urban population of Istanbul.
Physical, mental and social space – these shall thus be the analytical categories that
will structure my account of Sa􀀄dâbâd. But before considering the space of Sa􀀄dâbâd
as it could be empirically perceived in its materialized reality, I will in a first step
take a more detailed look at Sa􀀄dâbâd’s position in the framework of the
historiography of the Tulip Age – the two being discursively so intricately
connected, that if one attempts to reconsider the one, one cannot leave unchallenged
the other.
11
CHAPTER 2
THE LEGACY OF THE TULIP AGE: A HISTORIOGRAPHIC REVIEW
Sa􀀇dâbâd and the Tulip Age – these two notions have become so intricately
connected over the course of modern historiography that mentioning one almost
inevitably invokes the other. Through the historiographic discourse Sa􀀇dâbâd has
come to stand symbolically for what the so-called Tulip Age, referring to the reign of
sultan Ahmed III (1703-1730) and more specifically to the term of office of his grand
vizier Damad 􀀅brahim Pasha (1718-1730), is taken to represent: an age in which the
Ottoman elite engaged in entertainment and festivities, squandering resources and
neglecting political business, leading both to external military defeats and internal
moral debauchery. While the elite was indulging in amusement at bountiful banquets
in their tulip gardens, the commoners led a life in misery and finally rose up against
the extravagant elite in the Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730. At the same time, the
Ottomans allegedly realized the superiority of the West during this period, especially
due to military defeats, which entailed territorial losses in the empire’s Western
provinces as exemplified in the Treaty of Passarowitz (1718). The realization of their
own weakness, so is believed, consequentially led the Ottomans to open themselves
up towards the West, especially in the arts and sciences. The Tulip Age is thus taken
to be the beginning of Westernization – commonly equated with modernization – of
a previously closed in and static Islamic empire, proceeding from there in a linear
manner to the Tanzimat reforms of the nineteenth century and beyond.15
15 The picture of course varies in the abundant literature on the Tulip Age of both academic and
popular nature, but nevertheless in general follows the broad lines as outlined above. See for example
Ahmed Refik, Lâle Devri (Istanbul: Tima􀀆, 1997); Refik Ahmet Sevengil, 􀀆stanbul Nasıl
E􀀅leniyordu? (Istanbul: 􀀅leti􀀆im, 1985 [1927]); Münir Aktepe, Patrona 􀀆syanı 1730 (Istanbul: 􀀅stanbul
Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi, 1958); Ahmet Ö. Evin, “The Tulip Age and Definitions of
‘Westernization’,” in: Türkiye’nin Sosyal ve Ekonomik Tarihi (1071-1920), ed. by Osman Okyar and
12
A number of historical instances have been cited over and over to attest to the
character of the Tulip Age as “the window opening to the West”16. Among them are
the diplomatic mission to France of Yirmisekiz Çelebi Efendi in 1720/21, the setting
up of the first Ottoman printing press printing works in Ottoman Turkish in Istanbul
in 1727,17 the employment of the French Comte de Bonneval to undertake military
reforms in 1731 and last but not least Sa􀀊dâbâd, taken to be an imitation of French
baroque palace architecture, such as Versailles, Marly or Fontainebleau. According
to this line of argumentation, Sa􀀊dâbâd has come to be a synecdoche for the Tulip
Age as a whole – both for the theme of extravagancy and debauchery since numerous
feasts of the Sultan Ahmed III and his viziers indeed took place at Sa􀀊dâbâd, and for
the Westernization theme, with Sa􀀊dâbâd being commonly considered an imitation of
French baroque palaces.
The architectural monument of Sa􀀊dâbâd has thus been narratively
constructed through historiographic discourse; it has been attributed meaning as part
of a broader historical narrative, which draws a linear trajectory of Westernization
and modernization from the Tulip Age in the eighteenth to the Tanzimat reforms in
the nineteenth century, ultimately ushering in the foundation of the secular Turkish
Halil 􀀈nalcık (Ankara: Meteksan, 1980), 131-145; Mustafa Arma􀀇an (ed.), 􀀈stanbul Arma􀀇anı 4: Lâle
Devri (Istanbul: 􀀈stanbul Büyük􀀉ehir Belediyesi Kültür 􀀈􀀉leri Daire Ba􀀉kanlı􀀇ı Yayınları, 2000);
Ahmet Evin, “Batılıla􀀉ma ve Lale Devri,” in: Ibid., 41-60. For two recent critical reviews of the Tulip
Age see Can Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West? The Origins of the Tulip Age and its Development in
Modern Turkey (London, New York: Tauris, 2008) and Selim Karahasano􀀇lu, “Osmanlı
tarihyazımında “Lale Devri”: Ele􀀉tirel bir de􀀇erlendirme,” Tarih ve Toplum: Yeni Yakla􀀉ımlar 7
(2008): 129-144.
16 Thus the title of a recent Turkish publication on the period: Fuat and Süphan Andıç, Batıya Açılan
Pencere: Lale Devri (Istanbul: Eren, 2006).
17 There had been printing presses before that date in Istanbul. These were however printing works in
languages other than Ottoman Turkish using alphabets other than the Arabic one. In the late fifteenth
century a press printing in the Hebrew alphabet had been founded in Istanbul by Jews who had fled
from Spain and sought refuge in the Ottoman Empire. In 1627 another press serving the Orthodox
Greek population had been set up in Istanbul. As far as printing with Arabic letters in the Ottoman
Empire is concerned, the Istanbul press of 1727 was predated a few years by an Arabic-language press
founded by Maronite monks in Lebanon. Franz Babinger, Müteferrika ve Osmanlı Matbaası: 18.
Yüzyılda 􀀈stanbul’da Kitabiyat, trans. by Nedret Kuran-Burço􀀇lu (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı, 2004).
13
Republic.18 In order to understand how Sa􀀊dâbâd has been constructed through the
historiographic narrative and how it has attained such a symbolic character, it is
therefore necessary to shortly consider the historiography of the Tulip Age, with
which it is so intricately connected.19
The Invention of a Historical Period: Ahmed Refik’s Tulip Age
“Tulip Age” (or Lâle Devri in Turkish) as a term of historical periodization is of
relatively young origin, which was ‘invented’ by the Turkish poet Yahya Kemal in
the first decade of the twentieth century and made popular through the works of the
historian Ahmed Refik from the 1910s onwards. Before, the period was by Ottoman
historians simply called “Üçüncü Sultan Ahmed Devri”, according to the
terminology commonly applied in Ottoman historiography.20 The picture Yahya
Kemal, who was staying in Paris at the time when he formulated the term, draws in
his poetry of the Tulip Age is that of a short era full of pleasure and joy, oriented
aesthetically towards Iran, which was doomed to end abruptly in the Patrona Halil
uprising. In fact, this picture was probably more descriptive of the Paris of the first
decade of the twentieth century than of the Istanbul of the first quarter of the
eighteenth century, conjuring up a melancholic atmosphere of an impending end
inspired by French fin de siècle poets like Mallarmé and Verlaine.21 New meaning
was given to the term by the Ottoman historian Ahmed Refik, to whom Kemal
18 Münir Aktepe holds for example that the Patrona Halil Rebellion meant the destruction of the first
seeds of the Turkish rebellion (Türk inkılab): Aktepe, Patrona 􀀆syanı. Similarly, Ahmet Evin sees the
Tulip Age as the origin of Turkish laicism: Evin, “Batılıla􀀉ma ve Lale Devri,” 44, 55, 60.
19 For a detailed analysis of the historiography of the Tulip Age see Erimtan, Ottomans Looking
West? and idem, “The Sources of Ahmed Refik’s Lâle Devri and the Paradigm of the “Tulip Age”: A
Teleological Agenda,” in: Essays in the honour of Ekmeleddin 􀀆hsano􀀅lu, ed. by Mustafa Kaçar and
Zeynep Durukal, Vol. I: Societies, Cultures, Sciences: A Collection of Articles, (Istanbul: IRCICA,
2006), 259-278.
20 Mustafa Arma􀀇an, introduction to 􀀆stanbul Arma􀀅anı 4: Lâle Devri, ed. by Mustafa Arma􀀇an
(Istanbul: 􀀈stanbul Büyük􀀉ehir Belediyesi Kültür 􀀈􀀉leri Daire Ba􀀉kanlı􀀇ı Yayınları, 2000), 9.
21 Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad,” 16-20.
14
proposed the term during a conversation they had in Paris in 1910, and which the
former first employed as a term of historical periodization in an article in 1912.
While no connection had been made between Westernization attempts and Ahmed
III’s reign until then,22 Ahmed Refik presents the Tulip Age for the first time as an
initial effort at Westernization in the field of the arts and sciences by the Ottomans as
a reaction to the military defeats of the seventeenth century. Sultan Ahmed III’s
grand vizier Damad 􀀈brahim Pasha is assigned the role of the enlightened ruler, who
stood behind these efforts:
Artık Türkiye için harp ve cidal siyasetini bırakmak, insanlık için faydalı, gelece􀀇i
temine hizmet edecek bir siyaset takip etmek; Avrupa’ya ilim ve sanat silahıyla
mukabele etmek gerekliydi. Bu siyasetin te􀀉vikçisi, Üçüncü Ahmed’in veziri,
Nev􀀉ehirli 􀀈brahim Pa􀀉a olmu􀀉tu.23
Although not the main focus of Ahmed Refik’s work, this was an assertion, which
was to have a lasting imprint on Ottoman historiography. Ahmed Refik Altınay
(1881-1937) is thus a key figure for the discourse on the Tulip Age, whose writings
are still influential today.24 He is considered to be one of the first modern historians
of the Ottoman Empire and Turkey, who undertook historical research based upon
the study of archival documents. Although he was part of the Ottoman and Turkish
academia, holding a professorship at the Ottoman university Dârü’l-fünûn and later
the University of Istanbul until the university reform of 1933, Ahmed Refik
published most of his historical works in daily newspapers and popular journals, a
fact that accounts for the popular style of his writings. The captivatingly entitled
work Lâle Devri, too, was of a semi-popular type, being first published as a serial in
the newspaper 􀀆kdâm between 9 March and 4 April 1913. It did not appear in book
form before the 1930s.
22
Ibid., 20-27.
23 Ahmed Refik, Lâle Devri, 17.
24 On Ahmed Refik’s life and work see most comprehensively Muzaffer Gökman, Ahmet Refik
Altınay: Tarihi Sevdiren Adam, (Istanbul: Türkiye 􀀈􀀉 Bankası Kültür Yayınları, 1978); Fatih M.
Dervi􀀉o􀀇lu, “Atatürk Devri Tarihçili􀀇ine Bir Bakı􀀉 ve Dönemin Günah Keçisi “Müverrih”; Ahmet
Refik Altınay (1882-1937),” Türkiye Günlü􀀅ü 76 (2004), 95-104.
15
Ahmed Refik’s narrative of the Tulip Period in this work is that of a period of
respite and revival after the devastating military campaigns in the seventeenth
century. This was possible thanks to the government of the skilled politician 􀀅brahim
Pasha, who in some ways acts as the ‘hero’ figure of the story set. While a turn
towards European arts and sciences initiated by the grand vizier as a means of
revitalization is mentioned, this was clearly not the main focus of the work and the
term “Westernization” is in fact never mentioned. Instead, the story Ahmed Refik
tells is centred on the figure of 􀀅brahim Pasha, who is portrayed as having been busy
with the arrangement of new diplomatic alliances and the encouragement of the
Ottoman economy, but whose reformative energy was kept in check by Sultan
Ahmed III, a man not interested in politics and concerned only with a pleasurable
lifestyle. 􀀅brahim Pasha had to satisfy the wishes of his master to maintain his
position and therefore commissioned the construction of summer palaces and
pavilions all over Istanbul where splendid festivities were henceforth held for the
pleasure-loving court members. In the centre of Ahmed Refik’s discourse stands the
theme of zevk u safâ, of the life of pleasure and delight led by the elites, squandering
money while the population lived in poverty. Sa􀀇dâbâd is depicted as the concrete
space where the courtly festivities took place and thus comes to be the symbol for the
entire Tulip Period.25
As this focus on zevk u safâ is concerned, it seems that Ahmed Refik was
directly inspired by the eighteenth-century Ottoman chronicler 􀀆emdanizade
Süleyman Fındıklılı Efendi, who had depicted the period of 􀀅brahim Pasha with great
resentment as a time of debauchery and moral corruption due to the elite’s indulging
25 Out of nine chapters in Lâle Devri, one entire chapter – the longest chapter of the book – is devoted
to Sa􀀇dâbâd (“Sâdâbâd ve Lale Safaları,” in Refik, Lâle Devri, 35-62).
16
in worldly pleasures.26 Yet Ahmed Refik applied one crucial change to
􀀆emdanizade’s account: while eighteenth-century Ottoman chronicler had written
with great disapproval, if not hate, of 􀀅brahim Pasha whom he made responsible for
the moral corruptions he so detested, Ahmed Refik’s narrative had Sultan Ahmed III
and the court elite indulging in immoral pleasures and assigned the role of the
enlightened ruler and skilled diplomat to the grand vizier.
When looking at the particular historical circumstances in which Lâle Devri
first appeared in the 1910s, it becomes clear that the way Ahmed Refik chose to
present the subject matter was in fact highly ideologically charged. As a historian
Ahmed Refik regarded it as his professional duty to popularize history amongst the
common people in order to provide them with a historical consciousness and a
cultural and national identity, which is – apart from economic necessity – the reason
for publishing most of his works in the popular press. This attitude clearly reflects
the context of the nation-building attempts in the early twentieth century of both the
late Ottoman Empire and the early Turkish Republic – and the Tulip Age was
presented in such a way by Ahmed Refik as to constitute one potential element of the
new Ottoman and later Turkish national identity. The account of 􀀅brahim Pasha’s
diplomatic activities on the European scene provided a convenient historical
precedent for the current Ottoman attempt in the 1910s to be seen as equal partner
within the European state system.27 Moreover, with regard to Ottoman internal
dynamics, where a fierce debate between advocates of Westernization and others
promoting rather Islamic tendencies was fought, Ahmed Refik clearly positioned
himself on the side of the ‘Westernizers’ with his writings on the Tulip Age, as it
26 [􀀆emdanizade Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi], 􀀃em’dânî-zâde Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi Târihi
Mür’i’t-Tevârih, ed. by Münir Aktepe, 2 vols (Istanbul: 􀀅stanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi,
1976).
27 Refik, Lâle Devri, 19-27; Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West?, 26-27.
17
was in Lâle Devri where he decried the fanaticism (taassub) of religious leaders.28
According to Lâle Devri, the Ottoman religious elite of the eighteenth century made
use of the growing unrest among Istanbul’s population in order to satisfy their own
personal aspirations or individual intrigues. Thus the Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730
is depicted by Ahmed Refik as based upon the anger of the common population, who
was living in ignorance and poverty while the elite entertained itself at newly built
summer palaces, with the inspiration for the uprising coming from the fanatic
religious scholars who were only interested in their own personal benefits.29 Many of
these themes are continued to be recycled until today, such as the antipathy against
the religious establishment or the moral debauchery of the elites.
I have already mentioned that Sa􀀁dâbâd was constructed as a symbol for the
entire Tulip Age due to the activities performed there, mostly the courtly festivities
and ambassadorial receptions. As far as architectural style is concerned, Ahmed
Refik depicts the building style of the Tulip Age as characterized by a mixture of
influences, both from East and West.30 Concerning Sa􀀁dâbâd, he interestingly holds
on the one hand that Sa􀀁dâbâd’s architectural style was both inspired by Versailles
and by Isfahan31 while on the other hand declaring Sa􀀁dâbâd to have been an
imitation (nazîre) of Versailles.32 In fact, Refik followed in this contradictory
assertion verbatim the work of the nineteenth-century French historian Albert Vandal
on the French ambassador to the Ottoman Empire during the years 1728-1741,
Marquis de Villeneuve.33 It was the latter of Refik’s two assertions, the one that held
28 Refik, Lâle Devri, 93-94; Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West?, 27-28.
29 Refik, Lâle Devri, 93-114.
30
Ibid., 41.
31
Ibid., 41.
32
Ibid., 40.
33 Vandal writes in his account: “Des architectes venus de tous les pays, les uns appelés d’Occident,
les autres attires de l’Asie, associent dans ces edifices les styles les plus divers et prennent leurs
modèles tantôt à Versailles, tantôt à Ispahan.” (Albert Vandal, Une ambassade francaise en orient
sous Louis XV. La mission du Marquis de Villeneuve 1728-1741 (Paris: E. Plon, Nourrit, 1887), 85)
18
Sa􀀊dâbâd to be an imitation of French palaces, which was subsequently taken up and
has since become the standard account of Sa􀀊dâbâd.
The Tulip Age After Ahmed Refik:
From Westernization Towards New Approaches
Ahmed Refik’s concept of the Tulip Age became quickly accepted as a term of
periodization with historical explanatory power, yet it was mainly the strand of a
period of hedonistic joy and pleasure rather than that of a first step towards
Westernization, which was embraced by historians of the late Ottoman period.34 In
the historical discourse of the Turkish Republic during the 1930s and 1940s on the
contrary it was the latter that came to the fore – in the context of the Republic’s
search for historical precedents of its laicist project, the Tulip Age could
conveniently be established as a predecessor of Republican secularism and
orientation towards Western Europe.35 Thus the Tulip Age came to function as a
code implying Westernization, modernization and progress, evident in the works of
Bernard Lewis, Niyazi Berkes or Münir Aktepe.36 In this narrative, which has only
recently become the subject of academic revision, the Tulip Age is presented as a
period of scientific and artistic “awakening”,37 which was brought to an abrupt end in
1730 by the Patrona Halil Rebellion. In deep antipathy against the rebels, the
historiography by Refik and Aktepe depicts them as a group of under-class rowdies
Refik’s words are: “Avrupa’dan, Asya’dan 􀀈stanbul’a birçok mimar ça􀀇rılıyor, bütün binalar muhtelif
mimari tarzlarda in􀀉a ediliyordu. Böylece meydana getirilen binalarda kâh Versay, kâh Isfahan
mimari tarzı uygulanıyordu.” (Refik, Lâle Devri, 41.)
34 Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West?, 83.
35 An early example for this kind of history writing is E. Mamboury’s “L’Art Turc du XVIIIeme
Siècle,” La Turquie Kemaliste 19 (1937): 2-11, who emphasizes the “Turkishness” of eighteenthcentury
art and suggests to label the period “Renaissance” in order to underline the innovative and
novel character of its art.
36 Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West?, 152-175; Aktepe, Patrona Halil 􀀃syanı; Bernard Lewis, The
Emergence of Modern Turkey (London: Oxford University, 1961); Niyazi Berkes, The Development
of Secularism in Modern Turkey (London: Hurst 1998).
37 Refik, Lâle Devri, 70.
19
and primitive fanatics who destroyed these first seeds of modernization.38 The Tulip
Age is thus mourned as a lost opportunity for a potential revival of the Ottoman
Empire in the eighteenth century.39
Underlying this discourse is the assumption that the West is the only possible
source of modernity, that in order to become modern and achieve progress, there is
no alternative to emulating the West – which the Ottomans allegedly started during
the Tulip Age, after realizing their own inferiority. Inherent in this conceptualization
is also a simplistic understanding of influence as unidirectional transfer – the
Ottoman Empire then becomes the passive receiver of novelties and innovations, to
which it can only react either by enthusiastic embracement or decided rejection. The
corresponding normative attributes are then almost self-evident: embracement leads
to positive progress while rejection can only mean stubborn fanaticism.
Furthermore, the historiography of the Tulip Age has been characterized by a
strong sexual and gendered discourse that can be traced back to the writings of
Ottoman historians like 􀀊emdanizade Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi in the eighteenth
and Ahmed Cevdet and Mustafa Nuri in the nineteenth century, which has been
taken up and transmitted into modern historiography by Ahmed Refik. In this
historiography a parallel narrative structure is established between Damad 􀀉brahim
Pasha’s failure to govern the empire and his failure to ‘govern’ Istanbul’s women,
whose conduct is seen as decisive for the upholding of the city’s morality. These
historians hold that through the amusements of the Tulip Age, which were devised
by 􀀉brahim Pasha to divert the population from the empire’s true devastating
38 Aktepe for example writes in the conclusion of his analysis of the Patrona Halil Rebellion:
“Bilhâssa 􀀉stanbul’da bulunan bir zümre, intikam hisleri besledi􀀈i 􀀋ahısları devirmek için çıkan
fırsattan derhâl istifade etmi􀀋 ve Osmanlı tarihinde bu ilk teceddüt hareketini temin edenleri ibtidâî bir
􀀋ekilde, vah􀀋ice ortadan kaldırılmı􀀋, bu suretle Türk inkilâb hamlesini de, muvakkat bir zaman için
dahi olsa durdurmu􀀋tu.” Aktepe, Patrona Halil 􀀃syanı, 182.
39 Madeline C. Zilfi, “Women and Society in the Tulip Era, 1718-1730,” in: Women, the Family, and
Divorce Laws in Islamic History, ed. by Amira El Azhary Sonbol (Syracuse: Syracuse University
Press, 1996), 291.
20
circumstances, the grand vizier’s own degraded immorality infected the entire
society, leading to a breakdown of public morality, which in turn concerned
especially women and women’s bodies.40 In a strongly moralising discourse, it is in
particular the increasing appearance of women in public, their coming into contact
with men and the relaxation of their dress codes, which is denounced – and Sa􀀄dâbâd
is presented as one of the primary spaces in the Ottoman capital where this amoral
conduct of women in public space took place.41 Not only on a popular level women
are in part made responsible for the decline of public morality; on the level of the
empire’s leading class, it is women, too, who are seen as bearing part of the
responsibility for the degeneration of Ottoman politics. The increasing involvement
of women in state affairs is held to be the reason for the degeneration of Ottoman
politics, as women allegedly seduced the statesmen into a life of entertainment and
slackness, eventually leading to their effeminacy.42
Since the 1990s, however, historiography of this kind has come under
increasing critique by a revisionist school of historiography, which attempted to reconceptualize
the conventional images of the early eighteenth century.43 What these
historians – many of them female, a fact that can perhaps not only be attributed to
chance – question is the simple dichotomy between East and West, which draws a
picture of Ottoman society as passive and lacking dynamics, therefore in need of
reform whose roots were to be found only in the superior West. Emphasis is now
instead increasingly put on internal factors of change, casting doubt on the image that
innovation could only be accomplished due to external – read Western – stimuli.
Moreover, the need for comparative studies of the period is now widely being
40
Ibid., 292-293.
41 􀀃emdanizade Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi, vol. I, 3-4.
42 For the issue of women in the Tulip Age see Zilfi “Women and Society in the Tulip Era.”
43 To mention the most prominent among these, one should name Tülay Artan, Ariel Salzmann,
Madeline C. Zilfi and Shirine Hamadeh.
21
recognized, stressing structural similarities between societies of the late seventeenth
and early eighteenth century all around the globe, which suggest thinking of a
universal period of early modernity.44
Sa􀀌dâbâd in the Discourse of the Tulip Age
Looking at the historiography of Sa􀀌dâbâd in particular it becomes obvious that it
runs remarkably parallel to that of the Tulip Age as a whole, Sa􀀌dâbâd being – as has
been remarked above – a synecdoche for the latter. Thus the two themes of moral
decline and financial waste on the one and of Westernization on the other hand are
clearly dominating.45
As it appears, this historiography has its roots both in Ottoman historical and
European travel writings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries on Sa􀀌dâbâd,
which modern historians have used until recently in a remarkably uncritical manner,
taking over normative judgements and implicit ideological standpoints from these
primary sources. The theme of Sa􀀌dâbâd as a place of moral decline, associated
especially with the person of 􀀉brahim Pasha, seems to have its roots in certain
Ottoman chronicles like that of 􀀊emdanizade and Abdi, further developed by
nineteenth-century historians such as Ahmet Cevdet and Mustafa Nuri, and – as
presented above – subsequently taken up in the writings of Ahmet Refik. On the
other hand, the second theme of Sa􀀌dâbâd as an imitation of European palace
44 Particularly Shirine Hamadeh argues in favour of the concept of “early modernity” on a global
scale: Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization.”
45 For example Münir Aktepe, “Kâ􀀈ıdhane’ye Dâir Bâzı Bilgiler,” in: 􀀈smail Hakkı Uzunçar􀀉ılı’ya
Arma􀀇an (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1976), 335-363. Almost the entire modern literature by
architectural historians on Sa􀀌dâbâd considers the palace in the framework of architectural influence
from the West. See for example, Arel, Ayda, Onsekizinci Yüzyıl 􀀈stanbul Mimarisinde Batılıla􀀉ma
Süreci (Istanbul: ITÜ Mimarlık Fakültesi, 1975); Semavi Eyice, “XVIII. Yüzyılda Türk Sanatı ve
Türk Mimarisinde Avrupa Neo-Klâsik Üslubu,” Sanat Tarihi Yıllı􀀇ı 9-10 (1979-1980): 163-189; Filiz
Yeni􀀋ehirlio􀀈lu, “Western Influences on Ottoman Architecture in the 18th Century,” in: Das
Osmanische Reich und Europa 1673 bis 1789: Konflikt, Entspannung und Austausch, ed. by Gernot
Heiss and Grete Klingenstein (Wien: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1983), 153-178; Do􀀈an
Kuban, Vanished Urban Visions: Wooden Palaces of the Ottomans (Istanbul: Yapı Endüstri Merkezi,
2001).
22
architecture clearly has its roots in the writings of European, especially French,
travellers to the Ottoman Empire, who established this connection in their
travelogues almost immediately after the completion of the construction works in
1722.46 Perpetuated in the numerous travelogues of Europeans visiting the so-called
“Sweet Waters of Europe” during the following two centuries, this assertion, too, has
been taken over into modern historiography on Sa􀀁dâbâd without much questioning –
as Refik’s literal appropriation from Vandal shows quite clearly. Since Ottoman
descriptive sources of the palace are rare, these European travelogues are without
doubt important sources, yet as any other historical source they need to be evaluated
critically, which I will attempt in chapter 5 of this thesis.
As Republican historiography is concerned, the assertion of Sa􀀁dâbâd being
an application of Western architecture on Ottoman lands obviously fit very well into
the framework of a Republic that saw itself as oriented towards Europe, representing
the modern, secular Western world. Sa􀀁dâbâd thus presented itself as a convenient
element in the Republican narrative, highlighting the West as a source of modernity
and progress and serving as a historical precedent for the Republic’s Westernization
efforts. Alongside the tendency to challenge these kind of modernistic, Eurocentric
historical narratives in the last two decades, coupled in the field of Ottoman history
with a critique of the so-called ‘decline paradigm’47, Sa􀀁dâbâd, too, has become the
object of historical re-evaluation.
46 The earliest mentioning of the imitation theme I have found is by the Venetian bailo Emo, in a
letter from Istanbul to Venice dated 2 September 1722, which is only paraphrased but unfortunately
not quoted in full in Mary Lucille Shay, The Ottoman Empire from 1720 to 1734: As Revealed in
Despatches of the Venetian Baili (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1944), 20-21.
47 For a comprehensive overview over the literature of the ‘decline paradigm’ including the
challenges to it see Dana Sajdi, “Decline, its Discontents and Ottoman Cultural History: By Way of
Introduction,” in: Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee: Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth century,
ed. by Dana Sajdi (London, New York: Tauris, 2007), 1-40.
23
Yet, despite the high symbolical value attributed to Sa􀀁dâbâd as the supposed
architectural manifestation of the Tulip Age, it has rarely emerged from being a
synecdoche, from serving as a mere illustration for the supposed nature of the period
in question. A notable exception constitutes the monograph on Sa􀀁dâbâd by the
architectural historian Sedad Hakkı Eldem, which meticulously reconstructs the
history of the palace buildings and gardens from its first construction in 1722 until its
final destruction in 1941, using a variety of both Ottoman and European sources.48
While this publication contains a wealth of information indispensable for any work
on the subject, it remains a treatment from the point of view of architectural history,
which is mainly interested in tracing material change of architectural forms and
structures over time – the social, political, economic and cultural context of the
palace is hardly considered. Moreover, Eldem clearly writes from the ideological
stance of Turkish nationalism, which consequentially leads him to vigorously reject
the assertion of Sa􀀁dâbâd being an imitation of Western architectural models.
Instead, he holds it to be completely in line with ‘authentic’ Turkish architectural and
decorative principles – what these are supposed to consist of remains quite unclear –
and is thus obviously engaged in an attempt to reclaim Sa􀀁dâbâd for the architectural
canon of the Turkish Republic.49 This stance, however, has not been able to
challenge the Westernization thesis as outlined above and interestingly enough it has
not even incited a serious academic discussion on the subject.
New Trends: The Re-Evaluation of the Eighteenth Century
In conjunction with a general reconsideration of the Ottoman eighteenth century,
which is now regarded as a time of changing patterns of dynastic power and
48 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad.
49
Ibid., 6.
24
legitimacy accompanying social and cultural transformations, Sa􀀇dâbâd has recently
been dealt with in a number of smaller studies, while an extensive self-contained
study on the palace is still missing.50 Yet in particular the works of Shirine Hamadeh
and Deniz Çalı􀀆 point in the direction of a possible re-evaluation, as they attempt to
set the construction and the architecture of the palace as well as the activities
connected to it in the social and political context of a changing urban society. They
emphasize especially the emergence of a broader form of public life in the Ottoman
capital of the first quarter of the eighteenth century, beginning to incorporate the now
emerging urban ‘middle classes’. The palace of Sa􀀇dâbâd with its surrounding public
gardens (mesîre) is taken as a prime example for the new public life of both the elites
and the commoners, who flocked in great numbers to the public gardens around the
palace ground.51 Concerning the question of architectural imitation, Shirine
Hamadeh as well as Can Erimtan have challenged the older view of one-sided
Western influence by pointing out the influence of Persian architectural models on
the design of Sa􀀇dâbâd and its gardens.52 These authors arrive at the
acknowledgement that the Ottoman society of the early eighteenth century was
50 Tülay Artan, “From Charismatic Leadership to Collective Rule: Introducing Materials on the
Wealth and Power of Ottoman Princesses in the Eighteenth Century,” Dünü ve Bugünüyle Toplum ve
Ekonomi 4 (1993): 53-92; eadem, “Architecture As A Theatre of Life: Profile of the Eighteenth
Century Bosphorus” (PhD dissertation, M.I.T., 1989); Ariel Salzmann, “The Age of Tulips:
Confluence and Conflict in Early Modern Consumer Culture (1550-1730),” in: Consumption Studies
and the History of the Ottoman Empire, 1550-1922, An Introduction, ed. by Donald Quataert (Albany,
N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 2000), 83-106; eadem, “Measures of Empire: Tax Farmers
and the Ottoman Ancien Régime, 1695-1807” (PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1995);
Madeline C. Zilfi, “Women and Society in the Tulip Era”; eadem, “A Medrese for the Palace:
Ottoman Dynastic Legitimation in the Eighteenth Century,” Journal of the American Oriental Society
113 (1993): 184-191.
51 Deniz B. Çalı􀀆, “Gardens at the Ka􀀅ıthane Commons during the Tulip Period,” in: Middle East
Garden Traditions: Unity and Diversity: Questions, Methods and Resources in a Multicultural
Perspective, ed. by Michel Conan (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2007), 239-266; Shirine
Hamadeh, “Public spaces and the garden culture of Istanbul in the eighteenth century,” in: The Early
Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire, ed. by Virginia H. Aksan and Daniel Goffman
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 277-312; eadem, “Question of Westernization.”
52 Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization”; Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad.” Additionally,
Mustafa Cezar argues that the changes in eighteenth-century Ottoman architecture were motivated by
aesthetic concerns inside the Ottoman tradition and cannot only be attributed to outside influence.
Mustafa Cezar, Sanatta Batı’ya Açılı􀀃 ve Osman Hamdi (Istanbul: Erol Kerim Aksoy Kültür, E􀀅itim,
Spor ve Sa􀀅lık Vakfı Yayınları, 1995).
25
characterized by a general openness, both towards the ‘East’ and the ‘West’.53 Before
taking up this question of influence in greater detail in chapter 4, it is necessary to
look more concretely at the object of study, that is, at the physical space, which
Sa􀀁dâbâd constituted in its material reality.
53 Apart from Hamadeh see for example Gauvin Alexander Bailey, “The Synthesis of East and West
in the Ottoman Architecture of the Tulip Period,” Oriental Art 48 (2002): 2-13.
26
CHAPTER 3
PHYSICAL SPACE: SPATIAL SETTING AND ARCHITECTURE
In this chapter I will deal with the materialized, socially-produced space that
empirically existed at Kâ􀀃ıthane in the eighteenth century and thus with the spatial
outline of the imperial palace, its garden and the surrounding valley. In the
discussion of this physical space I will argue that the architectural style of the palace
was characterized by an openness and transparency, which differed from previous
Ottoman palace designs, but would become typical of eighteenth-century
architecture. Contrary to the claim that Sa􀀄dâbâd’s garden layout represented an
absolute novelty in Ottoman garden design, I furthermore want to demonstrate that
the layout actually stood in a line of historical continuity and had concrete
precedents. Thus the geometrical outline and axial arrangement of marked parts of
the garden – most prominently the Cedvel-i Sîm and the rectangular water basins –
was not completely foreign or an unprecedented innovation to the Ottomans and in
fact coincided well with indigenous traditions and well-known Turko-Persian garden
models. My contention is that the novelty of Sa􀀄dâbâd lay instead in the marked
concern for display, which can be discerned both in the architectural style
emphasizing visibility and in the layout of the space surrounding the palace: with the
urban public and grandees assembled on the hillsides of the valley this constituted an
amphitheatre in the very literal sense of the term.
27
The Setting: Kâ􀀆ıthane
The sultanic palace of Sa􀀉dâbâd was situated in the Kâ􀀆ıthane valley at the very end
of Istanbul’s Golden Horn.54 The valley, which is surrounded by relatively steep
hills, is being transversed by the Kâ􀀆ıthane River (Kâ􀀅ıthane Deresi or Kâ􀀅ıthane
Suyu in Turkish), a little stream, which originates close to Lake Terkos by the Black
Sea in the North-West of Istanbul and, after uniting with streams coming from
Kemerburgaz and the Belgrade Forest, flows along the Kâ􀀆ıthane valley into the
waters of the Golden Horn. The current of this flowing water was used to run several
mills as well as a paper and a gunpowder factory (kâ􀀅ıthâne and bârûthâne) at least
since the early sixteenth century, of which the former gave its name to the entire
valley and to the village situated along the stream (Kâ􀀆ıthane Köyü). While the
paper factory was probably situated inside the village of Kâ􀀆ıthane, the gunpowder
factory was apparently situated further upstream. The paper factory ceased to
produce by the seventeenth century, yet the gunpowder factory was at that time the
most important of Istanbul’s five gun factories and hence of considerable size: 200
workers of the ammunition corps (cebehâne ocâ􀀅ı) were employed there alongside
with two higher-ranking commanders (barûtçu ba􀀆ı and a kethüdâ).55 The valley thus
had undeniably an industrial character, to which Evliya Çelebi’s remark about the
unbearable noise of the barûthâne testifies, which according to him was so loud that
it “shook one’s brain.”56
Nevertheless, Kâ􀀆ıthane constituted since Byzantine and throughout Ottoman
times a popular excursion spot both for the urban population and the imperial elites –
54 There are a number of articles on or including the history of Kâ􀀆ıthane, its architecture and
gardens: Süheyl Ünver, “Her Devirde Kâ􀀆ıthane,” Vakıflar Dergisi 10 (1973): 435-460; Aktepe,
“Kâ􀀆ıthane”; Semavi Eyice, “Ka􀀆ıthane-Sâdâbâd-Ça􀀆layan,” Taç 1, no. 1 (1986): 29-36; Orhan 􀀇aik
Gökyay, “Ba􀀆çeler,” Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Yıllık 4 (1990): 7-20; Ka􀀆ıthane Belediye Ba􀀈kanlı􀀆ı,
Osmanlı Belgelerinde Ka􀀅ıthane (Istanbul: Ka􀀆ıthane Belediyesi) 2007.
55 Robert Mantran, Istanbul dans la seconde moitié du XVIIe siècle: essai d’histoire institutionelle,
économique et sociale (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1962), 399-400; Aktepe “Kâ􀀆ıthane”, 339.
56 “insanın beynini sarsıyordu”, Aktepe, “Kâ􀀆ıthane”, 339.
28
a fact that can be attributed to its natural beauty, including fresh water for swimming
and fishing and meadows for picnicking, coupled with its proximity to and easy
access from the city. Moreover, the sultanic horses were brought to graze on the
valley’s meadows during the summer months under the supervision of the mîr-i
âhûr, the master of the imperial stables, for whom a pavilion was erected at the
entrance of the valley close to the Golden Horn, the so-called Mirahor Kö􀀉kü. It was
here where the sultan upon visits to Sa􀀊dâbâd would descend from the boat, which
had brought him here from Topkapı Palace, and where he would be received by the
grand vizier and other state dignitaries, who had arrived previously.
The meadows of Kâ􀀇ıthane were according to Evliya Çelebi the location for
the annual guild festivities of the goldsmiths, in which high-ranking elite members
and even the sultan participated, as well as a space for sultanic festivities: 􀀈brahim
Peçevi mentions that part of the circumcision ceremonies for the sons of Sultan
Süleyman in 1530 took place at Kâ􀀇ıthane. For the sultans, Kâ􀀇ıthane was moreover
a popular spot for hunting, a sultanic privilege, which periodically was the reason for
the closing of at least parts of the valley to the public.57 Another constitutive element
of the valley was the Kâ􀀇ıthane Tekkesi founded by Kara Mustafa Pasha in the latter
half of the sixteenth century for the 71. janissary unit, a dervish convent with guest
rooms, kitchen, bakery and coffeehouse as well as a mosque, which hosted guests up
to five nights and lent out copper pots and plates to day trippers from the city.58
These bits of information from various sources and time periods testify to the varied
character of Kâ􀀇ıthane during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, functioning as
an excursion spot for Istanbul’s population, as the location of seasonal and guild
festivities and an assembly place for dervishes, as much as being a privileged and
57 Aktepe, “Kâ􀀇ıthane”, 342-343.
58 Ayvansarâyî Hüseyîn Efendi, Alî Sâtı􀀊 Efendi and Süleymân Besîm Efendi, Hadîkatü’l-Cevâmi􀀇:
􀀆stanbul Câmileri ve Di􀀅er Dîni-Sivil Mi􀀇mârî Yapılar, ed. by Ahmed Nezih Galitekin (Istanbul:
􀀈􀀉aret, 2001), 385; Eyice, “Kâ􀀇ıthane”, 30.
29
potentially exclusive space designated to sultanic use and at the same time an
important zone of industrial manufacturing.
Under Sultan Ahmed III the area around the end of the Golden Horn seems to
have become the focus of a keen imperial interest, in particular from the year
1720/21 (1133) onwards. In this year, the imperial pavilion of Hüsrevabad (House of
the Eternal Hüsrev) was constructed at Alibey Köyü, situated east of Kâ􀀇ıthane
valley,59 since the beautiful but neglected area around the tip of the Golden Horn had
caught the sultan’s attention and he had consequently taken the decision to revive it:
“Lâkin ol câ-yi letâfet-peymâ 􀀉ehin􀀉ah-ı nâzenin-nihad hazretlerinin nigâh-ı
temyîzlerine nail (…) olup, ol mevzi’-i dil-ârâ dahi sâir mesîreler gibi âbâd
kılınması murâd-ı hümâyûnları oldu􀀇un sadrıâzam hazretlerine îrad buyurdular.”60
Hüsrevabad was not like Sa􀀊dâbâd equipped for longer stays by the sultan together
with his harem, but rather served as a destination for daily excursions and
promenades departing perhaps from Karaâ􀀇âç, an imperial garden with a palace of
considerable size situated at the coast of the Golden Horn close to the mouth of the
Kâ􀀇ıthane Deresi. The garden of Karaâ􀀇âç dated back to the sixteenth century and
was one of Sultan Ahmed’s favourite spots of excursion before Sa􀀊dâbâd was built in
1722 (1134).61 One year after Sa􀀊dâbâd’s completion another pavilion, Hürremabad
(House of Eternal Joy),62 was erected at the opposite end of the Cedvel-i Sîm, in
vicinity to the village of Kâ􀀇ıthane. All these pavilions were given Persian names,
which was highly popular at the time and reflects an orientation towards Persian
culture, that is for example also apparent in eighteenth-century poetry – I will discuss
59 Mehmed Ra􀀉id Efendi, Târih-i Râ􀀃id, vol. V (Istanbul: Matba􀀊a-i Âmire, 1282 [1865-66]), 305-
306.
60 Ra􀀉id, vol. V, 305.
61 Nurhan, Atasoy, Hasbahçe: Osmanlı kültüründe bahçe ve çiçek (Istanbul: Koç Kültür Sanat
Tanıtım, 2002), 285; Erdo􀀇an, “􀀈stanbul Bahçeleri” 164-166; Kuban, Wooden Palaces, 98-99.
62 Çelebizade 􀀈smail Asım Efendi, “Tarih-i Çelebizade,” in: Târih-i Râ􀀃id, vol. VI (Istanbul: Matba􀀊ai
Âmire, 1282 [1865-66]), 44.
30
this in greater detail in the following chapter. In any case, the building activity of
imperial pavilions and palaces at Kâ􀀇ıthane in the years from 1720 to 1723 suggests
a sultanic interest in the area that lead to a conscious and concerted effort at reviving
this area of the city, which had apparently been in neglect during the years before.63
The interest in precisely this area of the city might be explained by Sultan Ahmed
III’s supposed fear of the open sea, letting him to prefer suburban retreats that were
situated inland and required shorter boat rides.64
The construction of these imperial pavilions and especially of Sa􀀊dâbâd, an
imperial palace designed for longer sultanic stays, in some respects meant the
continuation and even reinforcement of the former use of space – sultanic presence at
Kâ􀀇ıthane was after all nothing new. Yet it did constitute a rupture in other respects,
constituting an ample and decisive interference in the physical materiality of
Kâ􀀇ıthane and consequently in the use and perception of this space. As will become
clear in the following, the erection of the palace meant on the one hand a more
definite presence of sultanic authority and of the state elite at Kâ􀀇ıthane, while this
did on the other hand not entail the exclusion of the urban public. Quite on the
contrary, sultanic presence seems to have even encouraged the presence of
commoners. This constellation, so I want to argue, constitutes one of the key aspects
in the functioning and meaning of the palace – an aspect, which has not been
considered sufficiently.
63 This neglect is for example noted by Ra􀀉id: “bu kadar zamândan beri kimesneden ol mesîre-i
ra􀀊nâya meyl ve ârzû â􀀉ikâr olmamı􀀉 idi” Ra􀀉id, vol. V, 305.
64 􀀈nciciyan notes Sultan Ahmed III’s fear of the sea, and explains the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd with
the wish to compensate for this fear: “Sultan Ahmet’in denizden korkması da Kâ􀀇ıthane yöresinde
yazlıkların ço􀀇almasına ba􀀉lıca neden oldu. Sultan Ahmet bu korkusundan hiç sevmezdi Bo􀀇az’a
çıkmayı. Kâ􀀇ıthane ve Aynalıkavak’a giderdi her zaman.” G.V. 􀀈nciciyan, Bo􀀃aziçi Sayfiyeleri
(Istanbul: Eren, 2000), 80.
31
Sa􀀌dâbâd Palace
Sa􀀌dâbâd, whose construction started on 7 June 1722 (22 􀀊aban 1134)65, was devised
by the grand vizier Damad 􀀉brahim Pasha as a summer palace for Sultan Ahmed III.
It should be seen in the context of the extensive building programme, which had
been initiated since the return of the court to Istanbul from Edirne in 1703 and was
linked in particular to the figure of 􀀉brahim Pasha. Besides representative purposes,
these building activities were made all the more necessary by an earthquake in 1719,
which was followed by a destructive fire. In the following years, Istanbul was turned
into a huge construction site with building activities patronized both by the dynastic
family and palace dignitaries, which effectively resulted in “the reinscription of court
society in the social and physical space of the capital”66 – a topic I shall deal with
more extensively in the last chapter. As many other works commissioned by 􀀉brahim
Pasha during that period, the construction of Sa􀀌dâbâd, too, was completed under the
supervision and most likely according to the designs of Kayserili Mehmed Â􀀈â, the
head of the royal corps of architects.67 Although the chronicler Ra􀀋id claims that the
construction works were finished in an extraordinary short period of sixty days,68 an
account book of 1726 testifies to comprehensive building activities going on still
between August 1725 and March 1726.69 It therefore seems reasonable to assume
that the palace with its garden was built in several stages and that during the summer
of 1722 not more than the essential parts of the main buildings were completed.
65 Ra􀀋id, vol. V, 444. There is some confusion concerning the date of construction, caused probably
by the fact that in the authoritative work of Sedad Hakkı Eldem, he gives a wrong date of 22 􀀊aban
1135 instead of 1134 (Eldem, Sa􀀇dabad, 14).
66 Tülay Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” in: The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603-1839, ed. by Suraiya
Faroqhi, The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006),
467.
67 Muzaffer Erdo􀀈an, Lâle Devri Ba􀀆 Mi􀀇marı: Kayseri’li Mehmed A􀀅a (Istanbul: 􀀉stanbul Fetih
Cemiyeti, 1962), 8-9, 13.
68 Ra􀀋id, vol. V, 440.
69 OBA MAD.d 1282, 21. The account specifies the time span for which the workers received their
pay from 20 Zi’l-hicce 1137 (30 August 1725) to 27 Cemâzi el-âhir 1138 (2 March 1726).
32
The palace was situated at the side of two rectangular pools and at the head of
the Cedvel-i Sîm, a 1100 m long and 28 m wide tree lined canal, into which a
segment of the Kâ􀀅ıthane Riverhad been rearranged into.70 Through a complex
system of underground canals and overflow basins, the water current coming from
further up the valley was lead through the Cedvel-i Sîm, passed through the pools in
front of the harem and then returned to its natural bed behind the palace. The
Western side of the Cedvel-i Sîm was occupied by the Cirîd Square, a square
devoted to the playing of cirîd – a javelin game performed on horses – and other
games or performances. Publicly accessible meadows extended on the opposite side
of the water canal, with the hills, which form the natural borders of the valley, rising
close by. The palace’s garden was situated by the rectangular pools directly opposite
the palace’s harem building. This fenced in and relatively small garden could be
reached from the palace via two passageways leading across the Cedvel-i Sîm and
located directly by the famous water cascades, which formed the transition from the
canal to the water pools. The passageways were adorned by three small belvedere
pavilions that were situated directly by the cascades and emerged almost right into
the water flow. The palace was moreover surrounded by more than 170 pavilions and
gardens of Ottoman grandees, situated not only in Kâ􀀅ıthane but also in surrounding
valleys, whose construction was ordered by imperial decree simultaneous with the
construction of Sa􀀇dâbâd. After the Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730, during which
the reigning Sultan Ahmed III was deposed and his grand vizier 􀀆brahim Pasha
executed, these pavilions were ordered by the new Sultan Mahmud I to be destroyed.
While the grandees’ pavilions were in this way torn down, the imperial palace itself
saw relatively little harm and was restored in 1740, with apparently only minor
architectural changes of the original building – a fact which allows us to use sources
70 See fig. 1 and 2 in the appendix for plans of the site.
33
dating from after 1740 in order to reconstruct the first version of the palace. This is
important, as there is only very limited information regarding the architecture of the
palace before 1730, mainly from Ottoman chronicles and poetry that allow only
limited inferences on architectural details. The two main sources to be used for
reconstructing the original layout are an account book of 1726 (1138) listing the
prices and amounts of materials and labour of the initial construction71 and an
estimation of the costs for the 1740 reparation works (ke􀀃if), listing the needed
materials with their amounts and costs.72 Additionally, there are a number of single
archival documents, concerning individual repair or construction works throughout
the eighteenth century. As visual material is regarded, there is unfortunately no
depiction of the first version of the palace before the 1740 restoration. Apart from
European engravings of the second half of the eighteenth century, Eldem has
recovered several panoramic sketches as well as a detailed ground plan of Sa􀀄dâbâd
authored by Gudenus, a member of the Austrian embassy at Istanbul in the 1740s.
Together, these sources allow a fairly comprehensive reconstruction of Sa􀀄dâbâd as
constructed under Ahmed III, which we shall now look at in greater detail.73
To begin with the palace itself, one has to note that it was in fact made up of two
separate buildings:74 the women’s quarters (harem-i hümâyûn)75 (D) on the one and
the sultan’s residential part (hâss odası) (Ç) on the other hand, which were clearly
independent units, each being enclosed by a stone wall with separate entrances on
71 OBA MAD.d 1282. This is published in Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 146-158.
72 Published in Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 23-27.
73 The reconstruction of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s ground plan by Eldem based on Gudenus’ plans is reproduced in
the appendix, fig. 3 and 4. Selected sketches, engravings and paintings can be found in the appendix,
fig. 5-9.
74 The letters indicating the different building parts, which are used in the following refer to the
corresponding lettering in Eldem’s reconstruction plans. Appendix, fig. 2, 3 and 4.
75 The account by Ra􀀃id seems to suggest that Sa􀀄dâbâd’s harem building was also called
Nüzhetabad. Ra􀀃id, vol. V, 445.
34
opposite sides – in the North and South respectively – and separate courtyards. Yet
the two buildings were situated closely next to each other with a small covered
bridge-like passageway (g) on the level of the first floor serving as a connection
between them. In between the two residential buildings and the landing site, along
the path leading from the landing site towards the palace buildings the palace’s small
mosque (C) was situated. Mosque and residential buildings were not oriented along
the same axes: while the palace buildings were oriented along the axis of the
rectangular water basins which the harem building’s eastern front immediately
bordered, the mosque was naturally oriented towards Mecca, leading to a ca. 30
degree deviation from the axis of the palace buildings. The straight strip of the
riverbank along which the landing pier was situated to the South of both mosque and
palace buildings, was in turn oriented along again another axis neither parallel nor
perpendicular to those of the mosque and the palace buildings. Moreover, the
Cedvel-i Sîm, that is, the architectural element which lent itself most to constituting a
main axis in relation to which all other buildings would be oriented, did not serve as
such: the palace buildings as well as the water basins were situated neither straight
nor perpendicular in relation to it, but were instead slightly turned. Hence, although
the outline of the palace does display a number of straight lines and geometrical
forms with the pools, the straightened riversides and elongated facades of the
buildings, these were juxtaposed apparently without concern for parallel or
perpendicular orientation in relation to each other. Thus, the palace complex is
clearly lacking the kind of grand, all-encompassing axiality that was typical of
French baroque palace architecture and of which Sa􀀁dâbâd is so often held to be an
imitation.76 This also meant that the type of commanding vistas following seemingly
76 Cerasi makes the same point: Maurice M. Cerasi, Osmanlı Kenti: Osmanlı 􀀆mparatorlu􀀅u’nda 18.
Ve 19. Yüzyıllarda Kent Uygarlı􀀅ı ve Mimarisi, transl. by Aslı Ataöv (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları,
35
never-ending axes and producing well calculated effects of perspective as they were
applied in European baroque palaces, most prominently in Versailles, were not
aimed at in Sa􀀁dâbâd. Whether this was simply not intended or rather due to an
Ottoman inability to apply French architectural models flawlessly will be discussed
in the following chapter. For now, we shall take a closer look at the ground plans of
the palace buildings.
Hâss Odası
The ground plans of the first Sa􀀁dâbâd as reconstructed by Sedad Hakkı Eldem
reveal an architectural structure that emphasizes panoramic views on the surrounding
landscape and in particular seeks to establish a close relation with the water works of
the garden where possible. The hâss odası, that is, the building used by the sultan for
official purposes consisted of a two-storied rectangular shaped single building with a
base area of 160-170 square zira’ (approximately 120-130m2) and was of rather
small dimensions when compared with the neighbouring harem complex. The harem
was not just the residential building for the royal women as commonly assumed, but
also the private residence of the sultan and in this case also that of the darü’s-sa􀀇âde
â􀀅âsı, the chief black eunuch and as such overseer of the harem. Sa􀀁dâbâd’s harem
consisted of a U-shaped building complex made up of three wings with adjoining
buildings that accommodated a kitchen, a hammâm, and rooms for palace personnel
(bostâncı â􀀅âları).77 Harem and hâss odası differed from each other not only in size,
1999), 228. However, he argues in a rather essentialist fashion, attributing an unchanging “traditional”
understanding of nature and nature-city relations to the Ottomans.
77 In the ke􀀆if defteri of 1740 only the single-storied wing at the waterfront is mentioned; the L-shaped
two-storied part however does not appear. Eldem concludes that the latter was added under Mahmud I
after 1740, while the harem of the palace as constructed in 1723 consisted only of the single wing by
the water. The account book of 1725/26 however mentions several corridors (dehlîzler, p. 15) and an
upper floor (üst tabaka, p. 18), clearly pointing to more than one wing. Moreover, the number of
harem rooms seems to have been at least twelve judging according to the number of doors delivered
(p. 10), which is much more than the six rooms located in the wing by the water, and thus also points
36
but also in their orientation: while the hâss odası was oriented towards the Cirîd
Square and the Western hillsides, the harem was oriented towards the waterfront and
thus offered spectacular views of the water works and gardens, in particular that of
the long and straight Cedvel-i Sîm.
Looking in more detail at the hâss odası, its most spectacular room was
certainly the so-called fevkânî kasr-ı hümâyûn (a), located at the Western end of the
sultan’s palace on the upper floor. This room with window fronts on three sides
provided a spectacular view over the Cirîd Square, the hills and meadows behind the
palace as well as the inner courtyard of the Hâss odası. It was the most ornate room
of the entire palace, having a painted and gilded ceiling resting on ten wooden pillars
in between which the nine large windows with wooden shutters were located.78 The
interior wall decoration was based on flower motives and one can assume it to have
resembled the realistic flower and fruit paintings, which enjoyed great popularity in
the eighteenth century.79 Apart from the fevkânî kasr-ı hümâyûn, the upper floor of
the hâss odası was made up of three more rooms with large window fronts towards
the Cirîd Square and low benches (sedîr) along the walls (b, d, e), the one in the
centre (d) opening to a large anteroom (sofa) on the side of the palace courtyard (ç),
which was accessible by stairs from the ground floor and apparently adorned by a
to a bigger building. Assuming only a single harem wing by the waterfront furthermore would have
meant a considerable distance between the sultan’s residential area and the harem, which does not
seem to be a preferable architectural option. Taking these reflections into account, I therefore assume
the harem to have been a three-winged building since the first construction of Sa􀀄dâbâd in 1723.
Moreover, based on the account book of 1725/26 I suggest a different attribution of the rooms of the
harem. In Eldem’s reconstruction, the single-storied wing at the waterfront is denoted as the
apartment of the vâlide sultân (mother of the reigning sultan), for which there is no evidence in the
sources. I propose instead that this wing of the harem was the residence of the darü’s-sa􀀇âde â􀀅âsı
(chief black eunuch) and that the royal women were housed in the two-storied wings.
78 Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 39.
79 Such wall paintings are for example preserved at the Yemi􀀃 Odası in Topkapı Palace’s harem.
Günsel Renda, “La Peinture Traditionelle Turque et le Début des Influences Occidentales,” in:
Histoire de la Peinture Turque, ed. by eadem, et al. (Geneva: Palasar, 1988), 15-86 and Arel, 42-43.
Another example is the Yalı Kö􀀃kü of Amcazade Köprülü Hüseyin Pasha (1699) at Anadoluhisarı, on
the Asian shore of the Bosphorus, whose interior walls were also richly painted with naturalistic
flower bouquets in vases and floral ornamentation. Sedad Hakkı Eldem, Kö􀀆kler ve Kasırlar, vol. II
(Istanbul: Devlet Güzel Sanatlar Akademisi, 1974), 141-178.
37
marble sphere in the centre. This is related by the French traveller de Saumery, who
visited Sa􀀁dâbâd just after its construction in 1722 and provides us with only
description we have of the inside of the hâss odası:
Ce bâtiment consiste en quatre chambre de plein pied superbement meublées, au milieu
desquelles il y a une grande Sale en forme de vestibule, qui donne d’un côté sur la
Galerie, & de l’autre sur une Cour entourée de hautes murailles, qui sert d’entrée; au
milieu de cette Sale on a placé sur un Piédestal un Globe de marbre doré de trente pieds
de circonference; les autres chambres sont ornées de belles croisées en Dômes, sous
lesquels il y a des riches sofas; toutes les glaces ou vitres sont de cristal (...)80
One can perhaps assume that the central room, which was the most spacious hall of
the hâss odası and directly accessible from the large anteroom, was used as a
reception room and audience hall for important guests or officials or as a waiting
room for those waiting for their paper work to be done on the ground floor as well as
a location from where to watch the performances taking place at the Cirîd Square.
The ground floor was less spacious in its outline, being divided into more,
smaller rooms each equipped with a sedîr along the walls and windows towards the
Cirîd Square (b). As one of these rooms belonged to the silâhdâr â􀀃âsı one can
assume that they were probably used by high-ranking palace officials to watch
performances or receive visitors. The side of the ground floor facing the inner
courtyard was taken up by two reception halls (dîvânhâne); a large and a small one
with separate entrances equipped with benches along the walls (c, ç, d). The
denotation of these halls as dîvânhâne in the archival documents indicates that
official assemblies or audiences would be held or other governmental or scribal work
carried out here. Obviously then, Sa􀀁dâbâd cannot be regarded as a place designed
exclusively for repose and entertainment far away from the world of politics –
instead, the presence of the sultan and his court meant that the political dimension
was not lost out of sight. From the smaller dîvânhâne (c) stairs led up towards the
anteroom of the fevkânî kasr-ı hümâyûn suggesting that this hall with its separate
80 De Saumery, 136.
38
entrance was used by the sultan or exclusive visitors. The larger reception hall (ç) on
the other hand, located right next to the small one, provided access via stairs to the
large anteroom on the upper floor and hence seems to have had a more public
character.81 The layout of the hâss odası, then, seems to suggest a progression from
relatively public and accessible towards more private and exclusive space parallel
with the progression both from the ground towards the upper floor as well as from
the centre of the building towards its corners, culminating in the sultan’s private
fevkânî kasr-ı hümâyûn in the buildings uttermost corner.
Compared to the relatively small residential building the hâss odası’s
rectangular and walled courtyard was of quite large dimensions. Access was
provided by three gates, one placed centrally along the wall opposite of the palace –
the main gate (III) – and the other two directly across from each other along the two
other side walls (IV, V). Next to the main gate, a little fountain was situated on the
outer face of the courtyard’s wall, probably providing water for various purposes.
Being allowed to pass one of these gates into the hâss odası’s courtyard was the
prerogative of certain ranks – despite sultanic visibility during the public procession
on his way to Sa􀀆dâbâd, the palace itself constituted an exclusive space, which only
those with the appropriate rank could access. At the inauguration feast upon the
completion of Sa􀀆dâbâd on 10 August 1722 (27 􀀄evval 1134) for example, after the
arrival of the sultanic procession, only certain select dignitaries were allowed to pass
the palace’s gate, while the majority of the procession participants had to be content
with the tents set up on the Cirîd Square.82
The pompous procession with which the sultan would arrive at Sa􀀆dâbâd
usually approached the palace riding along the Eastern riverbank, crossing the
81 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 36-39.
82 Ra􀀅id, vol. V, 448.
39
Kâ􀀃ıthane Riverat one of the bridges situated downstream of the palace and then
riding into the palace grounds from the West, diagonally approaching the main gate.
Once more it becomes obvious, that Ottoman aesthetics as well as court ritual was
not much concerned with achieving the visual effects of strict axiality and
perpendicular intersecting lines. When arriving at Sa􀀄dâbâd by boat, however –
which was practiced less frequently than the arrival on horseback, but was still
common enough – the outline of the buildings would only with difficulty allow the
sultan to enter through the main gate, especially because of the mosque positioned in
between the hâss odası and the landing pier (B). More likely, the sultan would then
enter the narrow passage between hâss odası and harem and enter through the
eastern side gate. This assumption is corroborated by the fact that Mahmud I had
erected a pergola covering the path from the sultanic landing pier to the corner of the
mosque situated close to the Eastern gate some time in the 1730s (b).83 Why the need
for a covered pathway was felt can only be speculated upon, yet apart from sun
protection what one might also see in this pergola is an attempt by the new sultan to
decrease public visibility, as the path had previously been completely unprotected
from curious gazes potentially emanating from the surrounding public meadows. The
three gates on three different sides of the courtyard apparently provided for a certain
ceremonial flexibility of entering and leaving the kasır and hence made possible
different ‘choreographies’ of the court’s arrival, different ways of orchestrating the
sultan’s moving in space.
Harem
As has been mentioned, the harem was of much larger extensions than the hâss
odası. Also based upon a rectangular ground plan with a courtyard, in this case three
83 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 28.
40
sides of the rectangle were built up, thus forming a U-shaped structure whose open –
yet walled in – side faced the Cirîd Square. This type of U-shaped building enclosing
a courtyard is in fact not typical of Ottoman palace and kö􀀃k architecture, which
preferred either compact single rectangular buildings or arrangements of several
unconnected buildings.84 The inspiration for this layout might have come from
Istanbul’s residential architecture, where wooden two-storied buildings often
enclosed a central courtyard.85 Taking into account the Ottoman chronicler Ra􀀆id’s
remark that Ahmed III’s ephemeral wooden water front palace, which he had built
along the wall of the Topkapı Palace facing the Marmara sea was inspired by
Istanbul’s vernacular architecture, the same source of inspiration regarding building
layout might be assumed.86
The main entrance gate to the harem (VII) was situated in the wall on the side
of the Cirîd Square, thus on the opposite side when compared with the main gate of
the hâss odası. This location of the entrance seems rather unpractical, as it would
mean that someone arriving at the landing pier (B) by boat had to surround almost
the entire harem building in order to enter it. The alternative of travelling to
Sa􀀇dâbâd on horse-drawn carriages (􀀇arâba) meant arriving from the West and
surrounding the hâss odası as well as passing across the Cirîd Square – again this
appears to be neither very practical nor suitable for ceremonial processions. What
this location of both the harem’s and the hâss odası’s entrance gates once more
shows, however, is the absence of an all-encompassing system of axiality, which was
84 Kuban, Wooden Palaces, and Eldem, Kö􀀃kler ve Kasırlar. Only the outline of Ça􀀅layan Sarayı is
somewhat similar to that of Sa􀀇dâbâd, as it consists of a two-winged building forming a right angle on
the edges of a squared, walled in courtyard. The effect is however a different one, since the courtyard
is cut into halves by a wall separating the harem from the selamlık. See Eldem, Türk Evleri vol. 2,
140-141.
85 Eldem, Sedad Hakkı, Türk Evi: Osmanlı Dönemi (Istanbul: Türkiye Anıt, Çevre, Turizm
De􀀅erlerini Koruma Vakfı, 1984). Kuban refers to this type of house as the “Hayat house”: Do􀀅an
Kuban, The Turkish Hayat House (Istanbul: Eren, 1995).
86 Ra􀀆id, vol. III, 307; for inspirations from Istanbul’s vernacular architecture see also Shirine
Hamadeh, The City’s Pleasures: Istanbul in the Eighteenth Century (Seattle & London: University of
Washington Press, 2008), 71-72.
41
not only manifest in architecture but also had its repercussions on court ceremonial:
the ceremonial of imperial arrival did obviously not aim at producing impressive
effects by straight processions heading towards the palace’s main gate along a
centrally aligned axis. While the processions of Ahmed III and his successors to
Sa􀀁dâbâd were certainly pompous and meant to produce an awe-inspiring image of
magnificence, they did not rely on right-angle based, axial movements in relation to
architectural monuments in order to do so.
After entering into the harem’s courtyard by the main gate, one would find
oneself enclosed by three wings, each with a covered gallery (hayât) in front, which
was a typical feature of Ottoman vernacular architecture in Anatolia and parts of the
Balkans.87 The wing closest to the hâss odası was the residential space of the sultan
and of the women of the harem. Typical for Ottoman residential architecture, the
upper floor was the privileged one due to the maximum of light and fresh air it
received. This floor was presumably inhabited by the sultan and his concubines,
while the servants might have stayed in the smaller rooms on the ground floor (n1-
n8).88 The sultan’s private quarters (k), situated on the corner of this wing on the
upper floor, directly by the passageway that connected harem and hâss odası, had
two large window fronts, which provided a view over the palace’s gardens and water
works as well as over the harem’s inner courtyard.89 The remaining rooms on the
upper floor (n1-n4) were according to Gudenus equipped with sedîr benches and
cupboards and had a view towards the hâss odası.
87 Kuban, Hayat House.
88 This distinction between lower floor as area for servants and the upper floor as the location of the
house owner’s social life was traditional for Ottoman palaces, but started to change during the
eighteenth century, with the ground floor receiving greater importance. Kuban, Wooden Palaces, 60-
62.
89 The attribution of the kö􀀃k and the adjoining smaller rooms at the corner of the Eastern harem wing
coincides with Gudenus’ labelling of the rooms in his plan of Sa􀀁dâbâd from the 1740s. Reprint in
Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 30-31.
42
The perpendicular adjacent wing accommodated a number of rooms on both
the upper and lower floor (n9-n11, o1-o4), belonging probably to royal women or
palace personnel as well as a small hammâm (Turkish bath) (l, t).90 Finally, the third
wing of the harem, which immediately bordered on the water basins along the entire
length of its façade, accommodated, as I suggest, the apartment of the darü’s-sa􀀄âde
â􀀃âsı. This wing had only a single floor, with the exception of one elevated kiosklike
room on its far end, to which one could ascend by stairs and which must have
offered a stunning view of the canal and the meadows. The ground floor was
occupied by five rooms (o1-o4, u), each with window fronts opening towards the
water. Located between them was a recess with six windows onto the pools and
sedîrs along the walls (r), which was directly accessible from the gallery (p) and
immediately opposite the entrance door. One might assume that this functioned as a
reception or living room. The three wings were connected on both floors by a
continuous gallery (hayât or sofa) open towards the inner courtyard (m, p).
Moreover, adjacent to the Southern wing of the harem, facing the mosque and the
landing pier, a rectangular building containing a big kitchen (i) as well as the rooms
of the higher-ranking bostâncıs (g, h1-h5) were located. Both kitchen and the
bostâncı apartments had separate entrances (IX, X). While from the kitchen passing
90 In Eldem’s reconstruction plans, it seems as if there were two hammâms in this wing, one with two
domes (l), the other with only one (t). The two domes in the plan, however, are not labelled; only the
single domed room is marked as a hammâm. Eighteenth-century sketches and engravings of Sa􀀁dâbâd
do not ever depict such a single dome, while they do all depict two small domes next to each other. I
therefore assume that there was only one hammâm, which in all likelihood was covered by two
domes. The information provided by Gudenus in this regard is contradictory: on his plan, the
hammâm has only one dome, while on his sketch, one clearly distinguishes two domes at the place
where the hammâm must have been situated.
Eldem moreover regards the rooms adjacent to the hammâm with a window front towards the water
basins as undressing and lounging rooms for the hammâm (u). I propose instead that these rooms were
not functionally connected to the hammâm, but belonged instead to the apartment of the darü’s-sa􀀄âde
â􀀃âsı, who was accommodated in the wing parallel to the water basins.
43
into the harem was possible, the bostâncı apartments did not allow direct access to
the harem.91
The harem buildings, then, had clearly residential character, providing
considerable comfort with their spacious and light rooms offering spectacular views
and with an integrated hammâm and a large kitchen. Compared to the harem, the
sultan’s residence was of quite small dimensions and did not offer comparable
extravagant views on Sa􀀁dâbâd’s most remarkable elements, the Cedvel-i Sîm, the
water cascades and the fountain-adorned water pools. The orientation of the hâss
odası towards the Cirîd Square instead of towards the gardens seems to indicate that
the watching of performances, perhaps together with guests, was the main function
of this part of the palace, which had thus mainly representative official functions. On
the other hand, the harem’s view towards the gardens mirrored its use as the private
retreat for the sultan and the royal women.
Architectural Style
As regards the overall architectural style of Sa􀀁dâbâd’s buildings what is perhaps
most evident is the obvious concern to create light rooms oriented towards the
outside with large window fronts to provide ample views on the surrounding
landscape. This spaciousness and transparency was a typical feature of eighteenthcentury
residential architecture, which can be especially well observed in the
architecture of the yalıs (summer villas) of this period along the Bosphorus shore –
indeed, the early eighteenth century has even been termed “the golden age of the
waterfront palace.”92 These displayed a remarkable interpenetration of nature and
architecture, being built as close as possible to and often even above the sea and
91 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 36-39.
92 Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” 465. This article gives a good overview over the architectural and
artistic developments of the eighteenth century. See also Hamadeh, The City’s Pleasures and Artan,
“Theatre of Life” for information on Istanbul’s architectural history during the eighteenth century.
44
whose position was minutely coordinated so as to exploit the optimal views.93 Not
only residential architecture, public and religious buildings of this period, too,
displayed a remarkable concern for transparency. As Maurice Cerasi has shown in
the case of the Divan Yolu, the increasing number of architectural monuments
patronized by Ottoman court officials and army officers, like medrese (school)
buildings, türbes (monumental tombs), fountains and small-scale mosques were
characterized by a high degree of transparency. Although fences or walls surrounded
many of the buildings along the Divan Yolu, these had multiple openings, which
allowed passers-by to have a look inside and established a continuous relation
between public street-life and the monument in question.94 This eighteenth-century
concern for visibility and display by the powerful – both by the sultan himself as
well as by lower-ranking power holders – points towards a need for representation
towards the population as well as an inter-elite competition carried out amongst
others in the fields of architecture and consumption. I will come back to this
significant political dimension in greater detail in the last chapter of this thesis.
Its architectural openness also markedly differentiated Sa􀀄dâbâd from earlier
Ottoman palaces, notably the Topkapı Palace, whose layout was founded upon the
principle of a non-visible sultan secluded behind the high walls in the innermost
courtyard of the Topkapı Palace.95 Although at Sa􀀄dâbâd, too, there was a clear
spatial hierarchy of accessible versus exclusive spaces with probably clear rules
allowing or restricting access according to rank, the prevailing architectural principle
was one of openness and visibility. Clearly, this was also due to the different
functionality of these two palaces: Sa􀀄dâbâd was contrary to the Topkapı Palace not
93 Hamadeh, The City’s Pleasures, 67-71; Artan, “Theatre of Life,” 10-12 and 248-258; Kuban,
Wooden Palaces.
94 Cerasi, Divanyolu, 104.
95 Gülru Necipo􀀃lu, Architecture, Ceremonial, And Power: The Topkapı Palace in the Fifteenth and
Sixteenth Centuries (New York: The Architectural History Foundation, 1991); Gülru Necipo􀀃lu,
“Framing the Gaze in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Palaces,” Ars Orientalis 23 (1993): 303-342.
45
the permanent residence of the sultan, but a place for short stays and excursions
during the summer, visited in particular to enjoy the natural beauty at Kâ􀀅ıthane.
Nevertheless, the fact that Sultan Ahmed III and other eighteenth-century sultans
actively promoted the building of such summer palaces and frequently visited them
clearly testifies to a change in architectural taste.
Sa􀀇dâbâd’s wooden façade, too, was a feature it shared with Bosphorus’ yalıs.
Not only the building material, but also the design of the façade was typical of
eighteenth-century waterside residences having large window fronts, that evaded
monotony through the continual alteration of recesses and projections, thus creating
movement and contrasts of light and shade with the changing position of the sun
throughout the day.96 Although Sa􀀇dâbâd’s dimensions were still relatively modest, it
foreshadowed the trend to design linear uninterrupted facades of immense length
creating a monumental outlook. This was a trend that came to the fore in the latter
half of the century especially at residences along the Bosphorus shore, but its origins
can already be observed in the design of Sa􀀇dâbâd’s regular façade, which was
structured only by the variant patterning of uniform elements – the identical windows
with their wooden window shutters.97 Also typical for eighteenth-century
architecture was the decoration – mostly by paint – of both the exterior facades as
well as the walls, ceilings and columns in the interior. We know that interior walls
and columns were colourfully painted with ornaments and floral motives, that
precious materials like gold were used98 and that stucco works (sıvâ nak􀀃i) adorned
the exterior walls towards the courtyard.99 The exterior walls facing the outside seem
to have been unadorned however as far as one can tell from the illustrations and
96 Kuban, Wooden Palaces, 62.
97 To name but the most prominent examples: the imperial palace of Tersane in its state of the late
eighteenth century as depicted by Melling, the palace of Hatice Sultan (early nineteenth century), the
palace of Be􀀆ikta􀀆 (1780s). Kuban, Wooden Palaces, 42.
98 OBA MAD.d 1282, 8; Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 25-27.
99 Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 27.
46
descriptions existing. The fashion for painted wall decorations or plaster works
instead of the tile revetments, which had been favoured in the classical age, can in
part simply be explained by a lack of high-quality tiles – the Iznik factories had
stopped production, and the tiles produced at the Tekfur factory, newly founded by
􀀆brahim Pasha in 1725, were not of sufficient quality.100 One can perhaps imagine
Sa􀀇dâbâd’s interior to have looked like what the French traveller Flachat saw in
sultanic residences in Istanbul in the 1750s: “Les murs sont couverts de belles
peintures, bas-reliefs en stuc, boisages & sculptures, dorés & chargés de fleurs
peintes au naturel.”101 For Sa􀀇dâbâd in particular, we do not have more specific
information about the details of the decorations and wall paintings, but deducing
from other buildings of the period about which more information exists, one can
assume that these were probably colourful realistic fruit and flower still lifes, perhaps
landscape or city views as well as geometrical patterns.102 Yet despite its prolonged
regular façade, the wall decorations and the transparent yalı style, Sa􀀇dâbâd was for
an imperial palace a rather modest building, which was surpassed in decoration and
amenities even by non-sultanic yalıs and konaks in Istanbul at the same period.103
Rather than the imperial palace itself, what in fact accounted for the fame of the
palace complex with both Ottomans and Europeans was Sa􀀇dâbâd’s garden and in
particular its water works.
Garden
The visually determining element of Sa􀀇dâbâd’s garden was surely the Cedvel-i Sîm,
the straight tree-lined canal of 1100 m length, which the Kâ􀀅ıthane River had been
100 Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” 469.
101 Jean-Claude Flachat, Observations sur le Commerce et sur les Arts d’une partie de l’Europe, de
l’Asie, de l’Afrique et même des Indes Orientales (Paris: Jacquenod & Rusand, 1767), 429.
102 For a good overview over the art of the period with reference to wall paintings see Renda.
103 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 28.
47
arranged into. The canal was lined with cut marble, which had been supplied from
Kule Garden, an imperial garden created by Sultan Süleyman in the 1520s in
Çengelköy on the Asian coast of the Bosphorus, which by the eighteenth century had
fallen into ruins.104 Due to the large-scale renovation and building activities initiated
by Damad 􀀆brahim Pasha, Istanbul apparently experienced a scarcity of building
materials as well as craftsmen, which is why the reuse of building materials was
relatively widespread.105
At the end of the Cedvel-i Sîm the water was led over two chains of water
cascades into the pool in front of the palace. These cascades were constituted of rows
of half-elliptic, convex marble basins reminiscent of rocaille shapes (H, G), which
also served as passageways across the canal. Along the bigger of the two (H) – the
so-called Cisr-i Nûrânî (literally Bridge of the Lights) – three small open belvederes
labelled Taht-ı Hümâyûn (Imperial Throne) were placed, consisting of not more than
a lead-covered, dome-shaped roof suspended on four columns and offering the
opportunity of reposing in the shade, nearly immersed into the gushing water with a
view along the length of the canal. These belvederes, which – judging from their
appellation – were envisioned for sultanic use, were made of precious material:
ground and balustrades were of marble, covered by a gilded ceiling.106 A water jet in
the shape of three or four spiralled snake bodies made of bronze adorned the pool in
front of the palace (g), ending in dragon heads serving as water spouts. Where
exactly the inspiration for this extravagant design came from is not sure.107 Next to
104 Gülru Necipo􀀅lu, “The Suburban Landscape of Sixteenth-Century Istanbul as a Mirror of
Classical Ottoman Garden Culture,” in: Gardens in the Time of the Great Muslim Empires: Theory
and Design, ed. by Attilio Petruccioli (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 38.
105 Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” 469.
106 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 24.
107 In the annotation to his ground plan (see ibid., 30-31), Gudenus makes the interesting remark that
this was an imitation of the Serpent Column on the Hippodrome (Atmeydanı), which was an eight
meter high ancient Greek column from the fifth century BC, whose shaft was made in the form of
three intertwining snake bodies. The column had originally been placed in front the Apollo temple in
48
this famous water jet, two identical and relatively simple marble water jets were
situated the front of the darü’s-sa􀀄âde â􀀃âsı’s apartment in the harem (f).108 From
the pools, through a system of canals that adjusted the water level the flow was
finally led back into its natural bed. The water cascades, pools and water jets have
been taken as key indicators for likening Sa􀀁dâbâd to French palace gardens. While
this question will be dealt with in the next chapter, at this point I simply want to
highlight that evidently these water works meant a considerable interference into the
previous natural order of the valley – considering in particular the complex system
necessary to regulate the water level in the canal and pools by underground pipes and
overflow canals – and with few comparable garden outlines in Istanbul constituted a
particularity that must have attracted considerable attention if not awe – especially if
one takes into account that this was not a secluded imperial palace garden, but
situated in the middle of a public and highly frequented mesîre.
Another remarkable element of the garden was the so-called Kasr-ı Cînan
(Pavilion of Paradise) (E) situated in front of the darü’s-sa􀀄âde â􀀃âsı’s apartment,
right next to the pool and the water cascades, which was famous for the thirty marble
pillars upholding its roof. The cross-shaped pavilion was open towards all sides, only
enclosed by marble balustrades in between the pillars. The inside was protected from
the sun by curtains or textile shutters suspended from the roof. Golden flower
decorations adorned the ceiling and a little water jet in the centre provided coolness.
Charles Perry, an English doctor who visited the Ottoman Empire at the end of the
Tulip Period describes the pavilion vividly in considerable detail:
This Kiosk is embellished in a very splendid elegant manner; its Roof is covered all
over with Lead, resting upon little Arches, which are sustained by 30 small Pillars: The
Delphi, from where Constantine I (324-327) had it brought to the newly founded Constantinople.
Gudenus’ allusion is hard to verify, however de Saumery, who visited Sa􀀁dâbâd shortly after its
construction in 1722 makes the same allusion. De Saumery, 137.
108 Their number in fact varies between two and three on the different illustrations; Eldem holds there
were two based on the plan by Gudenus. Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 8, 24.
49
Intercolumnations are filled with Sheets of green Canvas, which, when stretched out,
may serve as Umbrella’s. The Entrance is through a Pair of Brass Folding-doors, which
are fixed in a Cafe of white Marble; between the Pillars in each Space rises a Balustrade
about Two Feet from the Ground, upon which was a Sofa of very rich Brocade; in the
Middle is a lovely Fountain, which plays its Water through a Cluster of little gilded
Pipes, starting out of a Marble Cistern, against a large gilt Wall hung with Tassels:
From thence the Water is reflected upon a noble Tivan, or Ceiling, of gilded Fret-work,
which beats it down again in little sprinkling Showers.109
Moreover, according to a poem by Nedim mirrors adorned the walls of the Kasr-ı
Cînan.110 That they don’t appear in Perry’s description might be connected to the
partial destruction of Sa􀀄dâbâd in 1730. The pavilion had two entrances: the kasr-ı
hümâyûn gate for the sultan, situated on the Western end of the pavilion and thus the
first to be reached when coming from the sultan’s apartment and the harem gate
facing the harem. Both were adorned by golden inscriptions and muqarnas works.111
It is thus clear that this pavilion was to be used by the sultan, the darüssade â􀀃âsı
and the women from the harem and envisioned to be accessed directly from their
respective apartments. Regarding the pavilion’s setting, it is furthermore evident that
it was intended to exploit the extraordinary perspective provided by the long and
straight Cedvel-i Sîm. As apart from the Kasr-ı Cînan this view was only provided
by the three little belvederes on top of the water cascades, which were according to
their name envisioned for sultanic use, the full effect of the perspective created by
the Cedvel-i Sîm was effectively turned into a sultanic privilege.
The Kasr-ı Cînan has been interpreted as an architectural reference to the
Chihil Sutûn pavilion in Isfahan built by Shah Abbas I and remodelled by Abbas II
in 1647, which was famed for its forty pillars:112 twenty real pillars suspending the
pavilion’s roof, which together with their reflection in the pool in front added up to a
total of forty. One can in this way argue that the number of pillars of the Kasr-ı
109 Charles Perry, A View of the Levant: Particularly of Constantinople, Syria, Egypt and Greece
(London: T. Woodward, C. Davis and J. Shuckburgh, 1743), 24-25.
110
Nedim Divanı, ed. by Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı (Istanbul: 􀀃nkilâp ve Aka, 1972), 83.
111 Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 8-9, 24, 44-45, 58.
112 In Persian, chihil literally means forty and sutûn means column/pillar.
50
Cînan amounted to a total of sixty together with their reflection in the water and that
the Ottomans thus surpassed the Safavid model, well-known in the entire Islamic
world. Taking into account that the Ottomans were at the time of the construction of
Sa􀀇dâbâd attempting to profit from the decline of the Safavid dynasty and declared
war in 1722, such an interpretation does not seem unreasonable.113 However, in
terms of architectural style, the two buildings bear hardly any resemblance: while
Isfahan’s Chihil Sutûn is a grand pavilion of immense height, with a covered
reception hall based on a rectangular ground plan and a pillar-supported wide roof in
front, Sa􀀇dâbâd’s Kasr-ı Cînan was of much smaller dimensions, based on a crossshaped
ground plan, intended as a space of repose providing views of nature and less
as a space for official ceremonies as in the Persian case.114 Moreover, in the Persian
world “Chihil Sutûn” was a general architectural term denoting halls with many, not
necessarily forty, columns. It was a well-known architectural type, which can be
traced back as far as Achaemenid Persepolis, where ceremonies were held in multicolumned
audience halls.115 The Ottoman chroniclers’ emphasis on the number of
pillars at Sa􀀇dâbâd’s Kasr-ı Cînan could therefore also be read as testifying to their
participating in a greater Islamic system of architectural perception and reference,
where multi-columned buildings were invested with great fame, rather than as a
specific reference to Isfahan’s Chihil Sutûn, from which the Ottoman pavilion
differed remarkably in its concrete architectural reality.
Another built element in Sa􀀇dâbâd’s garden was a fountain (çe􀀃me) called
Çe􀀆m-i Nûr (Fountain of Light) or Çe􀀆m-i Nevpeydâ (Newly Erected Fountain)
located opposite the Kasr-ı Cînan on the shore of the water basin (F). According to
113 Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad,” 52-53.
114 Regarding the different functions of Persian and Ottoman garden pavilions as official political
spaces and places of personal retreat respectively see also Necipo􀀅lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 42.
115 Ebba Koch, “Diwan-i ‘Amm and Chihil Sutûn: The Audience Halls of Shah Jahan,” Muqarnas 11
(1994): 147-148.
51
its inscription it was built one year after the palace in 1723. Typical of the style of
eighteenth-century Ottoman fountains, it featured playful, curved floral
ornamentation. Its inscription by the period’s famous poet Vehbi intricately linked
the beauty of Sa􀀗dâbâd and its water works with the majesty and splendour of Sultan
Ahmed III and of the Ottoman state. Like the ever-flowing water of the fountain so
the empire was to enjoy eternal prosperity and impress the entire universe by its
achievements.116
Regarding the planting of the garden, the information available is only
limited. European depictions of Sa􀀗dâbâd do not reveal any flower planting, yet in
front of the sultan’s hâss odası, on the edge of the Cirîd Square was possibly a
terraced tulip garden, in which the forty orange trees, a gift by Louis XV to the
sultan, had been planted in parallel rows.117 The other trees of the palace ground –
maple (di􀀉budak), Oriental plane (çınar), chestnut (kestane), elm (karaâ􀀇âç), lime
(ıhlamur) – were requested to be brought from woods on the Northern coasts of the
Bosphorus around both Anadolu and Rumeli Kava􀀎ı118 and Anadolu and Rumeli
116 Eldem, Sa􀀗dabad, 9, 24, 60-61. The inscription reads:
Menba’-ı c􀀖y-ı sa’􀀔det 􀀔b-ı r􀀖y-ı salt􀀚anat
H􀀙azret-i Sult􀀚􀀔n Ah􀀚med 􀀁􀀔n-ı 􀀏skender-s􀀚ıfat
Yaptırıp bu k􀀙as􀀚r-ı Sa’d-􀀔b􀀔d’ı çün fas􀀚s􀀚-ı nigin
􀀐öyle bir s􀀚u verdi kim h􀀚ayrette kaldı k􀀔’in􀀔t
Ya’n􀀕 bir nev-çe􀀑me-i p􀀔k􀀕ze büny􀀔d etti kim
L􀀖lesi ibr􀀕k-I 􀀑erbettir s􀀚uyu k􀀚at􀀚r-ı neb􀀔t
􀀐evketin efz􀀖n edip H􀀚ak􀀚 ‘ömr-i 􀀁ı􀀒r ih􀀚s􀀔n ede
Devlet ü 􀀑􀀔n u 􀀑ük􀀖hu h􀀚a􀀑re dek bulsun s􀀚eb􀀔t
􀀓bını n􀀖􀀑 eyleyip Vehb􀀕 dedi ta’ri􀀂ini
Dehre Sult􀀙􀀔n Ah􀀙med icr􀀔 eyledi m􀀔-i h􀀙ayat
Published in: Hatice Aynur and Hakan T. Karateke, III. Ahmed Devri 􀀈stanbul Çe􀀉meleri (1703-1730)
(Istanbul: 􀀏stanbul Büyük􀀑ehir Belediyesi, 1995), 147-148.
117 Ziya Özel, “Die Entwicklung der Freiraumgestaltung in der Türkei vom XV. Jahrhundert bis zur
Gegenwart,” (PhD dissertation, TU Berlin, 1964), 49; Atasoy, Hasbahçe, 278.
118 C.BLD 1018 (26 Safer 1135/6 December 1722). Published in Ka􀀎ıthane Belediye Ba􀀑kanlı􀀎ı,
Osmanlı Belgelerinde Ka􀀇ıthane, 357 and in Halil Kutluk, Türkiye Ormancılı􀀇ı 􀀈le 􀀈lgili Tarihî
Vesikalar 893-1339 (1487-1923) (Istanbul: T.C. Tarım Bakanlı􀀎ı, 1948), 55-56.
52
Hisarı119 as well as from the district of Yoros, today’s Beykoz;120 from districts on
the Black Sea Coast relatively close to Istanbul like Terkos,121 Kanderi (Kandıra),122
􀀃ile and Akabad;123 and even from further away areas around Samsun (􀀃ıhlı).124
During the two years after the completion of the palace, a great number of trees – at
least 1685 judging from the archival documents consulted; the poet Nedim talks of
1000 saplings125 – were demanded from these regions, which were ordered to be
straight, erect and well-proportioned as well as of similar size and to have large
leaves. The trees were to be transported to Istanbul with ships and great care was
ordered to be taken for them not to get damaged in any way during the shipping. It
was moreover of great importance for these trees to be straight: before cutting the
trees, the Southern side of the stems was ordered to be marked with red paint, so that
they could be planted in the same orientation and thus avoid to become warped.126
Obviously then, one attempted to create a tree assortment, which was to be
homogeneous in terms of size and – as far as possible – form, yet diverse in terms of
species. The insistence on the part of the administration for procuring straight and
even-sized trees suggests that one was well aware of the perspectival effect, which
long uniform tree lines along the borders of the Cedvel-i Sîm created and that one
apparently intended to accentuate this architectural axis. Apart from those trees
lining the Cedvel-i Sîm, the remaining trees were arranged loosely in small groups or
alone without an obvious geometrical or symmetrical order – a feature typical of
119 OBA C.SM 8953 (22 and 24 Safer 1136/21 and 23 November 1723). The transcription is attached
in the appendix.
120 OBA C.SM 6775 (29 Zi’l-hicce 1134/10 October 1722).
121 OBA C.SM 8953.
122 OBA C.BLD 1018.
123 OBA C.SM 8953.
124 OBA C.BLD 1018.
125 Nedim, 346.
126 OBA C.BLD 1018 and C.SM 8953.
53
Ottoman garden design, which preferred natural arrangements that did not betray
their artificial origins.127
Lastly, the palace garden situated on the side of the pools opposite the harem
was surrounded by a stonewall of about two to three metres in height with several
entrance gates, which extended until the water cascades, where it joined the edge of
the Cedvel-i Sîm. The remaining span of the canal’s Eastern edge was thus entirely
accessible to the public. On the opposite side the palace buildings and the adjacent
Cirîd Square were surrounded by a fence starting from the little bridge by the landing
pier (A) – the bridge itself was not inside the enclosed area – leading all the way to
the end of the canal. The Cirîd Square was in this way effectively cut off from public
access, yet one could without any effort observe the huge field from the opposite
shore, especially so from the ascending hillsides. The same was true for the smaller
palace garden: one could – despite the surrounding wall – observe with ease what
was happening inside, as becomes evident on engravings depicting Sa􀀄dâbâd. On
these paintings, one also sees people entering apparently without restraint through
the walls’ gates and conversing across the fence.128 The valley with the palace and its
gardens on the bottom can thus justly be described as an ‘amphitheatre’ – a term,
which was indeed by many European travellers used in order to describe the “Sweet
Waters of Europe”. And this term is telling as it can be taken to refer to much more
than just the spatial layout of ascending hillsides around a narrow riverbed. It seems
an apt term to grasp the performative character that the spatial layout entailed: the
court society, the sultan, his harem and state dignitaries were highly visible to an
127 Maurice Cerasi, “Open space, water and trees in Ottoman urban culture in the XVIIIth-XIXth
centuries,” Environmental Design: Water and Architecture 2 (1985): 38-39; see also Necipo􀀃lu
“Suburban Landscape”; Gönül Evyapan, Eski Türk Bahçeleri ve özellikle Eski 􀀃stanbul Bahçeleri
(Ankara: Orta Do􀀃u Teknik Üniversitesi, 1972); eadem “The intrinsic values of the traditional
Anatolian Turkish garden,” Environmental Design: The City as a Garden 1 (1986): 10-15 and Atasoy,
Hasbahçe, 27, 53.
128 See the engraving by Hilaire in Mouradgea d’Ohsson’s Tableau Générale. Appendix, fig. 9.
54
urban public assembled on the meadows of the public mesîre when watching horse
races on the Cirîd Square or when reposing in the Kasr-ı Cînan. Thus performances
arranged for the amusement of the court society inevitably turned into public
entertainments, with the commoners not only watching but also being integrated into
the entertainments for example by the distribution of gifts.129
Ottoman Precedents to Sa􀀇dâbâd’s Garden Layout
Sa􀀇dâbâd’s garden layout has been acclaimed as a novelty in Ottoman garden
architecture, as a break with former traditions130 – claims, which fit in well with the
discourse of the Tulip Age as a first and decisive turning towards the West. Yet I
want to argue here that although the Cedvel-i Sîm and the water cascades certainly
were impressive constituents, these did not come completely ‘out of the blue’ (and
neither from France for that matter), but did indeed have precedents in Ottoman
garden architecture. Central to the Sa􀀇dâbâd-as-novelty thesis is the presumptive turn
to axiality and symmetry by means of the straight Cedvel-i Sîm – an attempt that is
regarded as opposed to the classical Ottoman garden characterized by “asymmetrical
open compositions with an outward-looking orientation.”131 The fact that Ottoman
descriptions of the palace in chronicles or poetry do not devote much attention to
Sa􀀇dâbâd’s geometric garden architecture, while they do praise the palace building
amongst others for its novelty however raises some doubts. The chronicler Ra􀀆id for
example simply notes of the Cedvel-i Sîm to be a wide and straight canal (􀀄arîz bir
mecrâ-yı hemvâr-ı müstakîm), while the other chroniclers do not describe its
129 Ra􀀆id (Târih-i Râ􀀃id, 449) even relates that thirty people from the audience were ordered to race
and the winners awarded with presents.
130 For example Atasoy, Hasbahçe, 53; Arel, 27.
131 Necipo􀀅lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 33.
55
architectural terms at all.132 The mentioning by the poet Nahifi of Sa􀀇dâbâd’s hendesi
tab􀀇, that is, its geometrical nature, is the only remark I have found regarding the
matter.133 This suggests that geometrical garden layouts were not extraordinary in
Ottoman eyes and that they were in fact quite familiar with them, firstly because
there were and had been geometrically layouted gardens in the Ottoman lands and in
Istanbul in particular and secondly because of the Ottoman familiarity with the axial
garden layouts of the Turko-Persian world. The latter point shall be treated in greater
detail in the following chapter – here the focus shall be on possible Ottoman
precedents for Sa􀀇dâbâd’s geometrical layout.
To begin with, the most famous example is probably the Karabali Garden of
the early sixteenth century, situated along the European Bosphorus shore in
Kabata􀀆.134 It was based on the Persian chaharbagh design, which denotes a
quadripartite layout obtained by two perpendicularly intersecting straight water
channels. Featuring a painting in the garden’s central pavilion, which represented the
battle by Selim I against the Safavid Shah Ismail in 1514, the Karabali Garden was in
all likelihood erected to commemorate Selim’s victory over the Persians and its
Persianate layout might well have been chosen for the same reason. Although the
chaharbagh design cannot be encountered in other Ottoman gardens after this, the
example testifies to the fact that there was a familiarity with such geometrical layouts
– after all an integrative part of Persian culture, which in turn constituted an
important cultural reference point for the Ottomans – and was clearly not completely
foreign to the Ottoman world. Moreover it shows that gardens could very well carry
ideological messages and be an object of inter-imperial rivalry, which the Ottomans
132 Ra􀀆id for example simply notes of the Cedvel-i Sîm to be a wide and straight canal: “􀀇arîz bir
mecrâ-yı hemvâr-ı müstakîm” (Ra􀀆id, vol. V, 445). The other chroniclers do not describe the Cedvel-i
Sîm at all in its architectural terms.
133 Gazel by Nahifi in Akay, vol. II, 624.
134 Necipo􀀅lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 32-33.
56
knew to employ. Similar ideological dimensions with regard to the Safavid
neighbour have in fact also been attributed to Sa􀀊dâbâd – I shall treat these with more
scrutiny in the following chapter. Another example testifying to the presence of axial
garden layouts in the Ottoman cultural memory are the gardens models featuring in
the 1721 circumcision procession for the sons of Sultan Ahmed III. These garden
models displayed an extremely regular, symmetric and geometrical layout. Clear-cut
geometrical flowerbeds, cut through by linear garden paths, surrounded a central
pool. If pavilions were present, these were always positioned symmetrically along
the main axes.135
Returning to Istanbul’s gardens, apart from the example of Karabali Garden
we know of a few other gardens, which featured a symmetrical layout with a water
canal as main axis. This was the case for the mesîre at Beykoz, very similar in design
to Kâ􀀇ıthane136 as well as for the imperial Tokat Garden, also featuring a linear canal
with a pavilion on one of its ends.137 While not possessing a water canal, the imperial
Fener Kö􀀉kü at Fenerbahçe on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus, erected in the
seventeenth century under Süleyman II, nevertheless was characterized by a strictly
axial-symmetrical layout, as the aquarelle paintings by Cornelius Loos impressively
depict.138 Another example of just shortly before the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd is
Damad 􀀈brahim Pasha’s Yalı Kö􀀉kü erected in 1719 on the Bosphorus shore at
Çıra􀀇an. Here, a number of garden pavilions were situated on the central axis of a
central rectangular water basin.139
135 Esin Atıl, Levni and the Surname: The Story of an Eighteenth-century Ottoman Festival (Istanbul:
Koçbank 1999). See also Sedad Hakkı Eldem, Türk Bahçeleri (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlı􀀇ı, 1976), 208-
213.
136 The date of its establishment is unfortunately not known, but must have been latest in the first half
of the eighteenth century. See Eldem, Türk Bahçeleri, 5.
137
Ibid., 186-187.
138 In Necipo􀀇lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 37-38; appendix, fig. 7 and 8 and in Eldem, Kasırlar ve
Kö􀀃kler, 68.
139 Eldem, Kasırlar ve Kö􀀃kler, 218.
57
According to Eldem, the geometrical garden type characterized by an axialsymmetrical
layout reminiscent of the chaharbagh model was in fact a characteristic
of the interior gardens of konaks, private houses and palaces.140 The description of
Ottoman gardens in Istanbul by the Italian natural scientist and botanist Domenico
Sestini from the latter half of the eighteenth century seems to corroborate this claim –
Sestine finds the Ottoman gardens to be generally based on the application of
geometrical models:
Generalmente parlondo i loro Orti, o semi-Giardini, e così li chiamerò, giacchè
partcipano e dell’uno, e dell’altro, sono piantati, o delineati in quadro, con i loro Viali
all’intorno del medesimo, e nel mezzo ancora, in croce, o in altra forma con varie
divisioni (…)141
Yet since the source material for gardens before the eighteenth century is very
limited – especially regarding non-imperial gardens, as no yalıs and konaks from
before the eighteenth century have survived – it is hard to verify these claims. For the
eighteenth century evidence testifying to the popularity of straight water canals in
both private residential as well as public gardens is abundant – unfortunately it seems
at this point impossible to establish, whether the design at Sa􀀁dâbâd was itself the
trigger for this fashion or whether it can be seen in a longer continuous line of axial
garden layouts at Istanbul.142
Clear predecessors from an architectural point of view can however be found
in the gardens of the sultanic palace at Edirne, which was greatly extended while
Mehmed IV, the father of Sultan Ahmed III, stayed there during the second half of
the seventeenth century. In fact, a number of architectural features so characteristic
of the architecture of the Tulip Age can be traced back to these building activities in
late seventeenth-century Edirne. Amongst these features for example the taste for
floral decorative motives on stone and wood, wall paintings in naturalist style
140 Eldem, Türk Bahçeleri, 284-285.
141 Domenico Sestini, Opuscoli del Signor Abate Domenico Sestini (Florence: n.p., 1785), 117.
142 Eldem, Türk Bahçeleri.
58
depicting fruits, vegetation, city views and gardens as well as the technique of
constructing light and transparent wooden pavilions.143 As garden design is
concerned, in particular the 􀀃ehvar Basin (erected 1661) on the grounds of the palace
is worth mentioning in our context, since it constituted an axial composition around
an elongated rectangular water basin. Three pavilions on the pool’s three edges
formed part of the geometrical composition, lying along the two perpendicular main
axes. Interestingly enough, one of the pavilions on the longer side of the basin was
also called Sa􀀄dâbâd. Edirne’s Sa􀀄dâbâd was a two-storied structure with a terrace
directly by the edge of the pool.144 Another parallel that might be drawn between
Mehmed IV’s Edirne Palace and Ahmed III’s Sa􀀄dâbâd is the lining of a river with
marble revetments, a feature also prominent for the Tuna river passing by the palace
in Edirne.145 Although this is not the place to further examine the significance of the
court’s stay in Edirne for the Tulip Age, it shall suffice to point out that beyond
architecture there are a number of other parallels suggesting that the Tulip Age was
not an abrupt turning point in the history of the Ottoman Empire induced by outside
forces, but did have in fact indigenous roots. Thus under Mehmed IV banquets,
lavish gifts, theatre performances, fireworks, clowning and equestrian displays
determined the life at Edirne Palace. The city, too, flourished: mosques and medreses
were erected to promote religious and scientific life and the local artisanship profited
from the presence of the imperial court. The sultan had the extensive palace grounds
reorganized, which entailed the planting of thousands of trees brought from as far as
Sofia, the installation of fountains and water basins and the erection of numerous
143 Rifat Osman, Edirne Sarayı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1957).
144 Eldem, Kö􀀃kler ve Kasırlar, p. 9; Osman, 92.
145 􀀃azuman Sazak, “Türk Bahçe Sanatına bir Örnek: Edirne Sarayı Bahçesi,” Trakya Üniversitesi
Fen Bilimleri Dergisi 2 (2005):12.
59
light and transparent wooden pavilions.146 Ahmed III spent his childhood in this
environment and it was for him and his brother, the future Sultan Mustafa II, that a
splendid circumcision festival was held in Edirne in 1675, resembling in many ways
the festival arranged by Ahmed III in 1720 at the occasion of the circumcision of his
own sons.147 These facts make claims locating the origins of the Tulip Age in
Mehmed IV’s Edirne indeed plausible, although a study on the topic has yet to be
undertaken. In any case, relevant for the topic dealt with here is the evidence of
architectural forms resembling those of Sa􀀇dâbâd – water canals or rectangular pools
as part of garden layouts based on symmetrical axiality – at the palace gardens in
Edirne as well as at Istanbul gardens and in garden models. This evidence qualifies
the claim of Sa􀀇dâbâd’s garden constituting a complete novelty without predecessors,
whose origins therefore necessarily have to be sought in foreign models like the
French one.
Historical Continuity and New Trends in Garden Layout
Moreover, in this context it needs to be pointed out, that despite the axiality
constituted by the Cedvel-i Sîm, ‘traditional’ Ottoman garden principles, which
favoured asymmetrical open compositions allowing for multiple viewpoints and
perspectives,148 were not at all neglected. As has been outlined above, the Cedvel-i
Sîm did not constitute a central axis along which all other elements of the garden and
palace buildings were organized. The buildings were orientated along multiple axes,
symmetry was understated and multiple panoramas catered for, although the
146 Osman, 31-33. See also Caroline Finkel, Osman’s Dream: The Story of the Ottoman Empire,
1300-1923 (London: John Murray, 2005), pp. 276-277. Unfortunately, the stay of Mehmed IV in
Edirne is an under researched topic.
147 For Mehmed IV’s celebrations in 1675 see Özdemir Nutku, IV. Mehmet’in Edirne 􀀆enli􀀅i (Ankara:
Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1972) and for the 1720 circumcision festival by Ahmed III: Esin Atıl, “The Story of
an Eighteenth-century Ottoman Festival,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 181-201.
148 Necipo􀀅lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 39; Evyapan, Eski Türk Bahçeleri; Cerasi, “Open space, water
and trees”; Erdo􀀅an, “􀀆stanbul Bahçeleri”, 151-152.
60
perspective of the Cedvel-i Sîm was clearly the preferred visual axis. An allencompassing
axiality and symmetrical system emphasizing one single perspective
as in European baroque gardens or Safavid and Mughal chaharbagh compositions
was not present in the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd. This has led many authors to regard
Sa􀀄dâbâd’s Cedvel-i Sîm as no more than the superficial, technical application of a
foreign structural principle to an unchanged groundwork.
I want to argue, however, that Sa􀀄dâbâd’s garden design did constitute a shift,
despite the historical continuity it was certainly rooted in. The novelty observable at
Sa􀀄dâbâd can be seen in the emphasis put on display that comes to the fore more
markedly than before.149 Yes, there had been canals in earlier Ottoman gardens, but
none was as long as the Cedvel-i Sîm. Fountains and water jets had always been an
essential element of Ottoman gardens, but the water cascades at Sa􀀄dâbâd were
unique. Pavilions on a waterfront, too, were nothing new, but at Sa􀀄dâbâd we
encounter a much more monumental wooden palace with a continuous elongated
façade, which is different from the unconnected buildings typical of earlier royal
gardens. And instead of a screen of cypresses around the garden, as had been typical
of imperial gardens of the classical age, Sa􀀄dâbâd was enclosed only by a low wall
and see-through wooden railings, exposing the court society to the public gaze from
the surrounding mesîre.150 The political and social context of this architectural shift
towards display shall be dealt with in more detail in chapter 6. For the moment, a last
aspect remains to be treated here as regards the spatial layout of Sa􀀄dâbâd: this
149 Gülru Necipo􀀃lu as well as Shirine Hamadeh argue in this way. See Necipo􀀃lu, “Suburban
Landscape,” 45 and Hamadeh, The City’s Pleasures, chapter 2.
150 Atasoy argues that the high walls with which imperial gardens were surrounded was for the visual
protection of the sultan’s harem. Atasoy, Hasbahçe, 50. On the characteristics of imperial gardens
during the classical age see Atasoy, Hasbahçe, 53. On this new aspect at Sa􀀄dâbâd see Necipo􀀃lu,
“Suburban Landscape,” 45.
61
concerns the more than 120 pavilions (kö􀀈k) erected by Ottoman dignitaries in
Kâ􀀅ıthane and on the hillsides surrounding the end of the Golden Horn.151
Grandees and Commoners: Sa􀀇dâbâd as an Amphitheatre
The area over which these pavilions were distributed was specified by the chronicler
Küçük Çelebizade as including the hills on both sides of the Cedvel-i Sîm from
Sa􀀇dâbâd palace to Hürremabad, an imperial pavilion situated at the canal’s opposite
end, as well as the area stretching from the Sultaniye royal gardens at Eyüp on the
Western coast of the Golden Horn to those at Karaa􀀅aç on the opposite shore. The
land in question was distributed one year after the construction of Sa􀀇dâbâd by
sultanic decree as freehold property (mülk) to state dignitaries (â􀀉yân-ı huddâm-ı
devlet) with the permission (ruhsat) to build pavilions (kasr, âramgâh) and the order
(fermân) to plant abundant vineyards and fruit bearing trees on these stretches of
land.152 As three property deeds (mülknâme), which have been located in the
archives, show, the dignitaries in question included middle- and high-ranking army
officers and palace staff like the chief gate-keeper (kapıcılar kethüdâsı),153 the head
of the corps of imperial gardeners (bostâncı ba􀀈ı),154 the chief armourer (cebeci
ba􀀈ı)155 or the grand vizier’s private secretary (sadr-ı 􀀉âlî mühürdârı).156 The land
was partitioned in rectangular plots of thirty to sixty zirâ􀀉 (22-30m) in width and 150
to 180 zirâ􀀉 (114m) in length, which were bordering each other (muttasıl) and were
151 The number varies according to the different authors. Ayvansarayi speaks of 120 pavilions (p.
385), Subhî states that 156 individuals were awarded land parcels on which to erect pavilions (Subhî
Mehmed Efendi, Subhî Târihi: Sâmî ve 􀀇âkir Târihleri 􀀆le Birlikte, ed. by Mesut Aydıner (Istanbul:
Kitabevi, 2007), 138) while Küçük Çelebizade fixes the number at 170 (p. 42).
152 Çelebizade, 42.
153 OBA C.ML 27320 (26 Receb 1135/2 May 1723), C.ML 9988 (21 􀀆aban 1135/27 May 1723).
154 OBA C.ML 9990 (23 􀀆aban 1135/29 May 1723). This mülknâme can be found in transcription in
the appendix as an example for these title deeds – the ones that have been consulted are identical,
except for the names and the dates of size and location.
155 OBA C.ML 9990.
156 OBA C.ML 27320.
62
apparently allotted to the grandees upon the presentation of a petition (􀀁arzuhâl).
This might point to a high demand for these plots of land – Sâmî mentions that the
majority of the candidates behaved importunately (mütekâzî) and were unsatisfied
with the land awarded (gayr-i râzî)157 – and the consequent decision to hand out
relatively small parcels lying directly next to each other. Moreover, some of the
parcels were situated directly by the public roads (tarîk-i 􀀁âmm) crossing the area,
which must have entailed the possibility of considerably insight into the elite’s
gardens as well as of the activities therein by the urban public. Küçük Çelebizade
relates that indeed within short time after the issuing of a fermân 170 pavilions were
erected in exquisite styles (tarzları nâ-dîde), which he unfortunately does not qualify
further.158 Ra􀀆id refers to the pavilions as being built in the style of Bosphorus villas
(hisâr yalıları).159 Unfortunately we possess hardly any further information about the
pavilions’ architectural characteristics. We only know that they were no longer
painted in red ochre as was customary for pavilions before, but instead in European
pastel colours160 – a new fashion, which might have contributed to Küçük
Çelebizade’s judgement of these residences as nadîde.
The palace of Sa􀀇dâbâd can thus not be thought of as an isolated imperial
palace: situated around it were more than 120 residences by palace grandees, some of
them in the direct vicinity of the imperial palace on the surrounding hills, from where
one had an unobstructed view into the palace grounds. A delicate regime of visibility
and display, a subtle play of seeing and being seen was in this way established
between the sultan and his harem on the one, and the ‘nobility’ of state grandees and
the urban population on the other side. The fact that the Ottoman ‘nobility’ was
157 Subhî, 138.
158 Çelebizade, 42.
159 Ra􀀆id, vol. V, 445. Hisâr can refer either to Anadolu or to Rumeli Hisârı, the two fortresses on the
Asian and European Bosphorus shores respectively.
160 Necipo􀀅lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 46. On the exterior painting of Ottoman palaces and houses
see also Kuban, Wooden Palaces, 50-52.
63
ordered by the sultan to erect residences around his own summer palace hints at a
functional interest on the side of the imperial centre to do so: on the one hand this
ensured an attentive audience for the sultan’s display, while on the other hand, the
dignitaries were integrated in a very literal, material way, into this display of the state
vis-à-vis Istanbul’s population. At a period when the Ottoman sultan was no longer
the absolute ruler of the classical age, but dependent on an extended system of
multiple power holders, the spatial layout at Sa􀀇dâbâd reflects the need to bind these
power holders to the to the centre by obliging them to take part in a concerted
demonstration of state pomp and magnificence.161
Interestingly, not only the state elite was encouraged to establish residences at
Kâ􀀅ıthane: simultaneously the palace attempted to promote increased settlement of
the area by the common population. To this effect, the population of Kâ􀀅ıthane’s
village, located close to the end of the Cedvel-i Sîm, was exempted from taxes
(avârız and tekâlîf) and land parcels on the hillsides of Kâ􀀅ıthane valley up to
Cendere further in the North were to be distributed freely as property (temlîk
olunmak) to commoners.162 The chronicler Sâmî also relates that together with the
distribution of land to the dignitaries, the local inhabitants (ahâlî), too, were awarded
land parcels.163 Moreover, the new landowners were freed from levies on their
agricultural produce.164 Apparently, then, the palace’s preference in terms of urban
development was the extension of settlement and cultivation into suburban areas. It
is remarkable that settlement of commoners in the area around Sa􀀇dâbâd was
161 A similar phenomenon could be observed in France under Louis XIV – who becomes now less
seen as the prototype of an absolute king and instead as dependent on multiple power holders – where
the French aristocracy was obliged to maintain a residential palace both at Paris and at Versailles.
Norbert Elias, Die höfische Gesellschaft: Untersuchungen zur Soziologie des Königtums und der
höfischen Aristokratie, 7. Edition (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1994), 71 and Peter Burke, The
Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992).
162 Ka􀀅ıthane Belediye Ba􀀆kanlı􀀅ı, Osmanlı Belgelerinde Ka􀀃ıthane, 39.
163 Subhî, 138.
164 Ka􀀅ıthane Belediye Ba􀀆kanlı􀀅ı, Osmanlı Belgelerinde Ka􀀃ıthane, 39.
64
explicitly desired and might additionally to economic interests also be linked to the
concern for display towards the urban population by the imperial society. It testifies
to the emergence of the sultan from his seclusion behind the high walls of the
Topkapı Palace and the greatly increased visibility of both himself and the court
society throughout the space of the Ottoman capital.
Visibility can thus be considered a key characteristic of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s physical,
spatial outline – both as far as its architectural style is concerned and with regard to
the spatial setting of the palace on the ground of Kâ􀀃ıthane valley, surrounded by
hills on which commoners and grandees would be assemble to observe – and
participate in – the spectacle of sultanic display. This emphasis on visibility and
display is naturally not separable from – and in fact turns out to be closely connected
to – social practice; this thread will therefore be taken up again in the last chapter.
As far as the following discussion regarding the possible architectural models
for Sa􀀄dâbâd’s design is concerned, the indigenous tradition Sa􀀄dâbâd can be located
in should be kept in mind – with the academic discourse focussed almost entirely on
the primacy of French versus Persian influences, pointing to local precedents and the
existing Ottoman familiarity with the supposedly foreign models may provide a
relativising framework to the at times heatedly carried out discussion. Moreover the
fact that Sa􀀄dâbâd’s layout did clearly not aim to create an all-encompassing regime
of symmetry based on central axiality or rigid geometry also relativises claims at the
imitation of grand monumental projects.
65
CHAPTER 4
MENTAL SPACE I:
INFLUENCE OR SA􀀄DÂBÂD BETWEEN ‘EAST’ AND ‘WEST’
After having looked in detail at the physical materiality of Sa􀀄dâbâd I now want to
turn to Sa􀀄dâbâd as a mental space, that is, to the way it was and is conceived of,
talked about and represented by eighteenth-century Ottoman and European
contemporaries as well as by modern historians. This wide topic will be dealt with in
two chapters: First, the question of influence – around which the academic
discussion concerning Sa􀀄dâbâd is focussed almost exclusively – shall be reviewed
in this chapter, representing the modern discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd or in other words the
mental space of modern historians. This will be followed by an investigation in the
subsequent two chapters of the different ways European and Ottoman eighteenthcentury
contemporaries perceived Sa􀀄dâbâd and where thus the mental space of
Sa􀀄dâbâd as held by the historical actors will be at stake.
The search for architectural models that may have inspired Sa􀀄dâbâd’s design
is as old as the palace itself. It has its roots in European travelogues, which assert
with persistency that Sa􀀄dâbâd was a more or less successful imitation of European,
especially French palaces and gardens. The claim was made as early as during the
construction of the palace itself165 and then perpetuated through the literature of
European travellers and diplomats from where it found its way into modern
historiography. Since the palace itself does no longer exist and other sources on
165 Erimtan claims that the French traveller Albert Vandal first depicted Sa􀀄dâbâd as an imitation of
Versailles (Erimtan 2007, 47), a claim that was subsequently taken up by Ahmet Refik. The imitation
theme is however already stated by the Venetian bailo Emo in a letter dated 2 September 1722 in
which he relates that the Ottoman ambassador Mehmet Efendi had brought with him plans of the
French palace of Fontainebleau, which inspired 􀀃brahim Pasha to construct Sa􀀄dâbâd in a similar
fashion (Shay, 20-21). Another contemporary, the French ambassador in Istanbul from 1716 until
1724, Marquis de Bonnac, makes the same statement in his Mémoire of 1724 (Marquis de Bonnac,
Mémoire historique sur l’ambassade de France à Constantinople (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1894), 155).
From then onwards, it is present throughout the entire travel literature.
66
Sa􀀁dâbâd are rare, European travelogues have constituted an important source for the
reconstruction of the palace’s architecture and history – and continue to do so. Yet
the claims these sources make have for a long time been accepted without further
criticism or investigation and the Western-imitation theme has hence only recently
become the object of academic criticism.166 Interestingly enough, contemporary
Ottoman observers remained silent on this question – they mentioned neither
European nor other influences explicitly.
With the sources presently available it is unfortunately not possible to reach a
final conclusion regarding the question of imitation. Despite the recent literature,
which emphasizes the significance of Persian models as inspiration for Sa􀀁dâbâd, I
want to argue here that French architecture was in fact a major source of inspiration.
Yet arguing in that way does not necessarily entail subscribing to the ‘Westernization
paradigm’ in Ottoman history, nor does it inevitably entail the negation of the
significance of a wider Islamic and Turko-Persian cultural universe, which Ottoman
architecture of the eighteenth century was certainly still rooted in. Crucial is here the
understanding of cultural influence and transfer, as it often carries an implicit
understanding of a hierarchical relationship between a supposedly active and
dominant donor and a passive and thus inferior recipient. If conceptualized as such,
influence is only naturally vigorously denied on the part of the recipient in a
defensive stance against implications of inferiority, not seldom arising out of a
nationalistic impulse. Sedad Hakkı Eldem thus for example vigorously argues
against any Western influences on Sa􀀁dâbâd’s layout, and maintains the persistence
of ‘authentic’ Turkish values instead.167 On the other hand, the literature maintaining
166 Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad”, Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization”.
167 Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 6.
67
Western influences to have been decisive in the layout of Sa􀀁dâbâd implicitly
position Western Europe as superior to an Ottoman Empire in decline.
The hierarchical understanding of cultural influence is one, however, which
needs to be reconsidered, especially as far as Sa􀀁dâbâd is concerned. Research in the
social sciences, especially in the fields of anthropology and post-colonial studies, has
since long shown that cross-cultural inspiration, the give and take of ideas and
methods is a common phenomenon in the realm of culture and does not
automatically entail a hierarchical relationship that places the donor in a dominant
and the recipient in a passive position.168 On the contrary, the recipient in fact plays
an active role in cross-cultural exchange, as he (or she) has – at least in many cases –
to some extent a choice of what to adopt and what to reject. Objects of cultural
transfer moreover do not remain unaffected when crossing cultural borders, since
they are interpreted or misinterpreted by the recipient, creatively adopted, imbued
with different or multiple meanings, or even resisted against. Additionally, such a
dynamic understanding of influence entails challenging the concept of cultures as
separate and internally homogeneous entities: Influence does not take place between
opposing cultural blocks that stand in a hierarchical relation to each other, but instead
takes place between specific actors, whose choices are determined not only because
they adhere to a particular culture, but also due to their particular social, political and
economic setting.
168 The literature on the notion of influence and cross-cultural exchanges is abundant and transverses
the boundaries of a number of academic disciplines. Especially anthropology and post-colonial studies
have made important contributions to the development of a non-hierarchical understanding of
influence and cultural reception. Bailey, Jesuit Missions, 22-25 gives a good overview on theories of
cultural exchange. On the notion of influence with regard to Islamic art in particular, which has long
been held to be static and tradition-bound see Walter B. Denny, “Points of Stylistic Contact in the
Architecture of Islamic Iran and Anatolia,” Islamic Art 2 (1987): 27-41. For the appropriation of
foreign influences by the Ottomans see also Maurice Cerasi, “‘Frenk, Hind ve Sind’: Real or
Imaginary in the Aesthetics of Ottoman Open Space,” Environmental Design: The City as a Garden 1
(1986): 16-23.
68
I am subscribing here to such a non-hierarchical and dynamic notion of
influence, in order to evade positioning a superior ‘West’, the supposed source of all
inspiration, vis-à-vis an inferior ‘East’, relegated to the position of a passive recipient
of Western cultural products. Subscribing to such an understanding of the notion of
influence in the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd shall also help to calm down the discussion on the
‘imitation question’, since the acknowledgement of Western European influence on
the architecture of Sa􀀄dâbâd then does no longer mean assigning the Ottomans a
passive position vis-à-vis the Europeans. Moreover, it allows acknowledging that
appropriated architectural elements may be imbued with different meanings – a
mechanism apparently at play in the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd, as we shall see in the
following.
The Embassy by Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi
To begin with, let’s look at those facts, which supposedly testify to Western
influence on the design of Sa􀀄dâbâd. It is the ambassadorial mission of Yirmisekiz
Mehmed Efendi to France in 1720/21, which is generally regarded as the main
trigger for Ottoman interest in French court culture and aesthetic. Central to this
argument is Mehmed Efendi’s written report of his travel (sefâretnâme), which he
was asked to compose before his departure by grand vizier 􀀃brahim Pasha and
presented to sultan and grand vizier upon his return in October 1721, that is,
approximately half a year prior to the construction of Sa􀀄dâbâd. Before his departure
one year earlier on 7 October 1720,169 Mehmed Efendi had been briefed by the grand
vizier not only on the diplomatic issues he was expected to resolve – the official
169 Mehmed Efendi, Le paradis des infidèles: Relation de Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed efendi,
ambassadeur ottoman en France sous la Régence, ed. by Gilles Veinstein, trans. by Julien-Claude
Galland (Paris: La Découverte, 2004), 58-59. On the mission see also E. d’Aubigny, “Un
ambassadeur turc à Paris sous la Régence,” Revue d’Histoire Diplomatique 3 (1889): 78-91, 200-235.
69
reason for the 1721 mission was the issue of the renovation of the Church of the
Holy Grave in Jerusalem. 􀀅brahim Pasha moreover wanted his ambassador to collect
general information about France’s financial and political situation as well as “faire
une étude approfondie des moyens de civilisation et d’éducation et de faire un
rapport sur ceux capables d’être appliqués.”170 In the report finally submitted by
Mehmed Efendi political and diplomatic issues are not at the centre of the narrative.
Rather, it is the experience of being confronted with a strange and different
civilization, which Mehmed Efendi expresses there on paper – a civilization strange
and different, yes, but extremely fascinating and attractive at the same time. During
his ten-month stay Mehmed Efendi was hosted in the palaces of the French
aristocracy, he participated in the royal hunt, was invited to the Parisian opera and
inspected the French observatory – in short, he experienced French court life of the
Régence. He reported of this noble world of entertainment and pleasure as much with
wonder as with a great deal of enthusiasm and showed much admiration for French
art and architecture. It was in particular the French gardens that incited Mehmed
Efendi’s admiration, although he admitted that they were “construits d’une manière
toute nouvelle pour moi.”171 In fact, his report reads like a climactic journey from
garden to garden, one more beautiful than the other, culminating in the monumental
gardens of Marly and Versailles. In the description of all these gardens, what he
remarks with repetition is the effect of parallel planted and cut trees of the same
height lining promenades and avenues and forming walls of green (sebze
170 Gilles Veinstein, introduction to Le paradis des infidèles: Relation de Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed
efendi, ambassadeur ottoman en France sous la Régence, trans. and ed. by Gilles Veinstein (Paris: La
Découverte, 2004), 26-28. The quotation is a direct translation into French from the instructions given
to Mehmed Efendi by 􀀅brahim Pasha: Veinstein, Introduction, 28.
171 So the French translation: Mehmed Efendi, Paradis des infidèles, 89. The corresponding Ottoman
expression is: tarh ve tarzı gayr-i ma􀀄hûd-ı hâlet fezâ-yı bâ􀀃çeler: Mehmed Efendi, Sefâretnâme-i
Mehmed Efendi (Istanbul: Matba􀀇a-i 􀀇􀀅lmiyye-i 􀀇Osmâniyye, 1283 [1866-67]), 25; reprinted in
Beynun Akyava􀀆 (ed.), Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed Efendi’nin Fransa Sefâretnâmesi (Ankara: Türk
Kültürünü Ara􀀆tırma Enstitüsü, 1993), 97.
70
dıvârları).172 But more than anything else, Mehmed Efendi was impressed by the
water works, the fountains, canals and water cascades he encountered, which he
described in considerable length and detail.173 In the end he comes to the conclusion
that Versailles is unsurpassed in Europe and that it deserves to be counted among the
wonders of the world.174
These descriptions by Mehmed Efendi have been taken to constitute the
direct sources of inspiration for the design of Sa􀀇dâbâd:175 for the geometric, straight
shape of the Cedvel-i Sîm, for the water cascades, the lines of even-sized trees lining
the canal, for the water jets placed in the pools in front of the harem. Accordingly,
different claims have been made, which see Sa􀀇dâbâd as imitation either of
Fontainebleau, or of Versailles or of Marly. Indeed, some parallels between the
architecture of Sa􀀇dâbâd and these palaces are noteworthy, such as the canal of
Fontainebleau, the water cascades at Marly or a fountain at St Cloud, which has
dragonheads serving as waterspouts. Chronologically, such an inspiration was indeed
possible: Mehmed Efendi submitted his report in October 1721 and the construction
of Sa􀀇dâbâd started half a year later in spring 1722. What seems difficult, however, is
to explain concrete architectural resemblance from the lengthy and enthusiastic, but
in architectural terms vague descriptions of Mehmed Efendi.
Of crucial importance to establish concrete architectural parallels to French
models are therefore architectural plans and other visual material, which would allow
172
Muraille de verdure in the French text: Mehmed Efendi, Paradis des infidèles, 107, 121, 122, 125.
For the Ottoman expression sebze dîvârları see the Ottoman original: Sefâretnâme-i Mehmed Efendi,
50; reprinted in Akyava􀀆, 123.
173 Mehmed Efendi, Paradis des infidèles, 120-121; 121-122; 122-124; 125-127.
174
Ibid., 129, 131.
175 Among the abundant literature see for example E. d’Aubigny, “Un ambassadeur turc à Paris sous
la Régence,” Revue d’Histoire Diplomatique 3 (1889): 78-91, 200-235; Ülkü Ü. Bates, “The
European Influence on Ottoman Architecture,” in: The Mutual Effects of the Islamic and Judeo-
Christian Worlds: The East European Pattern, ed. by Abraham Ascher, Tibor Halasi-Kun and Béla K.
Király (Brooklyn N.Y.: Brooklyn College Press, 1979), 167-181; Fatma Müge Göçek, East
encounters West: France and the Ottoman Empire in the Ottoman Empire (New York: Oxford
University, 1987); Arel; Kuran; Yeni􀀆ehirlio􀀅lu.
71
for a direct replication. In fact, Mehmed Efendi apparently asked for plans of the
palaces and gardens he had seen already while being in France and once again after
his return to Istanbul in a letter to Maréchal de Villeroi dated 11 July 1722.176 By that
time however, the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd was already underway. It is nevertheless
well possible that Mehmed Efendi had already brought back a number of plans when
returning in October 1721 – which the Venetian bailo asserted in a letter dated
September 1722177 – and was only asking for some missing plans in July 1722. In
fact, the library of the Topkapı Palace contains a considerable number of plans and
engravings of French palaces and gardens dating from the late seventeenth century
until the 1730s178 – in particular of the gardens of Versailles – as well as a very
popular French architectural handbook, the Cours d’architecture by Jacques-
François Blondel (1698 edition). This material was evidently examined and used by
Ottoman architects and craftsmen, which handwritten notes in Ottoman that can be
found on the plans’ margins or on attached note paper attest.179 The French traveller
Flachat, too, gives evidence for the use of European plans and architectural
handbooks by Ottoman architects, although a few decades later under Mahmud I in
the 1750s:
Ali Effendi, Surintendant des bâtiments en qualité de premier Architecte, dans les beaux
jours du regne de Mahamout, (& ce sont ceux où l’on a vu s’élever les édifices les plus
réguliers du serrail) avoit un ample recueil de plans & d’estampes. Il s’étoit faire
traduire les meilleurs traités d’Architecture.180
176 The letter is translated into French by Veinstein and the line in question reads: “Nous espérons
aussi que vous nous enverrez les dessins des maisons royals et des jardins qui sont imprimés, lesquels
vous avez promis.” Mehmed Efendi, Paradis des infidèles, Appendix, 173.
177 Shay, 20-21.
178 In the library of the Topkapı Palace’s Museum (Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Hazine Kütüphanesi) can
be found today: 4 vols. of handbooks on 18th c European architecture, 6 vols. on French architecture,
2 vols. on Italian architecture, 5 vols. on Versailles, 3 vols. on decoration, 2 vols. on garden design, 1
vol. on running water, 1 vol. on the French painter Watteau, 1 vol. with 14 engravings on Versailles.
Gül 􀀈repo􀀇lu, “Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Hazine Kütüphanesindeki Batılı Kaynaklar Üzerine
Dü􀀉ünceler,” Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Yıllık 1 (1986): 61.
179
Ibid., 61; Feryal 􀀈rez, “Topkapı Sarayında Harem Bölümün’deki Rokoko Süslemenin Batılı
Kaynakları,” Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Yıllık 4 (1990): 25.
180 Flachat, 225.
72
Unfortunately, however, we do not know when the European plans and engravings
became part of the Hazine Kütüphanesi, i.e. of the sultan’s private library, or who
brought them there.181 In his account of the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd, the Ottoman
court chronicler Ra􀀉id relates that the architects in charge of the construction of
Sa􀀊dâbâd were instructed by plans or images (sûret-i tarh ve resm182) about the
design of the palace. This might be taken as a hint on the use of French plans during
the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd, but since Ra􀀉id does not specify the origin of these
plans further, such an assertion has to remain on the level of speculation. Moreover,
we do know of European construction workers, artisans and craftsmen from Europe
who worked in the Ottoman Empire during the eighteenth century and – since they
were not first-class masters themselves – often used European handbooks.183
One should furthermore remark in this context that there is also evidence of
the direct exchange of artistic ideas between Ottomans architects and the Europeans
at Galata and Pera, whose residences, embassy buildings and churches were built in
European style.184 The French military officer François Baron de Tott, who travelled
in the Ottoman Empire 1755 to 1763, relates for example that the grand vizier’s
palace, which had to be renovated after having been destroyed by a fire was
subsequently embellished by fleurs de lis, an ornamental design the Ottoman
architect had observed at the French embassy:
(...) en faisant reconstruire le palais du Visir après l’incendie dont j’ai parlé, l’architecte
employa des fleurs de lis à quatre feuilles pour ornement final de la coupole qui couvre
181 Apart from ambassadors and translators, such plans might have been brought to Istanbul by
merchants as well as missionaries. Especially Jesuit missionaries played a considerable role in the
dissemination of European art and architecture to other parts of the globe. See Gauvin Alexander
Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions in Asia and Latin America, 1542-1773 (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1999), 109 and Bailey, “Synthesis,” 3.
182
Resm apparently denoted usually a two-dimensional ground plan, but could also mean a threedimensional
model. Gülru Necipo􀀇lu-Kafadar, “Plans and Models in 15th- and 16th-Century Ottoman
Architectural Practice,” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 45/3 (1986): 240-241.
183 􀀈rez, 23.
184 Bailey thus holds for example that the Jesuit church at Galata, which was built in baroque style,
might have been a source of architectural inspiration for the Ottomans during the eighteenth century.
Bailey, “Synthesis,” 3.
73
la porte de séparation des deux cous. Il substitua cet ornement aux croissants qui
décoraient l’ancienne porte; il avait observé cette petite décoration au palais de France,
il en adopta l’emploi, & personne n’imagina que cela pût rien signifier.185
While this suggests a regular exchange of artistic ideas between Ottomans and
Europeans during the eighteenth century, for the particular case of Sa􀀊dâbâd we do
not have evidence for this kind of direct influence through craftsmen or observation
on the ground in Istanbul’s European-dominated quarters.
The Evidence Provided by Marquis de Villeneuve
Yet there is another key element that attests to French palaces having acted as
models for Sa􀀊dâbâd apart from the ambassadorial mission by Yirmisekiz Mehmed
Efendi and the plans found in the Topkapı Library: this is the correspondence by the
Marquis de Villeneuve, French ambassador to Constantinople between the years
1728 and 1740. Unfortunately I have not been able to consult the originals of his
correspondence in the French National Archives. However, the nineteenth-century
historian Albert Vandal has written an account of Villeneuve’s mission based on the
original source material. In this publication, Vandal relates a conversation between
the French ambassador and 􀀈brahim Pasha based on a letter by Villeneuve himself
dated 26 December 1728.186 In this conversation, 􀀈brahim apparently asked
Villeneuve whether the gardens of Versailles were still as beautiful and well kept
(“beaux et bien entretenus”)187 and talked in length about his own attempt to imitate
Versailles that he had undertaken at Kâ􀀇ıthane, thereby clearly implying Sa􀀊dâbâd.
Ra􀀉id’s remark when narrating Sa􀀊dâbâd’s construction process that the architects
were instructed by the grand vizier with plans and pictures and thus erected a
185 François de Tott, Mémoires du Baron de Tott sur les Turcs et les Tartares, Maestricht 1785,
(Paris: Honoré Champion, 2004), 143.
186 Vandal, 90.
187 This is a direct quote by Vandal from Villeneuve’s letter. Vandal, p. 90.
74
building in the “expected form” (melhûz olan vech) and “desired style” (üslûb-ı
matlûb) seems to suggest that the grand vizier had a clear preconceived idea of what
he wanted Sa􀀇dâbâd to look like – one might take this as a hint to an adherence to
French models, when taking it together with Vandal’s account.188 Assuming that the
latter is faithful to the original letter by Villeneuve, this is very strong evidence for
the fact that French palace models were consciously being emulated in the design of
Sa􀀇dâbâd.
Of course, this is no ‘waterproof’ evidence. It may well be that the Ottoman
grand vizier spoke of Versailles just to please the Frenchman after having heard that
Sa􀀇dâbâd was found by the French to bear resemblances with their own royal palaces
– after all six years had passed since the construction of the palace and the two men
were professional diplomats. One could also imagine Villeneuve to simply have
made this story up in order to please his superiors in Paris. Moreover, 􀀅brahim Pasha
was not the only actor involved in the construction of Sa􀀇dâbâd – the sultan, the
architect and the craftsmen all decisively influenced its final appearance.
Nevertheless, I do regard this account as key evidence attesting to the presence of
French models for the design of Sa􀀇dâbâd. This does not mean that the concrete
appearance of Sa􀀇dâbâd as it was in the end constructed was or aimed at being a oneto-
one imitation of Versailles. But French models were apparently present in the
mind of at least one very influential decision-maker. Hence there is considerable
evidence testifying to the Ottoman knowledge of French palace models of the type at
Versailles and Marly, to an admiration of these models at least by certain parts of the
Ottoman elite and even to the conscious attempt at their emulation on the part of
􀀅brahim Pasha. Moreover, the accounts of two historical witnesses actually present in
Istanbul when Sa􀀇dâbâd was constructed – the Venetian bailo Emo and the French
188 Ra􀀆id, vol. V, 444.
75
ambassador Bonnac – both hold that the architecture of Sa􀀄dâbâd was inspired by
plans brought back from France by Mehmed Efendi.
Although one can certainly sympathize with the cause, which the recent
critical historiography that tries to challenge the modernistic Westernization
paradigm is defending and has as a reaction started emphasizing other sources of
influence, this evidence cannot simply be ignored. To argue against any Western
influence would in fact ironically mean the reinstatement of the Orientalist picture of
a static, closed-in ‘Orient’ and relegate the Ottoman Empire into its own and separate
cultural orbit. Moreover, a reaction against the apparently existing Western European
influence also easily falls into a nationalistic discourse that tries to protect the
‘purity’ of a national architecture. As outlined above, adopting a dynamic and nonhierarchical
concept of influence allows the acknowledgement of Western influence
without at the same time subscribing to the ‘Westernization paradigm’ or denying
additional meanings Sa􀀄dâbâd may have had for the Ottomans (as we shall see in
chapter 5).
Formal Differences from French Models
However, although Versailles apparently did constitute a model for Sa􀀄dâbâd in
some way, it did so only on a limited scale: no foreign grand design was entirely
applied at Kâ􀀃ıthane – Sa􀀄dâbâd’s dimensions are negligible compared to the grand
projects of Louis XIV at Versailles and Marly – and at most it is the idea of water
cascades and of lining the Cedvel-i Sîm with equally sized trees, which might be
attributed to French origin. Missing are the all-encompassing axiality, the rigid
symmetry and all-pervasive geometry which were characteristic of French baroque
architecture and which constituted the backbone of the designs at Versailles and
Marly, that is, of those French palaces which Sa􀀄dâbâd was supposedly the imitation
76
of.189 Inevitably missing at Sa􀀁dâbâd is also the philosophical dimension, which
European gardens at the time carried: gardens stood at the centre of a philosophical
discussion concerning the relationship between men and nature and men’s
experience of the outside world.190 Moreover, these gardens were dotted with
allusions to Greco-Roman mythology in the form of statues and fountains adding a
further encoded level of meaning to the spatial setting.191
When Mehmed Efendi visited France the fashion of the monumental baroque
gardens was in fact already about to become outdated – instead it was the English
garden, which came into fashion from the mid-eighteenth century onwards with its
more natural, less rigid and less geometric design, expressive of a pre-romantic
attitude towards nature.192 The ‘traditional’ Ottoman garden – including that of
Sa􀀁dâbâd – was on a formal level in fact relatively close to this ideal of the natural
garden as it developed during the second half of the eighteenth century in Europe193
– an ideal which developed not only as a reaction towards the French garden, but
also inspired by non-European garden designs reported of by the increasing number
of travellers – reports and collections that also served as models of the various
turqueries and chinoiseries in the second half of the century.194 Thus influence was
not only a unidirectional one and – but this leads towards a different area of
investigation – while attributing the power to trigger Westernization processes to the
189 See Pierre-André Lablaude, Les jardins de Versailles (Paris: Scala, 1998) on Versailles, Vincent
Maroteaux, Marly: L’autre palais du Soleil (Paris: Vögele, 2002) on Marly and Jean-Marie Pérouse
de Montclos, Fontainebleau, (Paris: Scala, 1998) on Fontainebleau.
190 For the vision embodied in the garden of Versailles of men controlling and forming nature see
Lablaude, 33-38. On the discussion in England in the early eighteenth century, which was centred
around the concept of pleasure and men’s sensual encounter with the outside world, see the
introduction by Patrick Chézaud to William Chambers, Dissertation sur le Jardinage de l’Orient
(Saint Pierre de Salerne: Gérard Monfort, 2003), 4-5.
191 Lablaude, 50.
192
Ibid., 131-144.
193 Evyapan, “Intrinsic values,” 46. Evyapan argues that although similar on a formal level, English
and Ottoman gardens differed fundamentally on a conceptual level: while in the English garden,
nature was staged to look natural so that in the end what looked natural was in fact an artificial
product, in the Ottoman garden nature was taken as it is and interfered with only minimally.
194 Lablaude, 140.
77
application of European architectural elements in the non-European world, Europe’s
seemingly so harmless and naïve exoticist fashions themselves should perhaps not be
underestimated in their significance.
Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi – A Symptom or an Exception?
Furthermore, one needs to bear in mind that Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi was after all
an individual case, who cannot necessarily be regarded as exemplary for a general
Ottoman attitude. His enthusiasm for French arts and architecture, for Western
European forms of socializing or science was certainly not shared by all Ottomans,
not even by the entire upper or the entire ruling class. A case in point is Mehmed
Emnî Efendi, Ottoman ambassador to the Russian Empire between 1739 and 1742.195
Characterized by a generally sceptical outlook towards all what he encountered and
what was shown to him, his reaction is particularly interesting, as he visited the
Russian empire shortly after the ‘Westernization’ efforts of Peter the Great – one can
hence read here how an Ottoman regarded the Westernization efforts of another
supposedly ‘backward’ empire. During his visit, Mehmed Emnî Efendi was also
taken to Peterhof, a royal palace complex built by Peter the Great in 1725 outside of
St. Petersburg, which was modelled after the gardens of Versailles and Marly,
featuring a long central water canal, several water cascades, a great number of
fountains and water jets and other baroque elements like a grotto and various statues.
Mehmed Emnî Efendi, who, so one can certainly assume, must have known
Sa􀀁dâbâd, thus encountered here another ‘imitation’ of those French gardens, which
the Ottomans supposedly also had attempted to imitate. Although the Russians
195 The ambassadorial report of Mehmed Emnî Efendi has been published in transcription: Mehmed
Emnî Beyefendi (Pa􀀃a)’nın Rusya sefâreti ve sefâret-nâmesi, ed. by Münir Aktepe. Ankara: Türk
Tarih Kurumu, 1989. On this particular diplomatic mission see also Suraiya Faroqhi, The Ottoman
Empire and the World Around It, (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2006),192-193.
78
apparently expected their Ottoman guest to show great admiration for this work of
architecture, which they themselves regarded as extraordinary,196 Mehmed Emnî
Efendi was only moderately impressed. In his report of the embassy, a lengthy
description of the different pools and water jets in a neutral and rather distanced tone
is followed by the remark that the “Frankish” (tarh-ı frengi)197 architecture of
Peterhof was deficient in proportion and measure. Moreover the gardens were
according to his taste lacking flowers and upon remarking this he simply declares the
“animal-like” effort (emek-i ta􀀁zîb-i hayvân), which was expended on the
construction to have been altogether in vain.198 Noteworthy are some of the terms of
description he uses in his report: the setting of Peterhof with its trees and hills
reminds him of villages in Albania199 and he finds the great water jet to be as strong
as the waters of the paradise-like Damascus (âb-ı 􀀃âm-ı cennet), which are known to
be so powerful as to lift a water melon.200 The Ottoman ambassador displays here
both an Ottoman, Rumi horizon through the reference to Albania as well as an
outlook rooted in an Islamic system of reference.
To take Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi’s mission as evidence for a general
embracive Ottoman attitude towards European culture would thus entail disregarding
the sceptical attitude, which certain parts of the Ottoman elite obviously held
regarding French architecture. Moreover, focussing solely on Yirmisekiz Mehmed
Efendi would also mean ignoring the diplomatic missions towards ‘the East’ (and the
North in fact), which were sent out by the Ottomans during the eighteenth century.
What is evident is that since the beginning of the eighteenth century the number of
ambassadorial missions in total increased considerably, apparently due to the
196 Mehmed Emnî Efendi, 67.
197
Ibid., 67.
198
Ibid., 68.
199
Ibid., 66.
200
Ibid., 67.
79
realization after the disadvantageous peace treaties of Karlowitz (1699) and
Passarowitz (1718) that one needed both to present one’s own policies at foreign
courts in a favourable light in order to rally political support as well as to gather
diplomatic information about potential allies and enemies.201 This need for
representation was obviously not limited to the European states – thus Ottoman
ambassadorial missions during the eighteenth century were sent amongst others also
to Russia, Iran, Mughal India, Morocco and Bukhara.202 And at the same time as
Mehmed Efendi departed for France in October 1720, another Ottoman ambassador
set out in the opposite direction: Dürrî Ahmed Efendi left the Ottoman capital in late
August or September 1720 for an ambassadorial mission to Safavid Iran.203 During
his stay Dürrî Efendi did however not visit Isfahan – the location of Shah Abbas’
magnificent mosques, palaces and gardens – but was received by the Safavid Shah
Husayin at Tehran, a provincial town at the time, which was nevertheless endowed
with a number of noble residences.204 Similar to Mehmed Efendi, Dürrî Efendi
participated during his stay in the various entertainments of the foreign court present
at Tahran, stayed in different Safavid palaces and visited their gardens. Yet certainly
due to his rather sceptical personality, Dürrî Efendi approached most of what was
201 Suraiya Faroqhi, “Der osmanische Blick nach Osten: Dürrî Ahmed Efendi über den Zerfall des
Safawidenreiches 1720-1721,” in: Wahrnehmungen des Fremden: Differenzerfahrungen von
Diplomaten im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, ed. by Michael Rohrschneider and Arno Strohmeyer,
(Münster: Aschendorff, 2007), 368.
202 For a comprehensive listing with short descriptions of Ottoman embassies up until the midnineteenth
century see Faik Re􀀅it Unat, Osmanlı Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri (Ankara: Türk Tarih
Kurumu), 1968.
203 The ambassadorial report is included in Târih-i Râ􀀃id and exists as a French translation. Dürrî
Ahmed Efendi, “Takrîr-i elçi-i mü􀀅arünleyh,” in: Târih-i Râ􀀃id, vol. V (Istanbul: Matba􀀆a-i Âmire,
1282 [1865-66]), 372-398 and Dourry Efendy, Relation de Dourry Efendy ambassadeur de la Porte
Ottomane auprès du roi de Perse, traduite du turk et suivie de l’Extrait des voyages des Pétis de la
Croix, rédigé par lui-même, transl. by M. de Fiennes (Paris: n.p., 1810). I was unfortunately not able
to consult the French translation.
204 The date given in Târih-i Râ􀀃id for the date of Dürrî Efendi’s departure (􀀄aban-Ramazan
1131/Haziran-Temmuz 1719) has been shown to be wrong by Münir Aktepe (Münir Aktepe, “Dürrî
Ahmet Efendi’nin Iran sefareti.” Belgelerle Türk Tarihi Dergisi 1 (1967): 60 and 2 (1967): 61). Dürrî
Efendi was still in Istanbul in August 1720 and departed from Baghdad for the Safavid Empire in
November 1720. He must have left Istanbul therefore in late August or September 1720. For an
analysis of the mission by Dürrî Efendi see Faroqhi, “Blick nach Osten.”
80
presented to him with a good deal of a priori disapproval and the report he submitted
upon his return in December 1721 could thus not compare with Mehmed Efendi’s
exuberant enthusiasm – probably also due to the fact that he had only seen provincial
Tehran and not magnificent Isfahan. What remains for certain is nevertheless the fact
that simultaneously with the supposed ‘opening towards the West’ of the Tulip Age,
‘the East’ formed as much an important part of Istanbul’s agenda – in political and in
cultural terms.
Inspiration from ‘the East’: Formal Resemblances and Differences
Instead of searching for architectural models that potentially acted as sources of
inspiration for the design of Sa􀀄dâbâd singularly in the West, it is therefore justified
to turn one’s view also in this matter towards the East. And indeed, remarkable
formal architectural resemblances with Sa􀀄dâbâd become apparent when considering
palace and garden architecture of Safavid Iran and Mughal India.
The key element of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s design for example, the Cedvel-i Sîm, might
not only have been inspired by the grand canal at Versailles, but also by Safavid and
Mughal geometrical garden compositions featuring straight central water canals lined
by uniform trees, adorned by water cascades and fountains. A number of possible
models for Sa􀀄dâbâd’s Cedvel-i Sîm have thus been suggested: the Nahr-i Behisht
(Paradise Canal) in the Mughal capital of Shahjahanabad (today Delhi’s Red Fort,
built 1639-1648),205 the canal at Jahangir’s tomb at Lahore (1628-1638), the main
canal in the middle of Isfahan’s Chaharbagh Avenue (1596), or the rectangular pool
205 On Shahjahanabad see Stephen P. Blake, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India
1639-1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) and Necipo􀀃lu, “Framing the Gaze,”
312-317.
81
in front of the Chihil Sutûn pavilion also at Isfahan (1646/47).206 In fact there are
many more examples of similar architectural layouts throughout both Safavid and
Mughal lands on a more moderate scale than those at the great imperial centres.207
These models have in common a geometrical layout with a central water
canal as the main axis, which was a well-established tradition that goes back to
Timurid garden traditions. The Timurid capital Samarkand was surrounded by an
immense belt of royal gardens, which were used for royal receptions, festivals and as
residences for Timur. Descriptions of these gardens allow deducing that they were
strictly geometrical in layout with perpendicularly arranged water canals and tree
lined avenues, often with a palace in the centre and pavilions arranged symmetrically
on the sides of the garden.208 The model for this type of garden is the so-called
chaharbagh (literally meaning four gardens), a cross plan constituted by two water
channels intersecting perpendicularly, creating four plots of irrigated land that were
cultivated or planted with flowers.209 Usually one of these water channels would be
elongated and in this way constitute the garden’s central axis, being intersected
perpendicularly by one or several subordinate channels and thus lined by rectangular
plots of land for cultivation.210 This elongated garden type found in many Persian
cities was termed khiyaban-i chaharbagh (khiyaban meaning principal walk) and
functioned as a public promenade linking the urban dawlatkhana (the royal palace
206 Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad,” 52; Bailey “Synthesis,” 11. For an analysis of the Safavid
palace complex at Isfahan, including the Chaharbagh avenue see Necipo􀀃lu, “Framing the Gaze,”
306-312.
207 For example at Shiraz, Ashraf or at Shah Abbas’ Farahabad palace along the Black Sea. See
Donald N. Wilber, Persian Gardens & Garden Pavilions (Rutland and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle
Company, 1962). The Raste-yi Mussala in Shiraz for example might also be taken as a model for
Sa􀀄dâbâd. It was made up of gardens aligned on the sides of a water channel. This central axis
constituted the principal vista of the garden and was decorated with 24 water jets and two cascades.
Mahvash Alemi, “The Royal Gardens of the Safavid Period: Types and Models,” in: Gardens in the
Time of the Great Muslim Empires: Theory and Design, ed. by Attilio Petruccioli (Leiden: Brill,
1997), 76.
208 Wilber, 65.
209 Wilber, 19-37.
210 Mahvash Alemi, “Chaharbagh,” Environmental Design: The City as a Garden 1 (1986): 38-45.
82
complex) to the suburban royal gardens, as was the case at Isfahan’s famous
Chaharbagh avenue. Like the main city square, so the khiyaban-i chaharbagh, too,
constituted a representative stage for the elites, since it connected urban space with
the suburban gardens of the well-to-do.211 Yet the khiyaban-i chaharbagh was not
only a space for the elite; it was also a place of public promenade for the city’s
commoners – elements beyond strict formal resemblance, which remind of Istanbul’s
Sa􀀁dâbâd.212
While formal resemblances in the garden layout between Sa􀀁dâbâd and
Safavid and Mughal models are quite obvious in terms of geometrical design and
water works, one should not ignore the differences, which present itself in a similar
fashion as with the French models. Firstly, the Safavid and Mughal cases cited as
possible models of inspiration were all characterized by their strict symmetry and an
axiality, which encompassed the entire garden and palace layout. As has been
demonstrated, such an all-encompassing axiality was not present at Sa􀀁dâbâd.
Secondly, while the gardens bore a number of resemblances, the architecture of
palaces and garden pavilions differed considerably between the Ottoman and the
Safavid or Mughal cases.213 While the Sa􀀁dâbâd palaces and the garden pavilions
were small-scale, light and relatively modest structures, whose splendour lay rather
in intricate decoration and their siting in relation to the surrounding nature, Safavid
and Mughal architecture was much more representative, featuring for example
impressive portals and monumental facades and being of much greater dimensions.
211 Alemi, “Royal Gardens,” 75-76.
212 The seventeenth-century traveller to Iran Engelbert Kaempfer for example describes the people of
Isfahan sitting on the sides of the Chaharbagh watching all kinds of entertainments. He furthermore
mentions that the gardens of dignitaries adjoining the avenue were also partly public. Engelbert
Kaempfer, Am Hofe des persischen Grosskönigs (1684-85): Das erste Buch der Amoenitates
Exoticae, ed. by Walther Hinz, Quellen und Forschungen zur Geschichte der Geographie und
Völkerkunde, vol. VII (Leipzig: Koehler 1940), 159.
213 For the architecture of Safavid palaces see Wolfram Kleiss, “Safavid Palaces,” Ars Orientalis 23
(1993): 269-280.
83
The same is true for the potential French models for Sa􀀄dâbâd like Versailles or
Marly: here, too, the architectural style of the palaces and pavilions differed
immensely from the Ottoman case, as the French palace buildings were large-scale
stone buildings based on principles such as rigid symmetry and centrality, with their
facades richly adorned by columns and friezes as well as mythological figures and
ornamentation. Sa􀀄dâbâd’s built structures thus remained faithful to local
architectural traditions of Western Anatolia and Thrace with their light wooden
construction in the style of Bosphorus yalıs and Istanbul’s vernacular architecture.
This local connectedness of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s architecture might in fact also point to a
similar connectedness to local traditions in the case of the garden layout. Potential
predecessors of gardens featuring geometrical designs based on central axiality can
be encountered both in Istanbul and in Edirne during the two preceding centuries.
These have been sufficiently outlined in the previous chapter, yet I would like to
stress in this context of the search for foreign roots of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s architecture once
again that the significance of local roots should not be underestimated.
Hence on a purely formal level it seems that Sa􀀄dâbâd might have been
inspired as much by Persian and Mughal royal gardens as by French baroque models.
While the conversation between 􀀃brahim Pasha and the French Marquis de
Villeneuve in 1728 provide evidence for the primacy of French models, familiarity
on the part of the Ottomans with Persian monumental garden layouts – notably the
chaharbagh type – which bore resemblances to the French gardens, can be assumed
to have at least eased the adoption of the French models: Both Indo-Iranian and
French baroque examples converged to some degree. Moreover, the context of
political rivalry with the Safavid state during the early 1720s possibly inspired the
design of Sa􀀄dâbâd as much as did the French models; and to imagine a conversation
between 􀀃brahim Pasha and an Iranian ambassador, in which 􀀃brahim elaborates on
84
the resemblances between Sa􀀇dâbâd and Isfahan’s Chahar Bagh Avenue seems not
too far fetched. In the following, I shall deal with these points in more detail.
Shared Aesthetics: Turko-Persian Culture
Despite the interest displayed by Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi and 􀀅brahim Pasha in
French palace architecture, one should bear in mind, that the culture of the Ottoman
Empire was deeply rooted in a Turko-Persian tradition, which was shared by the
Safavid and Mughal Empires over a wide geography from Istanbul to Delhi.214
Especially after the Ottoman conquest of Western Iran in the early sixteenth century,
Ottoman culture had been strongly influenced by this tradition, as great numbers of
artists and literates were brought or migrated to Istanbul, and subsequently proved to
be formative in the development of an imperial Ottoman art and architecture.215
Moreover, through the circulation of artistic goods such as miniatures or carpets,
which often featured chaharbagh garden designs, the Ottomans must have been well
aware of Persian palatial and garden architecture.216 Part of this aesthetic universe
was also the Indian Mughal Empire, whose art and architecture – the Mughals being
a Timurid dynasty of Turko-Mongol descent – was deeply rooted in Persian
traditions, but took on its own particular characteristics in the interaction with local
Hindu aesthetics.217 Ottoman art and architecture of the early eighteenth century has
214 Robert Canfield, “Introduction: the Turko-Persian traditions”, in: idem (ed.), Turko-Persia in
Historical Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1991), 1-34.
215 These artists were especially influential in miniature painting, as they apparently joined the
Ottoman corps of court painters (nakka􀀃hâne) after the first conquest of Tabriz by Selim I in 1514,
who transported some 1000 artists, craftsmen, scholars and poets back to the Ottoman capital. Persian
painters joined the ranks of the nakka􀀆hane again in great numbers around the middle of the sixteenth
century, perhaps connected to the reconquest of Tabriz under Süleyman in 1536. Their influence
lasted until the late sixteenth century and determined the decorative vocabulary of the age decisively.
Esin Atıl, Süleymanname: The Illustrated History of Süleyman the Magnificent (Washington: National
Gallery of Art, 1986), 36-41.
216 Norah M. Titley, Plants and Gardens in Persian, Mughal and Turkish Art (London: British
Library 1979).
217 Blake, 32-36.
85
in fact been shown to bear close resemblances to Indian Mughal art of the first half
of the seventeenth century. Naturalist flower depictions on wall paintings as in the
Yemi􀀆 Odası at Topkapı Palace, or similar designs exercised as stone relief on
fountain facades, which have traditionally been attributed to European influence,
might in fact be assumed to bear Mughal ancestry.218 Mughal architectural elements
can also be found in the designs of the massive fountains placed on public squares,
an architectural type initiated by the fountain of Ahmed III constructed in 1729 in
front of Topkapı Palace.219 It is this fountain in particular, which displays a number
of architectural elements that are clearly not part of the Ottoman repertoire, but
typical of Indian Islamic türbes.220 And we know that during the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries Ottoman artists and craftsmen were employed in the construction
of the Red Fort at Shahjahanabad and other Mughal monuments, testifying to
concrete artistic exchange between the two empires over centuries.221 The influence
of the shared Turko-Persian aesthetics thus evidently extended over a far-flung
geography from Istanbul to Delhi and left concrete traces on eighteenth-century
architecture in Istanbul – Sa􀀇dâbâd potentially included.
Ottomans and Safavids: Political Rivalry – Cultural Rivalry
At the same time the early eighteenth century was a time of heightened tensions
between the Ottoman and Safavid Empires on a political level. Safavid rule in Iran
was on the verge of collapse in the early 1720s, being challenged by the leader of the
Ghalzai tribal unit in today’s Afghanistan, Mir Mahmud, as well as faced by a
218 Turgut Saner, “Lâle Devri Mimarlı􀀅ında Hint Esinleri: Çinihane,” Sanat Tarihi Defterleri 3
(1999): 38-42.
219 On these fountains as a new architectural type in eighteenth century Istanbul see Shirine,
Hamadeh, “Splash and Spectacle: The obsession with fountains in eighteenth-century Istanbul,”
Muqarnas 19 (2002): 123-148.
220 Saner, 42.
221
Ibid., 44-45.
86
rebellion of the Sunni Lezgis (Laz) in the Caucasus, who placed themselves under
Ottoman protection. It was at this point in time that Dürrî Efendi was sent to Iran in
1721/22 in order to assess the chaotic situation of the Safavid state and evaluate the
chances for an Ottoman military campaign, which would profit from the dynasty’s
weakness. A military confrontation at the Ottoman North-Eastern border thus
seemed likely in the early 1720s, not the least because the Russians, too, were trying
to benefit from the disarray.222
Rivalry between the Ottoman and the Safavid Empires had been a fact since
the Safavid rise at the beginning of during the sixteenth century. Apart from clashing
over territorial claims the two empires were also engaged in an ideological rivalry
over religious leadership: it was amongst others in the context of rallying the
allegiance of Muslim populations in the frontier areas between the two empires that
both states formulated a religious orthodoxy in whose name they claimed leadership
in the Muslim world – Sunnism versus Shi􀀇ism.223 Now, in the early eighteenth
century this rivalry flamed up again: after having received Dürrî Efendi’s report
affirmative of a confrontation with the Safavids224 war was declared on the faltering
Safavid state followed by a fetvâ issued by the Ottoman 􀀉eyhü’l-islâm, which
declared war on the Shi􀀇i heretics as lawful. Simultaneously, the Russians, too,
decided to invade Safavid territory in order to gain control of the Caspian Sea region.
222 Suraiya Faroqhi, “Negotiating a Festivity in the Eighteenth Century: 􀀅brahim Pa􀀆a and the Marquis
de Bonnac, 1720,” in: Essays in the honour of Ekmeleddin 􀀈hsano􀀇lu, ed. by Mustafa Kaçar and
Zeynep Durukal, Vol. I: Societies, Cultures, Sciences: A Collection of Articles (Istanbul: IRCICA,
2006), 286; Faroqhi, “Blick nach Osten”; Robert Olson, The Siege of Mosul and Ottoman-Persian
Relations, 1718-1743: A Study of Rebellion in the Capital and War in the Provinces of the Ottoman
Empire (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1975), 41-42.
223 On a recent review of the Ottoman-Safavid conflict in the sixteenth century centred around the
challenges to Ottoman authority by Shi􀀇i Kızılba􀀆 populationsin Eastern Anatolia, which argues that
the religious dichotomy of orthodox Sunnism and Twelver Shi􀀇ism was the outcome rather than the
cause of the political rivalry between the two states see Markus Dressler, “Inventing Orthodoxy:
Competing Claims for Authority and Legitimacy in the Ottoman-Safavid Conflict,” in: Legitimizing
the Order: the Ottoman Rhetoric of State Power, ed. by Maurus Reinkowski and Hakan Karateke
(Leiden: Brill, 2005), 151-173.
224 Faroqhi, “Blick nach Osten,” 373.
87
In June 1724 the Russians and Ottomans signed the “Treaty of the Partition of
Persia” (􀀈ran Mukasemenâmesi), in which the two empires literally carved up the
territory of the Safavid state amongst each other and with which the Ottomans agreed
to assist the Russians in fighting the Sunni Afghans under Mir Mahmud. The latter
point was the cause for considerable agitation of the Ottoman ulemâ􀀊 and common
people against the government and eventually contributed to the outbreak of the
Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730 – at a point, when the Ottomans were again on the
brink of war against Nadir Shah of the Safavid dynasty, who had defeated and
expelled the Afghans from his territory and sought to regain the territory previously
conquered by the Ottomans.225
In the context of the political and religious rivalry between the two empires,
culture was not spared from being employed as an element of ideological rivalry –
neither in the sixteenth century, when the Ottomans developed an imperial aesthetic
language that consciously differed from the Persian models,226 nor in the eighteenth
century, when displays of Ottoman cultural splendour were employed to impress the
Iranian ambassadorial mission, which stayed in Istanbul from 24 December 1721 to
3 April 1722. Splendid feasts were held in the embassy’s honour at various kö􀀉ks
throughout the city, during which calligraphy and music were presented to the
Persian guests, followed by mock battles and show shootings displaying Ottoman
military prowess towards the political rival.227 During one of the nightly feasts held
in tents at Kâ􀀅ıthane on 24 February 1722, that is shortly before Sa􀀇dâbâd was
225 Olson, Siege of Mosul, 41-56; Münir Aktepe, 1720-1724 Osmanlı-􀀈ran Münâsebetleri ve Silâh􀀉ör
Kemânî Mustafa Â􀀇â’nın Revân Fetih-nâmesi (Istanbul: 􀀆stanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi,
1970), 9-36.
226 Gülru Necipo􀀅lu, “Challenging the Past: Sinan and the Competitive Discourse of Early Modern
Islamic Architecture,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 169-180; eadem, “A Kanun for the State, a Canon for the
Arts: The Classical Synthesis in Ottoman Art and Architecture during the Age of Süleyman,” in:
Gilles Veinstein (ed.), Soliman le Magnifique et son temps, Actes du Colloque de Paris Galeries
Nationales du Grand Palais, 7-10 mars 1990 (Paris: La Documentation française 1992), 195–216;
eadem, “From International Timurid to Ottoman: A Change of Taste in Sixteenth Century Ceramic
Tiles,” Muqarnas 7 (1991), 136-170.
227 Erimtan, “Perception of Saadabad,” 55-56.
88
constructed, at a time of the evening when the influence of the wine made itself
already felt, a discussion arose between the Safavid ambassador Murteza Kuli Khan
and the Ottomans over the superiority of Ottoman or Persian music; poetry was
subsequently recited by both sides in order to prove their respective claims.228
The Ottoman Dürrî Efendi had in fact quite similar experiences during his
stay in the Safavid Empire: he was invited to splendid feasts in Persian garden
palaces accompanied by poetry and music recitations, where he apparently impressed
his Persian hosts by his knowledge of Persian language and literature229 – cultural
refinement was evidently an essential diplomatic ingredient in order to leave a
positive impression of the state one represented.
In the context of political rivalry with the Safavid Empire during the 1720s,
the arts thus constituted an important field on which this rivalry was carried out.
Although the Safavid dynasty was at this point in time being seriously challenged
and its court perceived as decadent and weak by Dürrî Efendi, it nevertheless still
constituted an ideal of elegance and cultural refinement230 – an ideal, which one can
assume the Ottomans to have aspired to especially at a time when the Safavid state
seemed to be on the verge of collapse. The construction of Sa􀀄dâbâd might therefore
also be regarded to have been a conscious message towards the rival Eastern
neighbours by emulating Safavid style. Sa􀀄dâbâd was indeed used frequently as a site
for banquets in the honour of Persian ambassadors during the 1730s and 1740s and
one can suppose that this choice of site on the part of the Ottomans was governed by
conscious ideological considerations. Such an emulation of Persian garden
architecture by the Ottomans at Sa􀀄dâbâd would in fact not have constituted a first
time case: Selim I, the Ottoman sultan who had conquered Western Iran in 1514, had
228 Ra􀀃id, vol. V, 415-417.
229 Faroqhi, “Blick nach Osten,” 386-387.
230 Faroqhi, “Blick nach Osten,” 387-388.
89
erected a kiosk at the Sultaniye garden near Beykoz in the early 1520s, which was
decorated with spoils from the conquest and featured Persian poetic inscriptions. In
1523, this kiosk was displayed to a Persian diplomatic mission – a quite obvious
move to demonstrate Ottoman superiority.231
However, as the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd is concerned, had the Ottomans really
wanted to overcome the Iranian model, the layout of Sa􀀄dâbâd would have needed to
be grander and more monumental.232 Talking of a direct intention to rival with
Safavid models thus seems too far-fetched – that a reference was made to the Eastern
neighbour seems however highly likely in the face of a shared aesthetic system,
which was still firmly in place in the early eighteenth century. On a formal level,
some aspects of this aesthetic system were in fact not so far from the Western Europe
one, as the resemblances between French and Safavid gardens indicate. The Ottoman
familiarity with the Persian and Mughal models can thus explain the receptivity
displayed by the Ottomans towards monumental garden designs, be they in the end
of French, Safavid or Mughal provenience.
Moreover, a particular architectural layout can very well bear a number of
meanings and might be erected with multiple intentions in mind. An attempt to
emulate the design of Versailles does hence not exclude a simultaneous reference to
the architecture of the Eastern neighbour – especially when both models
conveniently resemble each other on a formal level. In doing so, the Ottomans
231 Necipo􀀃lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 37-38.
232 Can Erimtan has suggested that the thirty pillars supporting the roof of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s Kasr-ı Cînan
were a direct attempt at outstripping the Safavid Chihil Sutûn at Isfahan. (Erimtan, “Perception of
Saadabad,” 52-53) The Safavid pavilion featured twenty huge wooden pillars, which together with
their reflections in the pool in front added up to a total of forty (therefore the name: chihil means
forty, sutun means pillar in Persian). Accordingly counting the reflections of the thirty columns at the
Kasr-ı Cînan would thus make a total of sixty. Apart from the fact that Chihil Sutûn was an
architectural type going back to antiquity, and that the Kasr-ı Cînan might therefore just be meant as a
general reference (this has already been argued in chapter 2), this interpretation becomes problematic
when taking into account that in fact not all the thirty pillars of the Kasr-ı Cînan were reflected in the
water basin situated in front, as they were placed on all sides of the pavilion, not just on the one facing
the water.
90
skilfully managed to combine the foreign elements – exemplified in the Cedvel-i Sîm
– with distinct Ottoman ones – exemplified by Sa􀀁dâbâd’s wooden architecture. In a
piece of writing bearing clear Ottoman authorship we can thus find references to a
number of different prestigious texts, texts both foreign and familiar.233 How these
different ‘textual references’ were perceived by the contemporaries – both European
and Ottoman – shall be the object of the following chapter, because after all,
architectural forms in themselves do not carry meaning – it is the meaning ascribed
to them that is of importance. We shall see that in the case of Sa􀀁dâbâd, Ottomans
and Europeans approached this particular piece of architecture very differently, and
hence constructed very different mental spaces of Sa􀀁dâbâd.
233 Cerasi highlights the fact that the Ottomans were very open to adopting foreign elements and
styles in their architecture, which they integrated into a unique Ottoman style. He also holds that the
Ottomans were inclined to only formally adopt foreign elements, without subscribing to the
ideological and cultural background they carried. Especially the latter is a point, which is debatable. I
will not enter this discussion here, but just state that I also hold that the mere use of for example
Western European objects or the application of Western European architectural forms cannot be
equalled to Westernization or the beginning of a Western lifestyle or worldview. Material objects can
very well be imbued with different meanings according to different contexts. Maurice Cerasi, “The
Commerce of Forms and Types between the West and the Ottoman East from the sixteenth to the
eighteenth century,” Environmental Design: Trails to the East, Essays in Memory of Paolo Cunea 1-2
(1999): 114-133.
91
CHAPTER 5
MENTAL SPACE II: ARCHITECTURAL PERCEPTION
Since neither the historical evidence surrounding the construction process or a purely
formal architectural analysis lead to definite conclusions on the provenience of
Sa􀀁dâbâd’s design, the question consequentially arises, how the building was
perceived by those who experienced it in reality. Certainly, subjective individual
perception mostly in the form of written descriptions cannot provide absolute
evidence on the imitation question either, but this, in any case, is not what I am
aiming at. Instead of arguing endlessly over the ‘real origin’ of straight water canals
and rectangular pools, as if cultures could claim possession on these, shifting the
focus on perception might be a lot more fruitful if one wants to assess and
understand the significance of Sa􀀁dâbâd as a social and cultural product, since such
an approach may provide an insight into what the architectural forms actually meant
to the historical participants. Whether the Cedvel-i Sîm was factually a copy of
Isfahan’s Chaharbagh or Versailles’ main canal does in the end only matter in so far
as it determines the perception of the architectural monument and thereby shapes the
meaning the building carries for the historical actors. Rather than concentrating on
the architectural forms, I thus want to shift the focus on architectural discourse in
this chapter.
Although I do seem to be able to make such a neat distinction between the
two here, architectural forms and the discourse about them are of course not as neatly
separable. The two stand in a constant exchange determining and shaping each other;
while the physically present forms of a building direct and possibly limit the
discourse about them very concretely by their sheer materiality, discourse determines
not only how these forms are perceived, but it also has the potential to literally shape
92
material forms: discourse can for example determine whether and in which particular
style a building is modified or conserved or it might as well cause a building to be
forgotten, disregarded or allowed to fall into ruins. This “narrative tradition” of a
building, as McChesney has called it, thus stands in a constant interplay with the
architectural evolution as well as with social history.234
Concerning Sa􀀄dâbâd, European travelogues as well as Ottoman descriptive
sources have been used extensively as sources on the architectural reality of the
palace, yet the narrative tradition, which these sources establish around the building
has hardly been considered.235 In this chapter I will therefore attempt to throw at
least some light upon the architectural perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd during the eighteenth
century – an issue of considerable significance, not only in order to throw light upon
the roots of the modern historiography of the palace, but also in order to probe the
reliability of these sources in relation to the historical and architectural reality they
set out to describe – hence a critical evaluation of the available primary sources is at
stake here. These sources are on the one hand the travelogues by Europeans who
visited the “Sweet Waters of Europe”, as Kâ􀀃ıthane used to be called by them,236 and
on the other hand the writings by Ottoman chroniclers and poets. It is my contention
that the Ottoman and European experience of Sa􀀄dâbâd differed fundamentally from
each other, resulting in two completely separate discourses on the same architectural
234 McChesney defines the narrative tradition of a building as “the stories told about it and the
individuals associated with it” (part 1, 94). In a series of two articles, McChesney has evaluated the
“narrative tradition” of the shrine of the Naqshbandi shaykh Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa in Balkh,
following the both architectural evolution and architectural discourse over a period of five centuries,
from 1469 until 1998. R. D. McChesney, “Architecture and Narrative: The Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa
Shrine. Part 1: Constructing the Complex and Its Meaning, 1469-1696,” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 94-119
and idem, “Architecture and Narrative: The Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa Shrine. Part 2: Representing the
Complex in Word and Image, 1696-1998,” Muqarnas 19 (2002): 78-108.
235 Can Erimtan’s analysis of the modern historiography of Sa􀀄dâbâd beginning with Ahmed Refik
can be considered as such an attempt. Erimtan “Perception of Saadabad.”
236 The travelogues, which have been consulted were mainly written by French and English travellers,
with occasionally a German, Polish or Danish author. This is due in part to my language skills and the
availability of the sources, but reflects also the fact that travellers from other nations were
considerably less present in the Ottoman Empire than the French and English.
93
monument. I furthermore hold that it is the European way of perception, which
significantly shaped the modern historiographic discourse on the palace, as it was the
European travelogues which have been accepted at face value as reliable and
‘objective’ primary sources for a long time. In what follows, I shall first attempt a
critical analysis of the European literature on Sa􀀁dâbâd in order to compare this with
the Ottoman viewpoint in the second part of this chapter.
The European Perception
Writing for an Expanding Market: The Genre of the Travelogue
Constantinople, former capital of the Byzantine and since 1453 centre of the vast
Ottoman Empire, had always attracted a constant flow of European travellers, who
fixed their travel experiences in written descriptions, letters, memories or paintings
and sketches intending to share them with the readership at home.237 While the
number of European travellers to the Ottoman Empire until the seventeenth century
was relatively limited, it started to augment considerably in the latter half of the
eighteenth century due to – amongst other reasons – the increasing diplomatic and
economic relations between the Western European states and the Ottoman Empire.
The flow of travellers towards ‘the East’ culminated in the nineteenth century, when
European penetration of the Orient was in full-swing, when new technologies
allowed easier transportation and communication and when Orientalism as an
ideology supporting this penetration had firmly taken root.238
237 A comprehensive bibliography for travel accounts of Istanbul is Jean Ebersolt, Constantinople
Byzantine et les Voyageurs du Levant (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1918). Boucher de la Richarderie’s
bibliography includes travel accounts of the entire globe and provides short abstracts of the works in
question but does not include the nineteenth century. G. Boucher de la Richarderie, Bibliothèque
universelle des voyages: ou notice complète et raisonnée de tous les voyages anciens et modernes
dans les différentes parties du monde..., 6 vols. (Paris: Treuttel et Würtz, 1808).
238 Although there is abundant literature on travel literature and especially its relation to Orientalism,
I have not come across a comprehensive account of the historical development of the “Voyage en
94
The first palace building of Sa􀀄dâbâd (constructed in 1722 and rebuilt in a
completely new fashion in 1809) thus falls chronologically in a time period when
traveller’s accounts were increasing in quantity, which means that there is a
considerable amount of descriptions of Kâ􀀃ıthane available through travelogues.
However, information on the early years of the palace before it was for the first time
partially destroyed in 1730 is very rare, since the majority of travel accounts date
from the second half of the eighteenth century.239 Moreover, since the travel
literature of the nineteenth century is considerably more abundant than that of the
eighteenth century, I have decided to consider literature beyond the date of 1809 and
extended the time boundary until the 1850s. Although the travelogues from after
1809 cannot be used as sources for the architecture of Sa􀀄dâbâd palace and its
gardens as it was first designed in 1722, they constitute nevertheless valuable sources
for an analysis of the significance of the “Sweet Waters of Europe” as a wider space
in European Orientalist memory.
During the time period concerned here, most of the European travellers to the
Ottoman Empire were – if not diplomats themselves –part of the entourage of their
own country’s embassy or sent as part of a governmental mission to the Ottoman
Orient”. For nineteenth-century travellers, especially artists, see Christine Peltre, L’atelier du voyage:
Les peintres en Orient au XIXe siècle (Paris: Gallimard, 1995). On the eighteenth century see Helga
Fischer, “Das osmanische Reich in Reisebeschreibungen und Berichten des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in: Das
Osmanische Reich und Europa 1673 bis 1789: Konflikt, Entspannung und Austausch, ed. by Gernot
Heiss and Grete Klingenstein (Wien: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1983), 113-142. On travellers
to Constantinople in particular see Frédéric Tinguely, “Le despotisme des modèles: dire
Constantinople à l’âge classique,” in: L’Horloger du Sérail: aux sources du fantasme oriental chez
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, ed. by P. Dumont, R. Hildebrand and P. Montandon (Paris: Maisonneuve &
Larose, 2005), 105-118 and Frédérique Hauville, Emmanuel Jaslier and Claire Simon, “Le voyage de
Constantinople: D’après le fonds ancien de la Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon” (Thesis, ENSSIB
Lyon, 2003), online available: http://enssibal.enssib.fr/bibliotheque/documents/dcb/M-2003-RECH-
22-hauville.pdf.
239 To the best of my knowledge there exist only two travel reports from before 1730 mentioning
Sa􀀄dâbâd except for the diplomatic reports of the Venetian Emo and the French Bonnac, which have
already been mentioned. These are the travelogue by de Saumery and the one by Le Père Jehannot,
Voyage de Constantinople pour le rachapt des captifs (Paris: Delormel & Josse, 1732). In the period
before 1750 there is only one more report, which contains a description of Sa􀀄dâbâd: that of Tollot,
who was in the Ottoman Empire right after the Patrona Halil Rebellion in the years 1731 to 1732:
Jean-Baptiste Tollot, Nouveau voyage fait au Levant, ès années 1731 et 1732 (Paris: Durand, 1742).
All other reports I have consulted are dated after 1750.
95
state.240 Besides exercising their official duties they would usually use their time of
their stay in Constantinople to explore the renowned age-old city; and subsequently
they conveyed much of this information in written or visual form to their readership
at home, where information on the Orient was in demand and sold well. What was in
the end being published was therefore not only the pure reflection of the traveller’s
personal experiences, but at the same time a literary product consciously produced
for an expanding market.241 An analysis of European travelogues has to take this fact
in account, which means that in addition to the potential ‘distorted’ reflection of the
historical reality due to the subjective and culturally determined view on ‘Oriental’
society by European travellers,242 the fact that the travelogues were pieces of
literature produced for a book-market and hence had to conform to market pressures,
constituted another source of ‘distortion’. With an augmenting quantity of travel
reports available to the European reading audience over the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, the pressure on the authors to justify one more description of
Constantinople after the numerous which had already been printed was growing.
Often this justification was achieved by increasing the quantity of information about
the city and by providing an even more detailed and exact description than those by
the predecessors.243 Words like those of Pouqueville were thus not rare in a
travelogue’s introduction:
240 Even artists, the majority of them painters, would usually be associated in some way to their
country’s embassy at Constantinople. In the late eighteenth century for example, the French consul at
Constantinople, Choiseul-Gouffier, had himself surrounded by great entourage of artists. On this topic
see Auguste Boppe, Les Peintres du Bosphore au dix-huitième siècle (Paris: Hachette, 1911).
241 Fischer, 113-114.
242 For a critical assessment of the value of European travelogue as primary sources for Ottoman
history writing due to the culturally determined views of the authors and their marginal position in
Ottoman society see Ezel Kural Shaw, “The Double Veil: Travelers’ Views of the Ottoman Empire,
Sixteenth through Eighteenth Centuries,” in: English and Continental Views of the Ottoman Empire,
1500-1800, ed. by eadem and C.J. Heywood (Los Angeles: University of California, 1972): 3-29.
243 Tinguely, 14-15.
96
En parlant de cette ville [Constantinople] décrite par tant de voyageurs, j’ai évité de
répéter ce qui avait été dit, et je puis affirmer que j’offre des choses nouvelles (…)244
Moreover, the European audience was well aware of the fact that authors copied
from each other or simply made up sensational discoveries – a popular theme in this
regard was for example the sultan’s harem – and authors thus needed to attest the
validity of their information as well as structure their accounts in such a way to
appear credible in order to succeed on the market.245 The following remark by the
English Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, wife of the English ambassador who stayed in
Constantinople from 1717 to 1718 expresses the interactions between the writer and
his audience and the pressures it entailed very well:
We travellers are in very hard circumstances. If we say nothing but what has been said
before us we are dull and we have observed nothing. If we tell anything new, we are
laughed at as fabulous and romantic, not allowing for the difference of ranks, which
afford difference of company, more curiosity, or the changes of customs that happen
every twenty year [sic] in every country.246
The more and more detailed descriptions can therefore be understood to have
functioned as manifestations of authenticity or “operators of credibility”247, which
attested to the reality of what was being described in written or visual form. The
existence of such pressures needs to be kept in mind when using travelogues as a
source for the historical reality of the ‘Orient’ and should encourage a rather
sceptical stance towards these sources.
Although each journey was an individual enterprise and followed its specific
itinerary, there was nevertheless a fixed canon of ‘must-sees’, of monuments and
places, that is, one definitely ‘had to’ visit as a traveller to Constantinople, such as
the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Topkapı Palace or the bazaar area.
244 François-Charles-Hugues-Laurent Pouqueville, Voyage en Morée, à Constantinople, en Albanie et
dans plusieurs autres parties de l’Empire ottoman pendant les années 1798, 1799, 1800 et 1801, vol. I
(Paris: Gabon, 1805), v-vi.
245 Fischer, 117.
246 Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, The Turkish Embassy Letters, ed. by Malcolm Jack, introduction by
Anita Dessai (London: Virago, 1994), 118.
247 “Opérateurs de croyance” is the original expression by François Hartog, quoted in Peltre, 71. She
finds the same phenomenon in Orientalist paintings, where for example the frequent palm trees serve
the same end: they promise authenticity and confer legitimacy.
97
Kâ􀀃ıthane, or the “Sweet Waters of Europe”, was not yet part of this canon in the
eighteenth century but nevertheless popular enough among the European community
of Constantinople for it to appear in a considerable number of travelogues. By the
nineteenth century, it seems that the Sweet Waters had in fact become part of the
core canon as indicated by the English traveller Broughton who wrote in the middle
of the century:
Strangers at Pera are usually taken to see a certain number of spots in the vicinity of
Constantinople, the chief of which are the Valley of Sweet Waters, the villages of
Belgrade and Buyuk-dere, the mouth of the Bosphorus, the Giant’s Tomb, the mountain
of Bourgaloue above Scutari, and the garden of Fanar-Baktchessi.248
By then, moreover, the travellers’ discourse on the Sweet Waters had developed a
number of fixed narrative themes, which were with regularity conjured up by the
different writers when describing this particular place of the Ottoman capital. Yet
one has to distinguish between on the one hand a discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd as a an
architectural monument, including the palace, the garden pavilions and the garden
arrangement and on the other hand a broader discourse on the valley of Kâ􀀃ıthane,
which was less focussed on the architecture than on the social and cultural practices
observable on the meadows of the valley.
The architectural discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd proper is clearly centred around the
theme of imitation while the discourse on social and cultural practices revolves
around four main topoi: the theme of the Ottoman people in its ethnic and social
diversity, secondly that of Ottoman women, thirdly the theme of amusement and
gayness and finally the topic of nature and the picturesque. While these topoi
displayed an astonishing stability, being repeated over and over again by the authors
despite all the individual differences in their approach and outlook, one can at the
same time observe modifications over time, which can be linked to changes of the
248 Lord Broughton, Travels in Albania and Other Provinces of Turkey in 1809 & 1810 (London:
John Murray, 1858), 238.
98
broader Orientalist discourse:249 thus with time, the European gaze on Kâ􀀃ıthane
became for example increasingly ethnographic and erotic in its outlines.
The establishment of a narrative tradition on the Sweet Waters of Europe,
which was apparently triggered by the construction of Sa􀀄dâbâd in 1722 and with
time developed into the stable discourse that relied on the topoi hinted at above,
moreover seems to have turned the Sweet Waters by the nineteenth century into a
“lieu de mémoire”250 for European Orientalism – into a space, that is, which
functioned as a metaphor for certain aspects of the Orientalist picture of Istanbul, the
Ottoman Empire and perhaps even of ‘the Orient’ in general, such as the image of
the Orient as a world of untouched nature and virginity, of innocent amusement and
gayness or of the Oriental indulgence in pleasure and erotic adventures. While an
analysis of the Sweet Waters in the European collective memory lies beyond the
scope of this thesis, what I attempt to analyse here are the main topoi, which the
Orientalist discourse about Kâ􀀃ıthane relied upon. Before dealing with the space of
Kâ􀀃ıthane valley in general, however, I will look at the perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd
palace and its garden as an architectural monument.
249 See for example Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1979), still one of the main
works on the topic.
250 For the concept of “lieu de mémoire” see Pierre Nora, “Entre Mémoire et Histoire: La
problématique des lieux,” in: Les Lieux de Mémoire, vol. I: La République, ed. by Pierre Nora (Paris:
Gallimard, 1984), xvii-xlii. What I refer to here is however only the aspect of the lieu de mémoire as
the place, where a collective memory is constituted and at the same time enacted. I would like to
thank Prof. Christine Peltre for suggesting the significance of the Sweet Waters of Europe in a wider
orientalist memory of the nineteenth century. Interesting seems also the association in European
collective memory of the Orient with a water and bathing culture on the one hand and with
entertainment and amusement on the other hand, which the Orientalist architecture of nineteenthcentury
French seaside resorts seems to suggest. This is however an entirely different field of inquiry.
On the Orientalist architecture of French seaside resorts see Bernard Toulier, Villes d’eaux: Stations
thermales et balnéaires (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 2002) and idem, “Un parfum d’Orient au coeur
des villes d’eaux,” In Situ: Revue des patrimoines 7 (February 2006), online available:
http://www.revue.inventaire.culture.gouv.fr/insitu/insitu/index.xsp as well as Nadine Beautheac and
Francois-Xavier Bouchart, L’Europe Exotique (Paris: Chêne, 1985), 129-132.
99
The Perception of Sa􀀁dâbâd Palace
Symmetry, Regularity, Order
Any traveller’s view on the foreign is inevitably coloured by his personal, social and
cultural background – and the European travellers coming to the Ottoman Empire in
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries did not constitute an exception. Thus, as
architecture is regarded, their perception and subsequent judgement of Ottoman
architecture was necessarily informed by the aesthetic and architectural principles of
neo-classicism current in Western Europe since about the mid-eighteenth century,
which constituted an elaborate theoretical and practical system.251 Vandal, the
nineteenth-century French historian and Orientalist, already drew attention to this
disposition of the French travellers’ perception in his account of the Marquis de
Villeneuve’s stay at Constantinople:
De plus, le sens du pittoresque était moins vif et moins exercé chez les Français du dixhuitème
siècle qu’il ne l’est parmi nous. Habitués à prendre pour ideal exclusif le style
qui régnait dans les arts de l’Occident et à considérer Versailles comme la suprême
expression du beau, la fantaisie puissante et désordonnée de l’Orient les déconcertait au
lieu de les charmer.252
For eighteenth-century travellers, in particular for those from France, it was thus the
seventeenth-century architecture of Versailles as well as the subsequent architectural
styles of classicism and neo-classicism that were determining for their aesthetic
ideals in the field of architecture. These styles had taken inspiration from the
architectural principles of classical Greece and the Italian Renaissance and made the
strict rule of geometry their leading principle. As a consequence order, regularity and
symmetry came to be defined as the most important conditions for perfection and
thus beauty – the final aims to be achieved in art and architecture. In his Cours
d’architecture, a handbook on architecture in twelve volumes printed between 1771
251 For a comprehensive and detailed analysis of French architectural theory from 1550 until 1800 see
Werner Szambien, Symétrie, Goût, Caractère: Théorie et Terminologie de l’Architecture à l’Âge
Classique 1550-1800 (Paris: Picard, 1986).
252 Vandal, 89.
100
and 1777 and circulating widely in Europe, Jacques-François Blondel for example
writes under the heading of “De la nécessité de la symétrie dans l’Architecture”: “La
symétrie doit être regardée comme une des principales beautés de l’Architecture; elle
doit être considérée comme l’ennemie du contraste.”253
Consequently, one criticism of Ottoman architecture very widely expressed
by European – mainly French – travellers was the lack of symmetry; a criticism,
which was also voiced against Sa􀀁dâbâd’s palace buildings. Thus immediately after
the construction in 1722 de Saumery wrote:
Il est vrai que cet ouvrage est peu de chose, si on le considere avec attention;
l’architecture, l’ordre & l’arrangement semblent en être bannis, mais c’est un Chefd’oeuvre
pour cette Nation que la nouveauté éblouit (…)254
On auroit pû y faire quelque chose de superbe, mais n’ayant point d’Architecte habile,
ce n’est qu’une confusion de materiaux mal ordonnés, où on ne voit ni ordre, ni
proportion, ni bon goût (…) les Turcs ne poussent pas si loin les idées de
l’architecture.255
The absence of order, symmetry and proportion in Ottoman palace architecture was
moreover at times associated with the supposed arbitrariness and capriciousness of
the Ottoman sultans’ exercise of power; an association, which was often made when
describing the Topkapı Palace. Here for example the description of the palace’s
second gate by Père Jehannot, a French cleric who stayed in Istanbul between 1729
and 1731:
On peut juger par cette porte denuée de Sculpture & d’Architecture dont les Turcs
ignorent absolument les bonnes regles, quelle doit être la magnificence de ce fameux
Serail si vanté dans l’Univers. Il [le palais] consiste dans un assemblage de plusieurs
corps de logis comme entassés les uns sur les autres, & separées en quelques endroits,
bâtis en differens tems & suivant le caprice des Princes & des Sultanes.256
To the generally negative perception of Sa􀀁dâbâd contributed certainly also the fact
that most French travellers classified Sa􀀁dâbâd as being a maison de plaisance; since
this was a fixed and well-known architectural type, this classification of Sa􀀁dâbâd
253 Szambien, 61-84; Jacques-François Blondel, Cours d’architecture, ou Traité de la décoration,
distribution & construction des bâtiments: contenant les leçons données en 1750, & les années
suivantes, 9 vols. (Paris: Desaint, 1771), 408.
254 De Saumery, 135.
255
Ibid., 139.
256 Jehannot, 150-151.
101
raised certain expectations concerning what a proper maison de plaisance should
look like257 – and not to surprisingly, Sa􀀁dâbâd did not fulfil all of these expectations.
Maisons de plaisance were houses in the countryside belonging to aristocrats or the
high bourgeoisie, which were in decoration and furnishing relatively simple and
where one resided in order to escape the occupations at court or other obligations in
the city. Again the first and foremost principle of their architecture was symmetry,
including both the garden and the house itself; moreover, the façade featured a
geometrical grid pattern adorned with pilasters, friezes and if appropriate statues, and
the rooms were arranged along a horizontal axis in the main wing of the building.258
Sa􀀁dâbâd palace, however, did not display the required rigid symmetry and was not
even built of stone but instead in a light construction technique based on wood. The
latter, so it seems, did not find much approval with the Europeans, who associated it
with the houses of Istanbul’s poor that constituted in their eyes “un amas confus des
Maisons basses sans architecture, sans ornemens, & sans gout.”259
Hence, being a building that purported to be a sultanic palace – even if only
in the form of a maison de plaisance, of a more modest countryside residence, that is
– Sa􀀁dâbâd was simply not representative enough in European eyes. Considering that
one key concept of eighteenth-century architectural culture was “convenance”, that is
the idea that social rank had to be directly deducible from architectural form, that as
a patron one had to choose an architectural style appropriate to one’s rank in social
hierarchy, this is not very surprising. Outer appearance, interior use and decoration
were expected to correspond to each other, all confounding in order to express
257 On the type of the maison de plaisance see Jacques-François, Blondel, De la Distribution des
Maisons de Plaisance, et de la Decoration des Edifices en Général (Farnborough: Gregg Press
Limited, 1967 [reprint]), Blondel, Cours d’architecture, 249-252; Karin Elisabeth Zinkann, “Der Typ
der Maison de Plaisance im Werke von Johann Conrad Schlaun” (PhD dissertation, University of
Münster, 1979).
258 Zinnkann, 22-29.
259 De Saumery, 78.
102
precisely the rank of the building’s patron.260 To the Europeans eyes, used to the
aesthetics of the French royal palaces – above all Versailles – Sa􀀁dâbâd was
therefore almost predestined to appear unpretentious and humble.
On the other hand the use of precious materials for interior embellishments
and intricate decorations could to some extent make up for the deficiency in outer
monumentality:
Les Architectes Turcs n’excellent pas dans la décoration extérieure des bâtiments; mais
ils égalent nos meilleurs Architectes dans la distribution des appartements, & dans l’art
de les rendre commodes & agréables. Ils paroissent en général préférer la boiserie & la
sculpture aux tapisseries. Tout est peint ou doré; mais on ne veut que des fleurs & des
feuillages.261
And even Pertusier, who was in general rather critical towards Ottoman architecture,
found Sa􀀁dâbâd to be “l’une des plus belles maisons de plaisance que possède la
couronne” and of an “élégance la plus recherché.”262
While symmetry and order remained unquestioned ideals for the built
environment, in case of garden architecture, these principles held a less strict reign.
Here, it was visual pleasure in form of the picturesque, which was being sought for –
and the picturesque was, according to architectural theory, created by contrast and
variety, principles opposed to symmetry and regularity. The architectural theoretician
Blondel thus stated that the aim of the garden was to surprise and entertain the
visitor, which is why “on doit faire en forte que toutes les beautés d’un Jardin ne
soient pas apperçues d’un seul coup d’oeil, & il est bon d’exciter la curiosité en
tenant sous le couvert une partie des ornemens qui doivent la satisfaire.”263
Especially since the second half of the eighteenth century the strictly geometrical
French garden designs were less preferred in favour of the English garden type,
260 Zinnkann, 7-8; Szambien, 167-173.
261 Flachat, 229-230.
262 Charles Pertusier, Promenades pittoresques dans Constantinople et sur les rives du Bosphore,
suivies d’une notice sur la Dalmatie, vol. I (Paris: Nicolle, 1815), 338.
263 Blondel, Cours d’architecture, vol. IV, 6-7.
103
which put more emphasis on creating a natural but ‘pleasant’ impression. It is thus
probably no coincidence, that it was the English Milady Craven, who positively
judged the absence of “cold French” symmetry in the gardens of the Ottoman capital
when she stayed there in the 1780s:
(...) et ce qui m’a paru non moins singulier, rien qui ait la froide symmétrie d’un jardin
françois. Les Turcs ont un sie grand respect pour les beautés de la nature, que s’ils
veulent bâtir une maison dans un endroit où il y a un arbre, ils pratiquent un grand trou
dans le bâtiment pour laisser passer l’arbre & lui donner un espace suffisant pour
croître, parce qu’ils croyent qu’un branchage verd est l’ornemente le plus beau pour le
toît d’une maison.264
But as much as the picturesque qualities of Ottoman gardens were appreciated by
some travellers, so was the lack of symmetry decried by others. As the late
eighteenth century was also a time of revived interest into classical antiquity, with
philhellenism coming into full swing in the early nineteenth century, the disapproval
of Ottoman gardens was in part certainly connected to an ideal of the antique garden,
which was imagined to have been strictly geometrical and symmetrical.265 The
gardens the travellers encountered in the former capital of the Eastern Roman Empire
did however often not coincide with their ideals (neither did the antique and
Byzantine monuments, like the Hagia Sophia or Constantine’s Column for that
matter, which the travellers found to be in neglected state) and the Ottoman gardens
with their lose, often asymmetrical arrangements could in comparison only be
disappointing:
Prima di tutto nessuno si ritrovi con la lusinga di vedersi rappresentate le cose
memorabili degli antichi, o sia la magnificenza, e vaghezza degli Orti Esperidi, non che
di quelli di Adone, e Alcinoe, oppure, che io voglia fare quì una descrizione degli Orti
Pensili di Semiramide, che in Assiria eresse, o di quelli di Ortensio e di Epicuro, che
uno in Roma, e l’altro in Atene crearono. Nulla affatto di ciò. Piutosto potrà da me
aspettarsi quello, che non puol dirsi avere nè del barbaro, nè del bello, nè del
simmetrico, nè del raro, nè del vago, nè del dispendioso, nè del magnifico, nè il lusso,
ma solo quello che si consà al gusto Ottomanno, che a lor piacendo si puol dire esser
buono, anzi che no.266
264 Elizabeth Berkeley Craven, Voyage en Crimée et à Constantinople (Paris: Maradan, 1789), 274.
265 Necipo􀀃lu, “Suburban Landscape,” 44-45.
266 Sestini, 115-116.
104
The views were thus not at all uniform and represented the variety of aesthetic
judgements prevalent in the European discourse. Nevertheless, symmetry and
geometry were dominant aesthetic values, even if a little less so for gardens and
parks – in comparison with both idealized antique models and contemporary grand
baroque designs of palaces and gardens in Europe, Sa􀀄dâbâd was therefore prone to
be judged negatively.
The Imitation Topos
Apart from the lack of symmetry, the discourse on the architecture of Sa􀀄dâbâd was
dominated by the imitation theme. Alternatively an imitation of Marly, Versailles or
Fontainebleau, Sa􀀄dâbâd was declared in nearly all travelogues to be an imitation of
French royal palaces, starting with the claims by Emo, Bonnac and Saumery in the
years 1722-1724 and continuing to be the standard feature of accounts on Sa􀀄dâbâd
throughout the nineteenth century without losing any of its vigour. However,
Sa􀀄dâbâd was not only claimed to be an imitation – what always accompanied the
claim of imitation from the very beginning was the judgement of it being not more
than an imperfect imitation. Thus for example the account of Marquis de Bonnac:
Enfin, depuis le retour de Méhémet Effendi de son ambassade auprès de Votre Majesté,
il [the grand vizier 􀀃brahim Pasha] a essayé d’imiter ce qu’on lui a rapporté de la
magnificence de nos jardins et de nos bâtiments et quoique cet échantillon soit même
au-dessous du médiocre et que la situation n’en soit pas belle, il a donné par là, au
peuple, un spectacle d’autant plus agréable qu’il n’y étoit pas accoutumé et qui n’a,
peut-être, pas peu contribué à le contenir dans les dispositions où il a été pendant
quelque temps au murmure et à la révolte.267
Disregarding at this point the connection that was made here by Bonnac to a
potential revolt – displaying a remarkable clairvoyance one must admit – what is
important here is that on a conceptual level the imitation was doomed to fail from the
outset; it could not be but an imperfect imitation in the eyes of those familiar with the
original. The imitation topos in this manner underlines the inferiority of the
267 Bonnac, 155.
105
Ottomans with regard to the West, which finds a typical expression in the following
words of Pertusier:
(...) les objets qui frappent vos regards annoncent une légère intention de ressemblance
avec les maisons de plaisance de nos rois, et, tout en faisant sentir la grande supériorité
de ceux qu’on a voulu imiter, ramènent pourtant des souvenirs auxquels on se livre avec
un secret contentement sur ces confins du monde civilisé.268
In this nineteenth-century account, which reflects an Orientalism that had acquired
by then a secure conviction of European superiority, Sa􀀄dâbâd, precisely because of
it being a French imitation, represented a last outpost of the civilised world in a
barbaric civilization, even if only an imperfect one. The topos of imitation served to
construct and maintain a distance with regard to ‘the other’ and to fix a normative
hierarchy – it was the imitated model, which was necessarily superior. Moreover, it
was conceptually impossible to overcome this hierarchy: Ottomans were not able to
move beyond the stage of imitating the superior French models, as otherwise the
difference between the Self and the Other would have been undermined – Ottomans
would literally have become French if they had gone beyond imitation towards
producing works equal to the original. This conceptual configuration explains the
near indignation with which Saumery relates that some Ottomans apparently dared to
ask him whether there were similarly excellent buildings in France as there were at
Kâ􀀃ıthane:
(…) aussi s’applaudissent-ils tellement de cet ouvrage, qu’ils osoient nous demander
avec hardiesse si nous avions vû quelque chose de plus beau dans notre Pays; il est
surprenant de voir la quantité de monde qui accouroit de toutes parts pour contempler
cet edifice [Sa􀀄dâbâd palace] (…)269
At the same time, the theme of imitation also functioned as a rhetorical claim of
possession: When Sa􀀄dâbâd was called “Petit Versailles” or “Petit Marly” in the
travelogues, this indicated that this space in fact only partially belonged to the
Ottomans; the Europeans, in particular the French, had to a certain extent taken
268 Pertusier, vol. I, 317.
269 De Saumery, 138-139.
106
mental possession of it. Thus even for travellers not from France, the palace and its
gardens were mentally closely linked to France, as is testified to by Milady Craven’s
account:
Mais dans les endroits où il a assez de largeur pour ressembler à une petite rivière, les
François ont, depuis quelque tems, retenu l’eau douce par des digues, & en ont fait des
petites pièces d’eau en quarré pour imiter celles de Marly. On a bâti en ces endroits des
kiosques, & on y a planté des arbres avec beaucoup de regularité.270
Here, one even has the impression that it was the French themselves who constructed
the water works of Sa􀀄dâbâd! Even if this was the culmination of a long-lasting
discourse and cannot necessarily be taken as representative for the general view of
the travellers, it nevertheless shows how far the European imagination could go.
Sa􀀄dâbâd as an architectural monument thus always remained a European,
more specifically a French space in the mind of European travellers, albeit it was
perceived as a failed attempt at imitating the superior architectural models of the
travellers’ own country of origin. Yet Sa􀀄dâbâd’s perception was also determined by
the surroundings it was set in: the valley of Kâ􀀃ıthane with the surrounding hillsides
and meadows frequented by the Ottoman populace of the capital. This discourse, too,
was determined by a set of fixed topoi elaborated upon in the travellers’ accounts,
which I shall treat in greater detail now.
An Orientalist lieu de mémoire: The Sweet Waters of Europe
The people
The first of these topoi, which was evoked in almost all eighteenth-century accounts
dealing with Kâ􀀃ıthane was that of “the people”, that is of Istanbul’s urban society,
which assembled in times of good weather in its entirety on the meadows of the
valley for amusement and entertainment. According to the travellers, one
encountered here the Ottoman populace in all its diversity, composed of different
270 Craven, 294.
107
ethnic groups, different age groups and diverse social ranks. Thus already in 1723,
Saumery remarked:
(…) il est surprenant de voir la quantité de monde qui accouroit de toutes parts pour
contempler cet édifice; ils en sont si infatués qu’ils ont condamné à un sequin d’amende
ceux qui nommeroient autrement cet endroit que la vallée des Roses.271
And in Mouradgea D’Ohsson’s Tableau Général de l’Empire Othoman272 one can
read:
Dans la belle saison, des citoyens de tous les ordres, de l’un et de l’autre sexe, vont
quelquefois y prendre le plaisir de la promenade; mais les femmes y sont toujours
voilées et séparées des hommes.273
The description of the Sweet Waters was thus an occasion for the authors to offer to
their readers a digression on Ottoman society and on the different ethnic groups of
the empire in particular. This is an aspect, which came to the fore especially in the
nineteenth century, when the discourse on the Orient took on an increasingly
scientific-ethnographic character:
271 De Saumery, 138-139.
272 In fact, this is not a travelogue, but a monumental taxonomic work aiming at displaying the
Ottoman Empire to a European public, written and published largely on his own account by
Mouradgea D’Ohsson during the 1780s and 1790s. D’Ohsson was of French-Armenian origin and
worked as translator and later in diplomatic positions for the Swedish embassy in Istanbul, which is
why he was eventually awarded Swedish citizenship. Although he was thus member of an Ottoman
indigenous minority, he was far from being a foreigner to Ottoman Muslim society and cannot be put
on a par with the European travel writers. The Tableau Général was aimed at refuting the
Enlightenment concept of Oriental despotism current in the European countries and presents an
Ottoman Empire ready for cultural change and Westernization, ruled by an enlightened absolutist
ruler (Selim III). As the work was aimed at a European audience, it put itself consciously in a
European discourse – albeit with the intent to provide an alternative to Orientalist accounts of the
Ottoman Empire – and I have thus decided to include it here in the chapter on European perception.
Yet d’Ohsson’s account certainly holds a much higher degree of credibility than the European
travelogues, especially as social and cultural practices are concerned, since its author was in fact part
of Ottoman society. Unfortunately, d’Ohsson’s account of Kâ􀀃ıthane is relatively short and Sa􀀄dâbâd
palace is not mentioned at all. See Carter Vaughn Findley, “Mouradgea d’Ohsson and his Tableau
générale de l’Empire othoman: Redefining the Self by Defining the Other,” in: Making Sense of
Global History: The Nineteenth International Congress of the Historical Sciences, Oslo 2000,
Commemorative Volume, ed. by Sølvi Sogner (Universitetsforlaget: Oslo, 2001): 169-188; idem, “A
Quixotic Author and His Great Taxonomy: Mouradgea D’Ohsson and His Tableau General de
L’Empire Othoman,” 25 August 1999, online available:
www.oslo2000.uio.no/program/papers/m1b/m1b-findley.pdf and The Torch of the Empire: Ignatius
Mouradgea d’Ohsson and the Tableau General of the Ottoman Empire in the Eighteenth
Century/􀀈mparatolu􀀇un me􀀉alesi: XVIII. Yüzyılda Osmanlı 􀀈mparatorlu􀀇u’nun Genel Görünümü ve
􀀈gnatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson, ed. by Fatma Canpolat, Istanbul: Yapı Kredi, 2002.
273 Mouradgea d’Ohsson, Tableau général de l’empire othoman, vol. IV (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1791),
186.
108
Les eaux douces offrent des études très instructives des moeurs orientales, et avec
quelqu’attention, on peut là saisir les nuances qui rendent distinctes l’une de l’autre les
différentes nations composant la liste sociale en Turquie.274
What presented itself here to the eye of the traveller was the entire Ottoman society
in panoptical fashion, ready to be transmitted to the European readership, who
eagerly awaited details about “the Oriental peoples.”275 The Sweet Waters, as an
unbound space where everyone could be as they ‘really’ were, thus constituted a
space tailored for the ethnographic view of the traveller, a space where he could
observe and describe the ‘typical nature’ of the Ottoman ethnic groups:
Ici, le Grec laisse reparaître des traces de son caractère enjoué, et oublie, au sein de la
gaîté, qu’il a des maîtres. L’Arménien y apporte son naturel pacifique et son flegme
germanique, qui le suit au champ comme à la ville. (...) Le Juif prend aussi sa part des
divertissements qu’offrent les eaux douces, sans perdre toutefois l’ardeur du gain qui
naît avec lui pour le suivre jusqu’à la tombe. Le Franc est également attiré par la
fraîcheur des ombrages et par le concours nombreux des individus de toutes les nations
qu’on y rencontre. (...) Quant au Musulman, il s’y présente en maître. (...)276
The theme of the empire’s different ethnic groups moreover provided the opportunity
to step onto political territory: Thomas Allom, for example, when describing the
Sweet Waters wrote of the Greek women one could observe there; this observation
led him towards the theme of Greek dances, then Greek war dances and in this way
he finally arrived at the topic of the contemporary Greek struggle against the Turks –
in which Allom of course supported the cause of the Greeks.277 This, however, was
clearly a trend of the nineteenth century, which was not at all present in the first
accounts of Sa􀀁dâbâd and the valley surrounding it.
The illustrations of the Sweet Waters of Europe resemble for the most part
the written texts of the travelogues, which they accompanied, by evoking the same
topoi in a visual manner. Thus the engraving in D’Ohsson’s Tableau Général by the
274 Pertusier, vol. I, 326.
275 On the influence of the European readership on the content of travelogues see Fischer and
Tinguely.
276 Pertusier, vol. I, 313-314.
277 Thomas Allom, Constantinople ancienne et moderne comprenant aussi les sept églises de l’Asie
mineure (Paris: Fisher, Fils et Co., 1840), 49-50.
109
French artist Jean-Baptiste Hilaire278 treats – as does the written text – the theme of
Kâ􀀅ıthane as attracting an outstanding diversity of people from the capital.279 This
engraving depicts the palace of Sa􀀇dâbâd in the 1770s together with its gardens and
water works, as well as the large public meadow bordering the palace garden,
opposite the Cirîd Square. This meadow is on the engraving occupied by a great
number of different people: men as well as women, people in groups as well as all
alone, people on horseback and on foot, servants as well as those being served. With
the palace buildings of Sa􀀇dâbâd themselves located in the image’s background and
the meadow taking up the entire foreground – it constitutes almost two thirds of the
entire engraving – it is in fact all these various people on the meadow which are at
the centre of the depiction. The engraving thus corresponds closely to the text, which
emphasizes in the same way the variety of people at Kâ􀀅ıthane (see the quotation
from d’Ohsson above).
In his description of Kâ􀀅ıthane d’Ohsson moreover explained at length how
the women arrived at the valley in their 􀀄arâbas (an oxen-driven cart) and it is thus
these 􀀄arâbas, which figure prominently in the centre of the engraving’s foreground.
Much attention has evidently been paid by the artist to the exact depiction of the
people’s costumes and their material objects such as the carpets, the pipes or
instruments. The people are distributed across the meadow in a relatively regular
manner, filling it up almost entirely and leaving only very little empty space. Two
groups of large trees situated on both edges of the picture provide a visual framing,
while one group of trees right in the centre serves as a focal point structuring the vast
space making up the meadow. Yet despite the crowd of people and even the horses in
278 Jean-Baptise Hilaire was a successful Orientalist painter, who not only provided a great number of
illustrations for d’Ohsson’s Tableau générale but also for Choiseul-Gouffier’s famous Voyage
pittoresque. See Auguste Boppe, XVIII. Yüzyıl Bo􀀃aziçi Ressamları, transl. by Nevin Yücel-Celbi􀀆
(Istanbul: Pera Turizm ve Ticaret, 1998), 113-114.
279 See appendix, fig. 9.
110
full gallop, the human figures appear strangely detached from the landscape
depicted. It seems rather that the landscape served the artist as a practical backdrop,
on which he could situate his figures in an almost stage-like manner so that they
could provide the European spectators with an impression of Ottoman customs and
costumes. Or expressed more pointedly, in a certain way we are presented here with
a costume album in collective form, animated by a picturesque background.
Regarding the human figures in this manner as simply being artistic devices,
which carry specific functions in the visual composition of the engraving, it becomes
increasingly problematic to take the scene, which the engraving purports to depict so
realistically, at face value. Obviously, the same holds for the written texts: one can
very well argue that Kâ􀀃ıthane and the palace of Sa􀀄dâbâd serve just as a picturesque
backdrop for the writers in front of which they let Ottoman society perform in order
to please the interest of their European readership. While this is probably true to a
certain extent, I do not want to negate here the relation between discourse and reality
entirely. In spite of all odds, I think that one can take the fact that a great number of
very different writers as well as various illustrations draw a picture of Kâ􀀃ıthane as
being a popular excursion spot for the urban population as an indication for a
corresponding historical reality. If this was the case, however, what these sources do
not tell us is the precise composition of this public, which apparently assembled at
Kâ􀀃ıthane. How exclusive this public was, who exactly was part of it and who
controlled it are questions, which need to be answered in this context. While I am not
able to provide certain answers in the scope of this thesis, I will approach these
questions in the last chapter of this work.
111
Women
For now, let’s look at a second topos, which appears in almost all travelogues on
Sa􀀄dâbâd: the theme of women. As has been widely acknowledged, the theme of the
exotic and erotic woman is a theme that occupies a significant position in Orientalist
discourse, and there is no need to further elaborate on this at this point.280 In the
discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd this topos was mainly focussed on the appearance of women
in public space as represented by the gardens and meadows around the palace.
Almost all authors who treated this topic underlined the spatial separation between
men and women and then continued to describe the activities of the women, their
clothes – of which the veil in particular caught the Westerners’ attention – and the
way women arrived at the valley by 􀀁arâba, an oxen-driven cart. The interest for
Oriental women was not only a male phenomenon – it was well present amongst
female European travellers, although it did not reach the same degree of eroticization
as with their male counterparts. Thus for example the following description by
Milady Craven:
On voit aussi dans ce lieu des groupes des femmes qui y sont séparées de la
compagnie des hommes. Elles s’y rendent dans des espèces de voitures, qu’elles
s’imaginent être des carrosses, & qu’elles appellent arabats; c’est une abominable
chose qui ressemble à une charrette couverte, avec plusieurs rangées de bancs en
dedans: elles ne sont point suspendues sur des soupentes.281
Similar to the first topos of the people, when treating the theme of women, too, a
picture of light-hearted chatter and laughter, of joy and amusement was conjured up,
which in this way became a characteristic of the space of Kâ􀀃ıthane as a whole:
Cette prairie [Kâ􀀃ıthane] est le rendez-vous des femmes turques, dans les beaux jours;
on les y voit par grouppes, assises en rond sur de beaux tapis, avec de longues pipes à la
bouche, écoutant des musiciens qui jouent des instruments autour d’elles, et s’amusant à
regarder des bateleurs qui combattent à moitié nuds avec des ours apprivoisés, ou qui
luttent ensemble à la manière des anciens athlètes.282
280 I am citing here as representative for this body of literature the work by Irvin Cemil Schick, The
Erotic Margin: Sexuality and Spatiality in Alteritist Discourse (London, Verso: 1999).
281 Craven, 294.
282 J. B. Lechevalier, Voyage de la Propontide et du Pont-Euxin, vol. II (Paris: Dentu, 1800), 321.
112
The discourse on Oriental women was moreover always a discourse on the borders
between the permitted and the prohibited – borders, so it seems, which were a little
more flexible at the Sweet Waters than in the city itself. Moral limits are translated
into physical limits; not only in terms of city interior and exterior, but also inside the
space of Kâ􀀃ıthane, where definite lines created spaces of exclusion:
Si je n’ai point encore parlé des femmes, c’est qu’elles sont dans des endroits séparés,
dont l’entrée, gardée par des bostângis, est interdite aux hommes, et où elles ont leurs
jeux, leurs amusemens particuliers. En passant devant la barrière, on entend le
bourdonnement confus d’un grand nombre de voix et les expressions d’une gaîté
bruyante, qui se mêlent au son des instruments et aux clameurs des marchands. Ces
barrières ne sont souvent autre chose qu’une corde tendue sur des piqnets plantés de
distance en distance; mais un homme qui oserait pénétrer dans cette enceinte, nouvel
Orphée, serait déchiré par des Bacchantes: aussi n’y a-t-il point d’exemple d’un pareil
attentat.283
A space of the illegal, of the prohibited was quite obviously created here by the
author, which incited the fascination of the reader and stimulated his imagination, in
a manner so typical of the Orientalist discourse evoking at the same time the illicit,
the exotic and the erotic. What Frederick Bohrer has remarked for the Sweet Waters
of Asia is thus also valid in the case of the European Sweet Waters: they represented
an “open-air harem” in the orientalist discourse.284 This was especially true for the
travelogues of the nineteenth century when the Orientalist view took on a more and
more erotic character:
On my way home through the park, I came up with a party of Turkish ladies, who were
also on their return to town, from the scene of their holiday gaieties. (…) As I passed,
and turned to look at them, one of them showed her whole face instead of only her eyes
and the tip of her nose. That might be by accident; her yashmack might have been
deranged, as all veils will some times – bot lo! another mysterious covering is
withdrawn – and lo, another! They were three charming faces, really worth showing;
and had it not been for my companion, who probably dreaded the consequences of these
approaches to gallantry, should any surly Osmanlis observe us, I should willingly have
loitered on my way to give them a few more of the admiring glances they evidently
courted. I was the more inclined to do so, as these were the first specimens of the ladyspecies
I had an opportunity of seeing.285
283 A. L. Castellan, Lettres sur la Morée, l’Hellespont et Constantinople, faisant suite aux lettres sur
la Morée (Paris: Agasse, 1811), 98.
284 Frederick N. Bohrer, “The Sweet Waters of Asia: Representing Difference/Differencing
Representation in Nineteenth-Century Istanbul,” in: Edges of Empire: Orientalism and Visual
Culture, ed. by Jocelyn Hackforth-Jones and Mary Roberts (Oxford: Blackwell 2005), 128.
285 Charles MacFarlane, Constantinople in 1828, vol. II, 2 (London: Saunders and Otley 1829), 515-
516.
113
This discourse was visually completed by the engravings of Kâ􀀃ıthane, which evoke
the theme of women in a similar manner. A fitting example is the illustration of
Thomas Allom’s travelogue.286 The Kâ􀀃ıthane river and its shores are here depicted
in front of a wall of majestic trees. A great number of different people occupy the
riversides, but it is in fact a scene of women dancing by the shore, which constitutes
the main subject of the image. Situated in the foreground and being full of
movement, this scene immediately attracts the attention of the spectator; an effect,
which is furthermore supported by its bright shades of grey as opposed to the dark
tones of the river which fades away amongst the trees in the background. The
engraving depicts a scene of innocent gayness, of exuberant playfulness in front of a
backdrop of romantic and imposing nature. When looking more closely, however,
one notices that the women are observed by a group of men sitting on the lawn in the
corner of the image with their backs turned towards the spectator. Immediately, the
scene loses its innocence and becomes charged erotically: the gaze of the European
spectator becomes that of the men of the engraving who are observing the Oriental
women, object of a deep fascination. The valley of Kâ􀀃ıthane as a result became a
place where it was possible to discover some of the secrets surrounding the figure of
the Oriental woman, where the European – mainly male – observer encountered the
objects of his fascination. The minaret of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s mosque which sticks out of the
woods in the back of the engraving seems in this context as if wanting to remind the
observer of the exotic dimensions of the scene.
Sa􀀄dâbâd and its environments thus became through this written and visual
discourse a space fundamentally eroticized and sexually charged for the European
memory; a process, which set in during the second half of the eighteenth century and
286 See appendix, fig. 10.
114
culminated in the nineteenth. Castellan’s description of women at Kâ􀀃ıthane valley
could not demonstrate this better:
Le féretgé, qui est croisé par-devant sans être attaché, peut s’entr’ouvrir un moment, et
laisser apercevoir la richesse de leurs vêtemens de dessous, qui, serrés à la ceinture,
accusent la forme, la souplesse de leur taille, et modèlent les contours de leurs seins,
couvert d’une mousseline transparente. Une main potelée, dont les doigts sont ornés de
brillans, sort de la large manche destinée à la cacher: le voile qui dérobe la figure
s’écarte au moyen d’un léger artifice; la beauté n’incline modestement la tête que pour
faire distinguer une bouche charmante, qu’un sourire embellit encore.287
Amusement and pleasure
A third topos, linked to the two preceding ones, was that of amusement and gayness.
The palace of Sa􀀄dâbâd was purportedly situated in an environment far from the
worries of everyday life and almost excluded from questions of power, despotism or
intrigues – themes at the heart of the orientalist discourse. The latter were in the
travelogues represented by the space of the city proper, while the space of the Sweet
Waters remained an innocent one. In Pertusier’s account for example, the chapter on
Kâ􀀃ıthane served as occasion for a digression on the amusements and celebrations of
the Ottomans: “Puisque nous traitons l’article amusemens chez la nation ottomane,
nous sommes tenus de parler des donanma ou réjouissances publiques qui se
célèbrent à l’occasion d’événemens heureux…”288 And Castellan similarly entitled
the letter XVII of his travelogue “Promenade aux Eaux-Douces ; jeux et amusemens
des Turcs.” 289
Interestingly, in a number of travelogues, the palace of Sa􀀄dâbâd did not
appear at all when Kâ􀀃ıthane was being described. And even if the presence of state
power – which one could have pinpointed easily in the figure of the sultan and his
palace for example, or in the Ottoman artillery, which used parts of the meadows as
exercising fields since the 1750s and ran the cannon foundry – was mentioned, this
287 Castellan, 99-100.
288 Pertusier, vol. I, 331.
289 Castellan, 88.
115
presence equally appeared in the mode of celebrations or relaxation. Castellan for
example described the valley of Kâ􀀃ıthane in the context of a sultanic festivity, when
the sultan visited his summer palace at the end of the Golden Horn in order to
“respirer la fraîcheur des eaux et s’endormir voluptueusement au murmure produit
par leurs chutes multipliées.”290
It is the image of the indolent and inert Oriental, so dear to Orientalist
discourse, which was evoked here and which one finds in many of the relations on
Kâ􀀃ıthane. The architectural type of the maison de plaisance or the kiosque – which
is how Sa􀀄dâbâd was classified by the majority of the authors – was the spatial
manifestation of this image. When describing the numerous “reposoirs charmants”
around the city, the Polish traveller Jean Potocki for example used the following
words:
C’est aussi là que l’habitant de Constantinople vient étendre ses tapis et ses sofas, et
jouissant en silence des beautés de la nature qui l’environne, il y passe des journées
entières, plongé dans ces douces rêveries, dont le charme ignoré des esprits actifs, est si
connu des âmes contemplatives.291
And even the serious Dr. Wittman, who accompanied a British military mission to
Istanbul and Egypt and whose account is of a rather technical character, provided the
following explanation for the term “kiosque” in a footnote:
A kiosque is a pavilion, or pleasure-house, of one story [sic], for summer residence. Its
form is sometimes square, and at others round, and it is usually built of wood, painted
and decorated both withinside and without, in the Turkish style. (…) It is also their [the
Turks’] practice to place them near a river, or stream of water, situations of which they
are passionately fond. They there indulge themselves in smoking for several hours
together.292
If the presence of the Ottoman military was ever mentioned at all, it seems to have
lost its threatening military character and easily fits in the row of the other festivities
and amusements taking place on the meadows of the valley:
290
Ibid., 93.
291 Jean Potocki, Voyage en Turquie et en Égypte (Paris: Jose Corti 1999), 73-74.
292 William Wittman, Turkey, Asia-Minor, Syria and across the desert into Egypt during the years
1799, 1800, and 1801 (London: Richard Phillips 1803), 30.
116
Dans une partie de cette vaste plaine, de jeunes artilleurs s’exercent de temps à autre, à
tirer au blanc avec le canon, ou bien à diriger des bombes. (…) Dans la belle saison, des
citoyens de tous les ordres, de l’un et de l’autre sexe, vont quelquefois y prendre le
plaisir de la promenade (…)293
It is worth noting that the account of the English military doctor Wittman, who
described the Kâ􀀃ıthane valley only in terms of its military character is indeed so
different from the other travelogues. This fact highlights how much these accounts
were in fact determined by what the author wanted (and could) see and perceive –
and it poses once more the question of the relation between physical reality on the
one hand and the discourse setting out to describe it on the other. Another case in
point is the nineteenth-century English traveller Duckett, who – contrary to all the
French travellers, who saw in Sa􀀄dâbâd always the imitation of French palace and
garden designs – likened Sa􀀄dâbâd to English gardens, the antipode of the French
baroque garden type: “Ce sont des belles prairies, traversées par un filet d’eau qu’on
prendrait pour une rivière artificielle de nos parcs anglais.”294 This is indeed
remarkable, as it highlights how relative supposed solid architectural resemblance in
fact is to individual judgement. The example demonstrates clearly that architectural
forms gain meaning only through the individual observer and that what the
individual perceives is bound completely by his previous knowledge, his cultural and
social background.
Nature and the Picturesque
Fourthly, there is the theme of nature and landscape, which was common to all the
European accounts of Kâ􀀃ıthane.295 The valley was described as a place where a
virgin nature was reigning, almost untouched by human hands. Kâ􀀃ıthane thus
293 D’Ohsson, 185-186.
294 W.A. Duckett, La Turquie pittoresque: Histoire, moeurs, description (Paris: Victor Lecou, 1855),
231.
295 For an analysis of the position of ‘landscape’ in French nineteenth-century Orientalism see Peltre,
67-79.
117
became the antipode of the city itself – this has already been hinted at above – which
certainly coincided with historical reality, as it was after all a public park outside the
city walls. Yet the opposition of Kâ􀀃ıthane versus Istanbul, of nature versus city
certainly had as much a rhetorical function, which allowed the writer to treat subjects
like Ottoman festivities and amusements in precisely this space. This narrative
structure in which Kâ􀀃ıthane appeared as the antipode to city life and all that it
represented in Orientalist discourse (such as Oriental despotism, dirtiness,
crowdedness) becomes obvious in this quotation from Salaberry:
Au fond du port est un petit vallon, au milieu duquel une jolie rivière naît, coule et va
finir en se mêlant à la mer. La nature a placé cette charmante solitude à côté du tumulte,
de la foule et du mouvement; vous venez de quitter le port le plus vaste, le plus vivant,
le plus bruyant; les flots agités balottoient avec danger votre frêle saique, l’ame partage
en un instant le calme de la nature. On ne voit plus ni ville, ni palais, ni vaisseaux, ni
mer. L’esprit ne passe nulle part aussi rapidement de l’agitation au repos. Ce charmant
vallon se nomme les eaux douces.296
Moreover, it seems that one can link this dichotomous structure to the nature-culture
opposition in Orientalist discourse, according to which nature, representing
primitivism and authenticity was associated with the Orient, while culture, standing
both for the progress and the decadence of European societies was associated with
the Occident.
Apart from the nature-city or the nature-culture divide, nature was evoked in
the descriptions of Sa􀀄dâbâd and its surroundings as if it was a charming illustration
in a manner that made the valley appear like the canvas of a landscape painter:
(…) un beau palais entouré d’arbres, des collines, des jardins, des bouquets de
peupliers, d’ormes, de frênes, et de cyprès, des sycomores dont les cimes larges et
touffues se balancent au gré de la brise, s’etendent le long de ses rives; le canal serpente
quelque tems entre deux pelouses de verdure, puis ce n’est plus qu’un ruisseau paisible
dont les ranies des caiques touchent les deux bords. Là, sont des colllines boisées et
verdoyantes, une vaste prairie tapissée de gazon et de fleurs, de grands noyers, des
ormes, des saules et des platanes qui, tantôt solitaires, tantôt groupés par masse, font de
ces lieux une immense galerie de tableaux charmants.297
296 Charles Marie D’Irumberry Salaberry, Voyage à Constantinople, en Italie et aux îles de l’Archipel
par l’Allemagne et la Hongrie (Paris: Maradan, 1796), 176-177.
297 Allom, 49.
118
Here, nature takes on a theatrical, not entirely real character, serving as a picturesque
decoration in front of which the author set on stage the figures of his Oriental theatre:
the sultan, the Turkish woman, the Greek, the Armenian etc. It was this topic of the
picturesque298 which made the Orient appear like a space that willingly exposed itself
to the view of the European traveller, that existed only in order to be perceived by a
European audience – this was the Orient set on stage for (and by) the Occident:
Quelle situation plus heureuse pourrait on imaginer pour flatter et contenter ses goûts,
que les rives du Bosphore, où la mobilité constante des objets combat si victorieusement
la monotonie? Tous ces palais (...) sont, à le bien prendre, des décorations établies sur le
théâtre le plus riche en scènes attachantes, et calculées de manière qu’elles puissent
changer à vue.299
The Sweet Waters of Europe thus constituted the perfect example for the genre of the
“pittoresque”, of an innocent and almost unreal place, which extended itself in front
of the European traveller ready to be perceived, described or painted:
Des côteaux, des plaines, des petits pavillons avec des dômes dorés, des ponts légers sur
une rivière peu profonde, qui se jette dans le Bosphore,300 des barques flottantes, enfin
tout s’y réunit pour présenter le coup-d’oeil le plus pittoresque et le plus imposant.301
Part of the picturesque genre in European art with its romantic overtones were also
ruins – and with the neglected Sa􀀄dâbâd palace in the latter half of the eighteenth
century, Kâ􀀃ıthane provided a perfect scenery in this regard. First of all, there were
the ruins of the dignitaries’ pavilions on the hillsides of Kâ􀀃ıthane, which had been
destroyed during the Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730. Sa􀀄dâbâd palace itself
remained neglected until the first renovation in 1740. Renovation works were again
carried out in 1792, indicating another period of neglect during the latter decades of
the eighteenth century and in 1809 the palace was finally constructed in an entirely
298 For a treatment of the picturesque in nineteenth-century Orientalist art see Linda, Nochlin, “The
Imaginary Orient,” in: The Politics of Vision, ed. by eadem. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1991), 50-
51 and Peltre, 50-66. For the significance of the picturesque in eighteenth-century English garden
design and aesthetic theory see the introduction by Patrick Chézaud in Chambers.
299 Pertusier, vol. I, 339-340.
300 The river flows in fact into the Golden Horn, not the Bosphorus.
301 D’Ohsson, 185.
119
different form. This means that over the time span of almost one century, Sa􀀄dâbâd
was – at least partially – in a state of neglect or even ruined.
Apart from the romantic and picturesque, especially in the accounts of the nineteenth
century, the travellers’ discourse on these ruins suggested moreover the
incompetence of the Ottomans to maintain their own buildings – a suggestion which
fit well with their supposed inability to imitate European architecture and constituted
part of the large Orientalist topos of Oriental idleness. Thus, when Pertusier for
example remarked “une continuité de ruines modernes, au lieu des maisons de
plaisance qui devraient les [les bords de la rivière de Kâ􀀃ıthane] orner” 302, this
becomes rhetorically a moral lesson or what Linda Nochlin calls “architecture
moralisée”, indicating, even if subtly, that “these people – lazy, slothful, and
childlike, if colourful – have let their own cultural treasures sink into decay.”303 And
from there it was in fact not far to suggesting that consequentially, it was the duty of
the civilized nations to intervene in order to prevent this decay:
(…) certes ce local [Kâ􀀃ıthane], où l’on pourroit réaliser les plus agréables créations du
génie, mériteroit de passer entre les mains d’autres hommes que les Turcs, dont presque
tout les ouvrages accusent cette précipitation puérile qui les fait se hâter de jouir le jour
même, comme s’ils craignoient que le désir ne fût usé le lendemain.304
In conclusion, the European discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd and Kâ􀀃ıthane was clearly
imbedded into a wider Orientalist discourse on Istanbul and the Ottoman Empire,
which significantly shaped the perception of this particular space, where one could
catch a glimpse of an Ottoman woman’s face or observe the typical Turk, reclining
on a carpet smoking water pipe for hours. While these were in certain ways the
blatant culminations of an Orientalist gaze that has in the last decades been
systematically dismantled and exposed to thorough criticism, this discourse as it has
302 Pertusier, vol. I, 315.
303 Nochlin, 39.
304 Castellan, 93.
120
been outlined in the previous pages, has in a more subtle form survived until today
and significantly shaped the historiography on Sa􀀄dâbâd and the Tulip Age. Sa􀀄dâbâd
is for example still widely regarded as an imperfect imitation of Versailles or Marly
and Kâ􀀃ıthane’s image as a space of carefree amusement is even used for promotion
purposes by the municipality. It is therefore high time, I think, to critically approach
these topoi, which are obviously imbued with a heavy Orientalist legacy and for
example seriously question, whether the assertion of Sa􀀄dâbâd being an imperfect
Western imitation is not just a mental construct due to the perception of Ottoman
architecture by European travellers who inevitably assessed what they saw in terms
of their own aesthetic system. One can perhaps regard the claim of Sa􀀄dâbâd being in
imperfect imitation as the outcome of a dilemma situation that the European
travellers found themselves in when confronted with Sa􀀄dâbâd, since the palace
could not like other pieces of Oriental architecture be labelled as completely foreign
and different. In the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd, two observations opposed each other: on the
one hand, Sa􀀄dâbâd’s architecture was obviously a foreign one, while on the other it
was precisely this foreign piece of architecture, which was held to be an imitation of
architectural works from the travellers’ own culture. There seems to have been only
way out of this impasse: to mark Sa􀀄dâbâd as an imperfect imitation.
Yet the fact remains that the European travelogues are after all sources, which
are in some way or another linked to the historical reality they describe. They can
therefore make information about this reality available, provided that the historian is
critical enough to take into account the specific culturally determined way the
travellers approach their object of study. The fact that Kâ􀀃ıthane lent itself to serve
as a rhetorical device, which could support specifically these topoi enumerated above
and not different ones and that these were repeated with such regularity, indicates
that the historical reality in certain ways corresponded to the picture drawn in the
121
travelogues. What one can deduce is probably that Kâ􀀅ıthane was indeed a popular
mesîre for Istanbul’s population, including both Muslims and non-Muslims, where
one did come for leisurely outings and picnics. It is also likely that as opposed to
other spaces in the city, women were relatively visible at Kâ􀀅ıthane. It is especially
the account of d’Ohsson, which allows making these conclusions, being the account
to which one can probably accredit greatest credibility, since d’Ohsson was part of
Ottoman society and understood himself as a broker between the Ottomans and the
Europeans.305
What the travelogues allow us to deduce is thus that Kâ􀀅ıthane constituted a
public space in the urban landscape of Istanbul of a type, which seems to have been
newly emergent in the city and indicates important transformations of the urban
society.306 Before I set Sa􀀇dâbâd and Kâ􀀅ıthane in this wider social and cultural
context, however, I now want to oppose the European viewpoint to the Ottoman one.
The Ottoman Perception
How Ottomans themselves perceived the architecture of Sa􀀇dâbâd and the wider
space of Kâ􀀅ıthane is a question so far hardly considered, but which is crucial if one
wants to assess the significance and meaning Sa􀀇dâbâd held for Ottoman society (or
at least parts of it). The sources available for such an evaluation are on the one hand
the official court chronicles, which include descriptions of Sa􀀇dâbâd and Kâ􀀅ıthane,
and on the other hand Ottoman dîvân poetry of the eighteenth century,307 for which
305 See the footnote on d’Ohsson’s Tableau générale above.
306 Hamadeh, “Public Spaces.”
307 I have been able to locate Sa􀀇dâbâd or Kâ􀀅ıthane among the works of the following eighteenthcentury
poets: Çelebizade Asım Efendi, Enderunlu Fazıl (Zenanname), Enderunlu Vasıf, Ha􀀆met,
Hatem, Latifi, Muhlis Mustafa Efendi, Nahifi, Nedim, Ne􀀇fi, Mustafa Rahmi, Sami Arpaeminizade.
122
Kâ􀀇ıthane constituted a favourite site where tales of the poet’s beloved or praise for
the sultan and his grand vizier were frequently set. As in the previous section, I will
firstly deal with the perception of Sa􀀊dâbâd palace and its gardens as architectural
monuments in a narrower sense and then consider the wider space of Kâ􀀇ıthane. My
contention is, that while in the first case the Ottoman perception differed markedly
from the European one, since Ottomans viewed Sa􀀊dâbâd’s architecture mainly in
reference to Persian models as well as simply on its own terms, in the second case
the perceptions were not as far apart as it might seem at first sight, centring on a
number of common themes, such as the visibility of women, pleasure and
entertainment or the beauty of nature. This overlap between Ottoman and European
perception can furthermore be taken as indicating a corresponding historical reality
and certain social and cultural practices – subject matters, which shall be evaluated
in the last chapter.
The Perception of Sa􀀊dâbâd Palace
Sa􀀊dâbâd the Unequalled and Other-Worldly
As the perception of the palace is concerned, our sources generally extol the building
in greatest praise – certainly determined by the fact, that both chronicles and dîvân
poetry were authored by people of the court surroundings who were highly
dependent upon the patronage of the sultan and who thus in certain ways had no
choice but to eulogize him and his grand vizier as well as the architectural works
they both patronized.308 Commonplace in both chronicles and poetry is thus that
For the poems by Nedim see: Nedim Divanı, ed. by Abdülbâki Gökpınarlı (Istanbul: 􀀈nkilâp ve Aka
1972). All other poets have been consulted through the anthology Fatih’ten Günümüze 􀀆airlerin
Gözüyle 􀀅stanbul, ed. by Hasan Akay, 2 vols, (Istanbul: 􀀈􀀉aret 1997).
308 See Walter G. Andrews, Poetry’s Voice, Society’s Song: Ottoman Lyric Poetry (Seattle and
London: University of Washington Press, 1985) 99-100. In fact, not much research has been done on
the topic of patronage and divân poetry. See also the short study of Halil 􀀈nalcık, 􀀆air ve Patron:
Patrimonyal Devlet ve Sanat Üzerinde Sosyolojik Bir 􀀅nceleme (Ankara: Do􀀇u Batı, 2003).
123
Sa􀀇dâbâd is beyond description by words as well as beyond comparison with other
architecture because of its beauty and excellence, which has brought it great fame:
Âlemi tutsa n’ola 􀀆öhreti Sa􀀇dâbâd’ın
Bî-bedeldir 􀀆eref ü behceti Sa􀀇dâbâd’ın
…
Ey Nâhîfî olamaz hakkı edâ-yı tab􀀇îr
Ne kadar olsa beyân midhati Sa􀀇dâbâd’ın309
Or in Nedim’s words:
Ye Sa’da-âbâd-ı dil-cûnun efendim sorma hiç vasfın
Kulun bir vech ile ta􀀇bire kaadir olmaz anı310
In the chronicles, the terms used for describing Sa􀀇dâbâd accordingly include kasr-ı
bî-kusûrlar,311 resîde-i kasr or kasr-ı lâtif ü bi-hemtâya.312 Its perfection and
excellence is seen as unmatched by anything else found in the world and thus in fact
constitutes a kind of paradise on earth. Nedim for example describes the Kasr-ı
Cînan – a suggestive naming, probably invented by Nedim himself – as follows:
Yok bu dünyâda hele Kasr-ı Cinân’ın misli
Bilmezem var mı cinân dahı akrânı313
The chroniclers similarly use terms like hâmis cinân-ı zemîn,314 dilke􀀃-i cennet-nümâ
or cây-ı cennet-nümâ315 with frequency in order to express their praise for the
building. Interestingly, it is mainly the gardens and water works, which seem to have
inspired the authors to make these comparisons. Thus the water pouring forth from
Sa􀀇dâbâd’s fountains is often termed âb-ı hayât or mâ-i tesnîm,316 the paradisiacal
water of life, the Kâ􀀅ıthane river compared to kevser, a river in paradise,317 and the
Cedvel-i Sîm described by Nedim as leading directly to paradise:
309 Nahifi in Akay, vol. II, 624.
310 Nedim, 52.
311 Çelebizade, 260, 401.
312 Subhî, 688-689; 691.
313 Nedim, 76.
314 Çelebizade, 46.
315 Subhî, 688.
316 Nedim, 356.
317 Nedim, 45; 357.
124
Cedvel-i sîm içre âdem binse bir zevrakçeye
􀀃stese mümkin varılmak cennetin tâ yânına318
Moreover the beauty of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s garden especially in spring time, with its
flourishing nature and an abundance of roses and other flowers inspired the Ottoman
writers to comparisons with the paradise garden of 􀀃rem.319
The comparison of existing royal gardens to mystical gardens like the garden
Eden was a common trope in Ottoman and Persian poetry and an expression of its
religious and mystical dimensions, which created constant references between the
worldly and the religious order, between this world and the hereafter, between microand
macrocosm through a rich metaphorical and often ambiguous language. The
significance of the mystical Sufi dimension in the poetry should not be neglected, as
it profoundly shaped the worldview and reality of Ottoman society; thus poets and
other artists, members of the ruling class, as well as janissaries and other commoners
would frequently be associated to a tarîkat (Sufi society). In the early eighteenth
century, it was in particular the Melâmî society, which gained ascendancy in elite
circles and with which amongst others Nedim as well as the grand vizier 􀀃brahim
Pasha were associated.320 Different from other tarîkats, at the basis of Melâmî
doctrine did not lay an ascetic retreat from the world in order to come closer to and
find the path towards unity with God.321 Quite to the contrary, the Melâmî sought not
to distinguish themselves from the surrounding society since they regarded the Sufi
path of distinction from the ordinary society by a pious and ascetic life as
hypocritical. Because Melâmî teachings encouraged their followers to engage in
318 Nedim, 80.
319 Subhî, 138.
320 Introduction by Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı in Nedim Divanı, xi-xiii.
321 On the Melâmî society, its doctrine and historical development see Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı,
Melâmîlik ve Melâmîler (Istanbul: Devlet Matbaası 1931) as well as the collective volume edited by
Nathalie Clayer, Alexandre Popovic and Thierry Zarcone, Melâmis-Bayrâmis: Études sur trois
mouvements mystiques musulmans (Istanbul: 􀀃sis, 1998) and here in particular the article by Osman
Türer, “Les Caractèristiques originelles de la Pensée du Malâmat et les Transformations de cette
Pensée avec le Temps,” 67-85.
125
worldly affairs, members of this tarîkat often attained esteemed positions in the
social order,322 and while they had been persecuted at earlier times by the Ottoman
government for being opposed to orthodox Sunni doctrine,323 in the eighteenth
century the order lived a remarkable expansion into high ranks of the ruling elite.324
Taking into account that many of the poets who praised Sa􀀊dâbâd in their
works were associated with the Melâmî and probably other tarîkats, the paradisiacal
and other mystical allusions should be considered as more than mere images or
empty rhetorical figures to express praise. Instead, one needs to acknowledge the
profound philosophical tradition in which such allusions stand. The fact that the
garden was considered a symbol for the garden of paradise meant that gardens were
regarded as spaces where the experience of God was potentially possible; they were
spaces closer to the realm of the divine. In this quality, the garden came to be a
symbol of interior space, the potential locus of the experience of the divine that was
opposed to the chaotic, wild and exterior space of nature, on all levels from the
micro- to the macrocosm. Thus on the level of the universal, the garden symbolized
the typal as opposed to the phenomenal world; on the level of the earthly, it
represented the peaceful and harmonic dârü’l-islâm as opposed to the conflictuous
dârü’l-harb and on the level of the individual it symbolized the inner emotional as
opposed to the outer rational-intellectual world.325
322 Türer, 77-78.
323 Burhan O􀀇uz, “La Melâmetiyye et l’Idéologie Ottomane,” in: Melâmis-Bayrâmis: Études sur trois
mouvements mystiques musulmans, ed. by Nathalie Clayer, Alexandre Popovic and Thierry Zarcone
(Istanbul: 􀀈sis, 1998), 87-96.
324 Gölpınarlı, 163-178.
325 On the character of gardens as interior spaces in gazels of the classical age see Andrews, Poetry’s
Voice, 151-154. Deniz Çalı􀀉 has suggested that the sultanic garden of Sa􀀊dâbâd can be interpreted in
terms of Melâmî philosophy, with the Cirîd Square as the sultan’s private space representing the realm
of interior space, the public meadows on the opposite side of the canal representing exterior space and
the enclosed palace gardens situated by the pools being a representation of intermediary space
(barzakh), a category of the mystic scholar Ibn 􀀊Arabi (1165-1240) whose philosophy inspired the
Melâmî. It is however hard to verify whether such mystical considerations really did influence the
design of Sa􀀊dâbâd’s garden. Çalı􀀉, “Kâ􀀇ıthane Commons,” 255-257.
126
Apart from the garden symbol, another concept at the heart of Sufi
philosophy, which is reflected in the poetry, is the concept of love: Sufism was based
upon the acknowledgement of the unity of being, i.e. upon the understanding that all
beings were part of the divine since all creation was regarded to be a self-disclosure
of God. Love to and the experience of God could therefore be realized only through
love to other human beings. This concept of – at the same time divine and human –
love was a central trope of dîvân poetry, which in an ambiguous manner positioned
the figure of the beloved at its centre326 – the lyrical admiration and praise of whom
could both be taken to signify admiration of God as the ultimate beloved as well as
admiration of the human lover. This in turn was intertwined with the physical space
of the garden, so that using a highly ambiguous language, the description of nature
turned into the praise of the poet’s – divine or human – lover. The beloved is thus for
example likened to the slim cypress (servî) or the tender sapling (nihâl), his curly
hair to the hyacinth (sünbül), his red cheeks to the rose (gül) or his mouth to a bud
(gonca).327 In the poetic descriptions of Sa􀀄dâbâd and Kâ􀀃ıthane, this
interpenetration of natural beauty, physical-erotic and mythical-religious love is
constantly evoked. Sa􀀄dâbâd as a place praised for its unequalled beauty thus
emerges as a space that in the Ottoman perception continuously oscillated between
the beauty and pleasure of this world and those of the hereafter.
A Synecdoche for the Sultan’s Magnificence
In another metaphorical chain, the garden as the prototype of interior, protected and
ideal space was a symbol for the city as the ideally ordered space opposed to the
surrounding countryside, with the monarch as the ordering power tending for his
326 See Walter G. Andrews and Mehmet Kalpaklı, The Age of Beloveds: Love and the Beloved in
Early Modern Ottoman and European Culture and Society (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005).
327 Andrews, Poetry’s Voice, 101.
127
urban subjects just as a gardener would tend for his flowers. Thus a closely
interwoven field of references was created between the tetragon of garden, city, the
beloved and the monarch so that “the garden becomes identified with the beloved
just as the city becomes identified with the monarch” and as an extension “the garden
also becomes a symbol for the city with its watercourses, its domed buildings like
clouds, its collections of attractive personages at palace, mosque, and medrese like
beds of flowers and stands of cypress, and, at the center of all, the sultan like the
perfect rose.”328
Praising Istanbul’s gardens therefore also meant praising the sultan, who
made all this beauty possible through his protection and reign. This was of course
especially true for imperial gardens and palaces, which became concrete physical
sites providing spatial anchorage for the literary praise of the sultan and other
architectural patrons. Architectural monuments, so it seems then, were closely
associated with their patrons – a way of perception for which Sa􀀄dâbâd is quite
obviously a case in point. For almost all poets, the description of Sa􀀄dâbâd is set in
the context of the praise of Sultan Ahmed III or grand vizier 􀀃brahim Pasha, and the
transition in the poems between these two subjects – praise of architecture and praise
of its patron – is fluent and effortless, thanks also to the ambiguity of the vocabulary
used. Nedim makes the relation obvious in one of his kasîdes describing Sa􀀄dâbâd:
“Anı [Sa􀀄dâbâd’ı] vasfetmek senin [sultanın] eltâfını vasfetmedir”329 This underlines
the significant role architecture played in the constitution of the public image of the
sultan and in the legitimation of his rule. The extensive architectural patronage
practiced by Sultan Ahmed III and 􀀃brahim Pasha during the Tulip Age can thus not
simply be qualified as a squandering of resources, but has to be seen in the context of
328 Andrews, Poetry’s Voice, 101.
329 Nedim, 82.
128
dynastic legitimacy:330 Sa􀀄dâbâd, being a sultanic palace, emerges from poetry and
chronicles as a synecdoche for the magnificence and power of the Ottoman sultan
and in extension for that of the Ottoman Empire in general.
Surmounting the Eastern Neighbours
In direct opposition to the European travelogues, nothing is in the Ottoman texts to
be read of attempts at architectural imitation or references to French or European
architecture. On the contrary, because Sa􀀄dâbâd was unequalled by anything on earth
and only worth of being compared with paradise, it became in fact a building with
model character itself – a model carrying the potential to be imitated by others. The
exemplary, model character of Sa􀀄dâbâd is expressed for example in this beyit by
Arpaeminizade Sami:
Cihanda misli yok ibret-nümâdır sahn-ı Sa􀀄dâbâd
Mülûkâne aceb cây-i safâdır sahn-ı Sa􀀄dâbâd331
Reference points frequently alluded to in order to establish the superiority of
Sa􀀄dâbâd over previous architectural monuments are well-known Persian
architectural monuments, both from the contemporary period and from mythical
accounts of Persian history such as the 􀀃âhnâme. The fame of Sa􀀄dâbâd, so was
claimed, surmounted that of the legendary predecessors, and has become the reason
for envy and jealousy on the part of Persians and Indians:
Hıtta-i Rûm’a gelüb revnak-ı taze 􀀃imdi
Dü􀀃dü Hind ü Aceme hasreti Sa􀀄dâbâd’ın332
And even the great Alexander would bite his fingers out of admiration, if he could
see Sa􀀄dâbâd:
330 On the place of architecture in the upholding of sultanic legitimacy see also Howard Crane, “The
Ottoman Sultan’s Mosques: Icons of Imperial Legitimacy,” in: The Ottoman City and Its Parts, ed. by
Donald Preziosi, Irene A. Bierman and Rifa􀀄at A. Abou-El-Haj (New Rochelle, NY: Aristide D.
Caratzas 1991), 173-243.
331 Arpaeminizade Sami in Akay, vol. II, 763.
332 Nahifi in Akay, vol. II, 624.
129
Görücek rûh-ı Sikender hele Sa􀀇dâbâdı
Oldu parmak ısırıp himmetinin hayrânı333
In the account of his embassy to Iran in 1775, the poet Sünbülzade Vehbi
systematically compared the famous architectural monuments of the Persians with
those in the Ottoman lands – and not surprisingly in an account that was aimed at
pacifying the Ottoman sultan Abdülhamid I, who had condemned Sünbülzade Vehbi
to death for supposed disloyalty while in Iran, in all cases the Ottoman examples
surpass the Persian ones.334 Sa􀀇dâbâd is one of the buildings put forward by the poet
in order to testify to Ottoman superiority, even though it was lying in ruins at the
time – a fact which only highlighted the indubitable superiority of Ottoman
architecture:
Hacâletle aceb mi tâk-i Kisrâ335 münkesir olsa
Ki Kayer pâs-bân olmı􀀆 o vâlâ kasr u eyvâna
Bu Kâ􀀅ıdhâne-i âbâdı taklîd eylemi􀀆 gûyâ
Ser-i râyında rûd üzre o Sa􀀇dâbâd-ı vîrâna336
Thus as the Ottoman sultan was set by the poets in the context of the legendary
Persian kings and declared to be superior to them all, so Sa􀀇dâbâd, too, was seen as
the apex of an Iranian tradition of great architectural monuments – once again, the
close connection between architecture and political power, between building and
patron becomes evident. What is moreover remarkable is the fact that it was now the
Ottomans who constituted a source of envy for the formerly so magnificent Persian
kings; while the Ottomans obviously still saw themselves in a line of states of the
Turko-Persian tradition, at the same time they consciously emancipated themselves
from it – it was now Rûm that had model character for the Eastern neighbours of
333 Nedim, 78.
334 On this embassy account in poetry form, also called Tannâne Kaside, see the article by Süreyya
Beyzadeo􀀅lu, “Tannâne kasîdesi: Bir manzum sefâretname,” Dergâh 14 (1991): 10-11.
335 The term is ambiguous: it could designate any palace of the Persian Shah, but also refer to the
monumental vault named Tâk-i Kisrâ, which was part of the palace of the legendary palatial complex
of the Sassanid king Chosroe I at the Sassanid capital Ctesiphon on the river Tigris. The ambiguity is
obviously intended.
336 Sünbülzade Vehbi in Akay, vol. II, 787.
130
Hind and Acem. One model that was repeatedly made reference to by the eighteenthcentury
Ottoman poets is the Chaharbagh avenue at Isfahan:
N’ola her bâ􀀅ı re􀀆k-i Çâr-bâ􀀅-ı Isfahân olsa
Yedi iklîme sîyt-i i􀀆tihârı dâstân olsa337
Gel hele bir kerrecik seyret göze olmaz yasâ􀀅
Oldu Sa􀀇dâbâd 􀀆imdi sevdi􀀅im dâ􀀅 üstü bâ􀀅
Çâr-bâ􀀅-ı Isfahân’ı eylemi􀀆tir dâ􀀅 dâ􀀅
Oldu Sa􀀇dâbâd 􀀆imdi sevdi􀀅im dâ􀀅 üstü bâ􀀅338
In light of the historiographic discussion around the ‘imitation question’ this direct
comparison between Sa􀀇dâbâd and Isfahan’s Chaharbagh is of considerable
significance as it indeed points to potential ‘Eastern’ models of architectural
inspiration. While these passages cannot ‘prove’ that it was Persian architectural
models, which constituted the source of inspiration for Sa􀀇dâbâd’s design, what they
do attest to is the significance of such Eastern models in what one could perhaps call
the cultural memory of the Ottomans. Obviously, the Ottoman elite was well
acquainted with the architectural monuments of their Eastern neighbours and they
immediately noticed the architectural similarity between Sa􀀇dâbâd and Isfahan’s
Chaharbagh, constituted mainly by the central straight water canal adorned with
water cascades. Even if the imperial architect Mehmed Â􀀅â had worked out his plans
for Sa􀀇dâbâd based on French materials that had been accumulated in the sultan’s
private library, what is in the end important is that the Ottoman court elite perceived
Sa􀀇dâbâd to form part of a long-standing Turko-Persian cultural tradition of which it
was at the same time the climax – and could therefore become a symbol for Ottoman
superiority. The meaning attributed to Sa􀀇dâbâd was thus one that was linked both to
the adherence of the Ottomans to a Turko-Persian cultural universe and to a sense of
Ottoman distinction and emancipation from precisely this shared world.339
337 Arpaeminizade Sami in Akay, vol. II, 763.
338 Nedim, 346.
339 On these Turko-Persian traditions see Canfield.
131
The need to express Ottoman superiority to the Eastern neighbour was
especially manifest in light of the political situation during the 1720s, when the
Ottoman Empire was on the verge of going to war with the faltering Safavid Empire,
finally ushering in a series of armed conflicts during the 1730s and 1740s. The
poems directly reflect this political context and repeatedly establish parallels between
the political and the cultural sphere – Sa􀀄dâbâd was thus apparently perceived in the
context of a cultural rivalry that paralleled the ongoing political rivalry. In several of
Nedim’s kasîdes for example, the poet, after describing the splendour of Sa􀀄dâbâd,
goes on to praise the sultan in order to subsequently ask for God’s assistance in the
conquest of Iran and Turan or evoke the success of the Ottoman soldiers involved in
the war. This interpenetration of the cultural and the political realm is for example
well expressed in this verse by Nedim on Sa􀀄dâbâd:
Ey sabâ gördün mü mislin bunca demdir âlemin
Pü􀀃t-ü pâ urmaktasın Îrân’ına Tûrân’ına340
Being a major array of sultanic self-presentation, architecture was thus obviously
involved in a cultural competition with Persia (and to some extent also Mughal
India); a competition, which was connected to the political conflicts in the first half
of the eighteenth century. Sa􀀄dâbâd in particular seems to have played a major role in
this rivalry, this being due to its extraordinary splendour as the Ottomans perceived it
and to its similarity in architectural terms to Isfahan’s Chaharbagh avenue.
The Appeal of Novelty
Judging from the poetry, one major factor of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s extraordinary splendour was
its novel and distinct, marvellous style – a characteristic, which in the eyes of the
Ottoman observers obviously accounted for its superiority to the Persian models and
340 Nedim, 79.
132
distinguished the Ottoman aesthetics from the Turko-Persian tradition it derived
from. Arpaeminizade Sami for example writes:
De􀀈ildir köhne vâdî taze tarh-ı dil-sitândır bu
Mülûkâne aceb cây-i safâdır sahn-ı Sa􀀌dâbâd341
And in his famous description of Istanbul Nedim characterizes the extensive building
activities under 􀀉brahim Pasha as creating “the pleasure of a world of new images”,
for which Sa􀀌dâbâd is cited as first example – an example that is moreover a source
of pride for Istanbul:
􀀊imdi yapılan âlem-i nev-resm-i safânın
Evsâfı hele ba􀀋ka kitâb olsa sezâdır
Nâmı gibi olmu􀀋tur o hem Sa􀀌d hem âbâd
􀀉stanbul’a sermâye-i fahr olsa revâdır342
Both chroniclers and poets frequently used terms such as nev (new), tâze (fresh),
ânda îcâd343 (instantaneous invention) and nev îcâd344 (new invention), acâ’ib
(marvellous) or nadîde tarz345 (rare style) when describing and eulogizing the
buildings of Sa􀀌dâbâd. This emphasis on novelty, the celebration of innovation,
originality and creativity distinguished the architectural discourse of the eighteenth
century from that of the previous centuries, when instead for their novelty and
originality, buildings were praised for their adherence to revered, often Persian
mythical or ancient architectural models.346 This latter discourse had not completely
disappeared – after all Sa􀀌dâbâd was for example still likened to the famed pavilion
of Havernak, an old trope in Ottoman literature,347 or to the gardens of paradise – but
was now quite obviously overshadowed by the advent of a new perception of
341 Arpaeminizade Sami in Akay, vol. II, 763.
342 Nedim, 86.
343 Nedim, 75.
344 Çelebizade, 44.
345 Çelebizade, 42.
346 Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization,” 32-33.
347 Çelebizade, 42, 43. The legendary castle of Havernak (Khawarnaq) was supposedly built by the
Byzantine Sinimmar for the Lakhmid Numan in the fifth century near Kufa. It was famous for its
dome imitating the structure of the heavens and praised by pre-Islamic Arabic poems as one of the
wonders of the world.
133
architecture, which clearly distinguished the Ottoman architectural achievements
from those of both mythical and concrete ‘Eastern’ models for the originality and
novelty they carried in Ottoman eyes.
The Splendour of Light
Another theme evoked in order to describe and praise the architecture of Sa􀀁dâbâd
was that of light and brightness. The magnificence of the building was expressed by
comparisons with sun, moon and the stars (e.g. cevher-i âfitâb,348 ferkadân349), the
water of fountains, pools and canal perceived as sparkling like silver (sîm, nazîr,
gümü􀀃) and terms such as revnak (brightness, splendor), nûr-ef􀀃ân (scattering light)
or pür nûr (full of light), rah􀀃 (gleam, flash), pertev (light, ray) or neyyir (luminous)
were frequently used in the architectural descriptions by both poets and chroniclers.
Moreover, in both chronicles and poetry the same register of light and brilliance,
which was used to eulogize Sa􀀁dâbâd, was equally used in order to describe the
person of the sultan. This testifies once again to the close association between the
ruler and his palace: the palace in its splendid luminosity was the symbol for the
splendid magnificence of the sultan. The sultan himself was frequently likened to the
sun, as the one who brings light and joy. The sun was a ubiquitous symbol of royal
power, wealth and magnificence in the early modern world, employed probably most
famously by the roi soleil Louis XIV of France, incidentally the same monarch under
whose reign the gardens of Versailles and Marly – the supposed models for Sa􀀁dâbâd
– were created and who similarly to Ahmed III is famed for his splendid court life
full of festivities and entertainment.350
348 Subhî, 688.
349 Nedim, 76.
350 Burke, Fabrication of Louis XIV.
134
This close interrelation between splendour, might, the sultan and Sa􀀄dâbâd
becomes for example manifest in one of Nedim’s kasîdes, where he first exalts the
sultan for bringing splendour to the community of subjects of the empire and then in
a parallel manner depicts the sultan as awarding new splendour to Sa􀀄dâbâd by his
visit:
Hânedân-ı saltanat ancak seninle fahreder
Gevher-i 􀀃eh-vârdır revnak verir ummânına
…
Ey 􀀃ehne􀀃âh-ı cihan lûtfunla Sa􀀄d-âbâd’-ı çün
Eyleyip te􀀃rîf verdin tâze revnak 􀀃ânına 351
In a similar manner, the chronicler Küçük Çelebizade likened the arrival of sultan
Ahmed III at Sa􀀄dâbâd in 1728 (1140) to an illumination: “(…) âlây ile kasr-ı
hümâyûnlarını pertev-i ruhsârlarıyla münevver buyurdular (…).”352
Regarding the theme of light not on a metaphorical, but on a literal level, it
also testifies to the practice of illuminating Sa􀀄dâbâd’s gardens with candles and
torches and even fireworks at special occasions. Other imperial gardens, too, were lit
up in that way, thus constituting a new practice of ‘conquering the night’ during the
Tulip Age. Until then, city life had died down with nightfall, except for the month of
Ramadan, when the great mosques would be illuminated. Now however, nights
became the time of entertainment and pleasure, at least for the elites – quite an
extraordinary change for the rhythm of urban life. When describing these illuminated
lights, the chroniclers continually intertwine literal and metaphorical level, so that for
example the description of the fireworks held in 1141 at Sa􀀄dâbâd by Küçük
Çelebizade turns into the praise of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s heavenly character, with the Cedvel-i
Sîm coming to resemble the milky way (ol fezâ-yı safâ efzâ-yı âsumân ve cedvel-i
sîm cuy gâhgü􀀃âna dönüb).353
351 Nedim, 81, 84.
352 Çelebizade, 560.
353 Çelebizade, 611.
135
Moreover, the theme of light when employed in descriptions of the palace’s
architectural style also testifies to the ephemeral style of sultanic palaces and
pavilions, which had first developed in the late seventeenth century in Edirne and
became characteristic of Istanbul’s waterfront palaces during the eighteenth century
– and it makes clear, that this new lightness and transparency was perceived as a
primary and highly praiseworthy characteristic by the Ottoman observers. Ottoman
palaces and gardens of the classical period had been characterized by high
surrounding walls, narrowly planted lines of cypresses as sight barriers and had
generally aimed at creating a protected interior space separated from the outside
world. The emphasis on luminosity and brightness in poetry as well as the physical
transparency of the new architectural style clearly constituted a novelty indicating an
entirely new regime of visibility – the formerly secluded sultan as well as the
members of the court now became visible to the urban population when dwelling in
their luminous wooden palaces and gardens.354
Public Space and Erotic Adventures: Kâ􀀃ıthane Valley
Departing now from the perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s architecture and directing the view
towards the wider space of Kâ􀀃ıthane valley, the differences to the European
discourse remarkably lose significance, since as far as the wider space of the valley
is concerned certain themes are common to both discourses: the theme of nature, that
of a diverse populace, in particular women, and lastly the topic of entertainment.
As did the European observers, so the Ottomans, too, praised the natural
scenery of Kâ􀀃ıthane valley. Its water and air were frequently praised for their
mildness (letâfet-i âb u havâ), and with the arrival of spring, the valley abounded in
354 The same tendency for greater architectural transparency has been noted by Cerasi in the case of
eighteenth-century buildings along the Divan Yolu. Cerasi, Divanyolu, 104.
136
beautiful flowers, especially roses, which attracted both the sultan and the urban
population to this mesîre for excursions and contemplation (temâ􀀃â). Frequent terms
designating the valley are accordingly temâ􀀃âgâh (public promenade), gülistân (rose
garden), lalezâr (tulip garden) or nihâlistân (forest), and ferah-fezâ (spacious).
Nedim for example describes the abundance of colourful flowers in spring, which
adorn the meadows of the valley in close proximity to the sultan’s palace:
Turfa rengâ-reng âheng eylemi􀀆 sahrâyı pür
Kûh ses verdikçe 􀀆eydâ bülbülün efgaanına
Sabr-ı tâkatsız çıkıp bir gül dahı peydâ eder
Hande sı􀀅maz goncenin zîra leb-i handânına355
One has to remember here that the theme of natural beauty was in dîvân poetry
metaphorically intertwined with the theme of love, love both to the human beloved
and to the immaterial God. Hence, when evoking the natural beauty of Kâ􀀅ıthane,
the poet at the same time attributed a certain eroticism to the place, corresponding to
the fact that in many of the poems Kâ􀀅ıthane is the destination of excursions by the
poet together with his beloved. The association of the space with nature and
correspondingly with love – which can be read as love by the lover for the beloved,
by the subject for the sultan and by the believer to God – makes Kâ􀀅ıthane in the
Ottoman perception also a space of pleasure and joy. Terms like dilke􀀃 (heartattracting),
dilni􀀃în (pleasant), gamsız (carefree), safâ (pleasure), behcet (joy) or
nüzhetgâh (beautiful, pleasant place) when describing the setting are abundant, both
in poetry and chronicles. Nedim quite clearly brings this to the point:
[Kâ􀀅ıthane’nin] kühsârları bâ􀀅ları kasrları hep
Gûyâ ki bütün 􀀆evk-u tarab zevk-u safâdır356
Pleasure was derived not only from the beautiful setting and Sa􀀇dâbâd’s splendid
architecture, but equally from the social environment the valley apparently offered.
Kâ􀀅ıthane emerges from dîvân poetry as a preferred setting for holding a poetic
355 Nedim, 79.
356 Nedim, 86.
137
meclis, that is a type of literary salon among poets, musicians and dervishes during
which music and poetry were recited while eating and drinking wine and that was
usually set in a secluded, intimate garden.357 But for the Ottoman poets of the
eighteenth century Kâ􀀅ıthane’s pleasure lay even more in the presence of the
beloved. Kâ􀀅ıthane is depicted as the perfect space for joyful excursions of lover and
beloved, yet also as the space were the beloved potentially betrays his lover, as
Nedim relates in one of his 􀀃arkıs: the poet’s beloved has set out for Kâ􀀅ıthane on his
own, passed the day with other beauties and finally when asked to number his lovers
denies his engagement with the poet.358 One gets the impression that the meadows of
Kâ􀀅ıthane, depicted as being crowded with beauties and lovers, were a place where
lovers would vie for these beauties, where love relationships were as quickly
established as they could disperse:
Anda seyret kim ne fursatlar girer cânâ ele
Gör ne dil-cûlar ne meh-rûlar ne âhûlar gele
…
Dur zuhûr etsin hele her gû􀀆eden bir dil-rübâ
Kimi gitsin bâ􀀅â do􀀅ru kimi sahrâdan yanâ
Bak nedir dünyâda resm-i sohbet-i zevk-u safâ
Seyr-i Sa􀀇dâbâd’ı sen bir kerre îyd olsun da gör359
Considering the fact that the beloved celebrated in Ottoman dîvân poetry was usually
male,360 it is remarkable that Kâ􀀅ıthane was moreover explicitly remarked to be a
space where women could be encountered:
Sen de istersen e􀀅er rûh-i revân
Ki sana meyl ide erbâb-ı zenân
…
Mevsim-i gülde buyur seyrâne
Bâ-husus cânib-i Kâ􀀅âdhâne361
Thus even if one has to keep in mind that dîvân poetry worked on several
metaphorical levels and that to regard only its literal level would be misleading, what
357 See for example the gazel by Çelebizade Asım Efendi in Akay, vol. I, 333. On the meclis in poetry
of the classical age see Andrews, Poetry’s Voice, 145-188.
358 Nedim in Akay, vol. II, 649.
359 Nedim, 345.
360 Andews and Kalpaklı, Age of Beloveds.
361 Enderunlu Fazıl, Zenânnâme in Akay, vol. I, 376.
138
nevertheless emerges – even if all these encounters between lover and beloved did
not in fact take place but were only sung of – is that Kâ􀀃ıthane carried a profound
erotic meaning – and thus the picture drawn by Ottoman poets was astonishingly not
so far from that drawn by the European travellers. Of course, the latter’s view was
characterized by an Orientalist eroticism that regarded ‘the other’ with a belittlement
that could reach dimensions of disdain. Yet the overlap of both European and
Ottoman perception to a certain extent points to a corresponding historical reality, in
which Kâ􀀃ıthane must have indeed been a space where social and moral boundaries
were considerably looser and women more visible than in other parts of the city.
That Kâ􀀃ıthane was for the Ottomans, too, a less restrictive space than the city
proper is amusingly related in another of Nedim’s poems, where the poet suggests
his beloved to ask his mother for permission to go to the Friday prayer and instead to
set out for Sa􀀄dâbâd together and pass a day away from the constrictive environment
of the private house.362 One would go to Kâ􀀃ıthane, so it seems then, in order to pass
time with one’s lover, which one could apparently not do as freely in other parts of
the city. The meadows of Kâ􀀃ıthane hence seem to have been perceived as a public
space, where different norms and rules than those of the private space were in place;
norms and rules which accorded the individual considerably more freedom than in
the private realm.
Noteworthy in this respect is how eighteenth-century poets reinterpreted the
classical trope of the meclis and its setting, the garden, possibly under the influence
of a Melâmî world view. As already mentioned, the meclis in dîvân poetry of the
classical age used to be set in a protected, secluded private garden – corresponding to
the layout of Istanbul gardens of the classical age363 – which was the symbol per se
362 Nedim, 357.
363 Necipo􀀃lu, “Suburban Landscape.”
139
for interior and thus ideal space. The prototype of the garden of eighteenth-century
poets as represented by Kâ􀀊ıthane has however lost – at least to a certain extent –
these characteristics of selectivity and interiority. To the contrary, for holding a
meclis or passing time with one’s lover it was now apparently public space that one
sought for as it held the promise of being less constrictive. Kâ􀀊ıthane, a crowded
mesîre on holidays, characterized by its extensive plains and meadows, where one
could nevertheless lose oneself in privacy, is one prime example of these newly
emerging public gardens.364
Of course, already before the eighteenth century there had been spaces in the
city, including gardens, where moral norms were less strictly enforced and which
allowed for secret erotic escapades. Poetry had not neglected these spaces, but
accorded a separate genre for accounts of it: the 􀀋ehrengîz.365 Poems of this genre
narrate a journey through a specific city, during which both the city’s young
beauties, often artisans, and its architectural monuments are described and praised by
the poet. The 􀀋ehrengîz, which emerged in the mid-sixteenth century, but had
disappeared by the beginning of the eighteenth, had in terms of language and style
combined the formalism of elevated dîvân poetry with the simplicity of Turkish folk
poetry. The disappearance of the genre in the early eighteenth century seems to be
linked to the trend towards localization (mahalle􀀋me) in dîvân poetry at that time,
which meant that court poets increasingly made use of local imagery and language
364 Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 159-163.
365 On the genre of the 􀀋ehrengîz see Agâh Sırrı Levend, Türk Edebiyatında 􀀊ehr-engizler ve 􀀊ehrengizlerde
􀀉stanbul (Istanbul: 􀀋stanbul Fetih Derne􀀊i, 1958); J. Stewart-Robinson, “A Neglected
Ottoman Poem: The 􀀌ehreng􀀎z,” in: Studies in Near Eastern Culture and History: In memory of
Ernest T. Abdel-Massih, ed. by James A. Bellamy (Michigan: University of Michigan: 1990), 201-
211; Halit Dursuno􀀊lu, “Klasik Türk edebiyatında bir 􀀍ehrin güzelleri ve güzellikleri ile ilgili eserler
(􀀍ehrengizler),” Türk Dil Ara􀀋tırmaları Yıllı􀀈ı Belleten II (2003): 57-74 and Deniz Çalı􀀍, “􀀌ehr-Engizi
Hayal 1: Bahçeler ve Kentler Osmanlı Kültüründe Peyzaj Metaforları,” in: 2000’lerde Türkiye’de
Mimarlık: Söylem ve Uygulamalar, ed. by Tansel Korkmaz (Ankara: TMMOB Mimarlar Odası,
2007), 95-110.
140
and began to refer concretely to everyday urban life.366 Moreover, concrete erotic
escapades in public spaces of the city were now also taken up by the court poets. As
a result, the sehrengîz probably lost its raison d’être – what before had been confined
to a separate genre both in terms of content and style now became permissible in
dîvân poetry.367 Noteworthy is this development of the poetic canon because it
reflected concrete social transformations: as everyday life scenes and language of the
commoners invaded elevated court poetry, so former elite activities – such as the
literary meclis in a private secluded garden – now became increasingly open to the
broader public. As we have seen in the case of Kâ􀀃ıthane, poets now drew the
picture of urban gardens as informal spaces that allowed for diverse activities such as
reading, singing, walks, boat rides or amorous encounters.368 What we can thus come
to conclude regarding Kâ􀀃ıthane and the significance it bore for Ottomans, is that it
constituted – at least in the minds of Ottoman poets – the perfect destination for a
pleasant excursion into a lovely natural setting and was at the same time a highly
eroticised space, the ideal setting for encounters between lover and beloved. This in
turn points to Kâ􀀃ıthane’s quality of being a public space, where social and moral
norms were apparently less strictly enforced.
Yet despite its public character, the pleasure and enjoyment provided by Kâ􀀃ıthane
valley were not only exploited by commoners, dervishes or the figures of lover and
beloved: with Sa􀀄dâbâd being the sultan’s summer palace, Kâ􀀃ıthane was also a
366 On innovations in eighteenth-century poetry see Michaila Stajnova, “Neue Richtungen im
künstlerisch-literarischen Schaffen der osmanischen Türkei zu Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in: Das
Osmanische Reich und Europa 1673 bis 1789: Konflikt, Entspannung und Austausch, ed. by Gernot
Heiss and Grete Klingenstein (Wien: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1983), 179-193 and Hatice
Aynur, “Ottoman literature,” in: The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603-1839, ed. by Suraiya Faroqhi, The
Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 481-520. On
the role of innovation in the work of Nedim in particular see Kemal Silay, Nedim and the Poetics of
the Ottoman Court: Medieval Inheritance and the Need for Change (Bloomington: Indiana University
Turkish Studies, 1994).
367 Stewart-Robinson, 207-208; Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 155.
368 Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 159-163.
141
space dedicated to the sultan’s pleasure. Remarkable is the fact that in the minds of
the Ottomans this was indeed one of the main purposes of Kâ􀀆ıthane – to serve the
pleasure of the sultan, of the ultimate beloved. Concomitantly, the sultan’s indulging
in pleasure and entertainment at Sa􀀉dâbâd even during times of war was not seen as
affronting or morally wrong, but rather as a sign of sultanic magnificence and power:
the Ottoman sultan was so powerful, that there was simply no need for him to occupy
himself with the details of war; in view of the army’s strength he could afford to
pursue a pleasant life in a carefree manner:
􀀇âd-kam olsun safâlarla hemî􀀈e hâtırın [= sultânın hatırı]
Bin sürûr âmâde olsun vaktinin her ânına
Gâh sâhil-hanelerde gâh Sa􀀉dâbâd’da
Sen safâ kıl dü􀀈menin endûh geçsin cânına
Sen otur ıkbâl ile taht-ı 􀀈ehen􀀈âhîde 􀀈âd
Mülkler olsun müsehhar askerin 􀀈îrânına369
Sultanic legitimacy thus lay no longer in the personal strength of the sultan,
demonstrated by his active participation in military campaigns, but precisely in the
opposite, namely the fact that the sultan’s armies were military successful while he
himself enjoyed the pleasures of his summer palaces. Of course, sultanic legitimation
was not uncontested and while the court elite, to which the poets belonged, might
have been approving of a splendid court life, we cannot deduce that the common
population necessarily shared this view. Yet, I think that this observation
nevertheless undermines the moralistic representations in modern history writing of
the Tulip Age as an age of wasteful expenditure and of an elite that neglected politics
and instead indulged in a life of sumptuary luxury. Moreover, it casts certain doubt
on the common assertion that the Patrona Halil Rebellion was a reaction against
precisely this lifestyle lead by the elites.
369 Nedim, 84.
142
To conclude, in the Ottoman perception of Sa􀀄dâbâd the building was determined by
its close association with its patrons – Sultan Ahmed III and Damad 􀀃brahim Pasha –
which made Sa􀀄dâbâd into a symbol for sultanic power and magnificence. At a time
when Ottoman might was considerably challenged on the political plane, the praise
of Sa􀀄dâbâd as attesting to unfaltering Ottoman magnificence was probably highly
significant. The political context of armed conflict with Iran moreover determined
the perception and representation of the sultanic palace as being superior to both
ancient and contemporary Persian architectural models – in particular to Isfahan’s
Chaharbagh avenue, to which Sa􀀄dâbâd bore moreover obvious formal similarity.
Even though there is convincing yet not absolute evidence for Sa􀀄dâbâd being
inspired to a considerable degree by French baroque palaces, in the mind of the
Ottoman elite, Sa􀀄dâbâd was rather seen in the context of familiar and famed
buildings of the political and cultural rival in the East. This shows once again that
architecture carries multiple meanings and cannot be fixed to one single
interpretation. Since architectural forms are not possessed by nations or cultures they
can travel across borders, be transformed and take on new meanings in new contexts
– or they might very well be applied simultaneously but independently from each
other in different geographic locations. Perhaps, then, as was the case with the
sophisticated structure of Ottoman poetry, the point of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s architecture lay
precisely in its ambiguity, which persists to irritate historians today. Instead of
forcefully trying to establish the one and only signification of the building, I think
one simply needs to accept that Sa􀀄dâbâd carried different meanings for different
observers and therefore constituted an ideal opportunity to be employed, perhaps
even instrumentalized, in contexts of cultural and political rivalry. Hence, since
Persian Safavid and French baroque garden architecture resembled each other in
their grand axial and symmetrical layouts, creating focal perspectives by central
143
water canals, Sa􀀄dâbâd could conveniently be presented as a reference to Versailles
when the Ottoman grand vizier negotiated with the French ambassador and at the
same time be employed by court poets and chroniclers in order to praise Ottoman
cultural superiority over their Eastern neighbours.
As the wider space of Kâ􀀃ıthane is concerned we have seen that the valley
was praised by Ottoman poets of the first half of the eighteenth century as an
excursion place especially for lover and beloved and thus perceived in clearly erotic
terms, which at the same time had profound mythical dimensions that challenged
neat cosmological distinctions between interior and exterior spaces. Moreover,
Kâ􀀃ıthane apparently constituted for Ottoman poets a space where moral norms were
less strictly observed and which therefore allowed engaging in amorous adventures,
even with women. In this respect, Ottoman and European observers’ representations
of the valley overlapped, which allows to conclude that Kâ􀀃ıthane did in fact
constitute a public space with greater individual liberties, that differed markedly
from spaces in Istanbul proper and was apparently one reason for the mesîre’s
immense popularity.
144
CHAPTER 6
SOCIAL SPACE: PRACTICE AND USE
In this last chapter I intend to look at an aspect so far only touched upon: the aspect
of social practice in space, that is the question of how a particular space is or was
used and lived, by whom and for which purposes. This is an aspect that moreover
directs attention towards conflicts – conflicts, which may arise from diverging uses
of space, from conflicting claims to possession, from unauthorized appropriation or
other potential forms of resistance to official regimes and discourses of space. As far
as Kâ􀀃ıthane is concerned, its space was used for a number of purposes by different
user groups, as has become clear throughout the preceding chapters: first of all there
was – perhaps most prominently – the use of Sa􀀄dâbâd palace and the imperial
gardens by the sultan and the harem as a place of repose and a destination for
excursions during the summer, a manner of use that was usually accompanied by
festivities and various forms of entertainments. At several occasions, Sa􀀄dâbâd was
also used as a place for the reception and entertainment of foreign diplomats by the
sultan. Apart from the sultan and the harem – that is to say, the inner core of the
Ottoman court, that is to say – Kâ􀀃ıthane was also, at least during the period from
1722 to 1730, used by the court dignitaries, who had constructed their own summer
residences in the midst of gardens on the hills of Kâ􀀃ıthane and the surrounding
valleys. A third ‘user group’ was the urban public, that is, the common population of
Istanbul, including the different ethnic groups as well as women, who made use of
Kâ􀀃ıthane as a place for excursion and entertainment. One should not forget are the
military troops that were stationed and trained at Kâ􀀃ıthane as well as the local
population in the village of Kâ􀀃ıthane, who produced milk and agricultural products.
145
The meadows of the valley were moreover used as grazing ground for the sultanic
horses during the summer.
Yet the main elements determining the space seem to have been the sultan on
the one and the public on the other hand, with the court dignitaries occupying a third,
perhaps intermediary, position. I therefore want to argue that Kâ􀀃ıthane was a space
of concrete – indeed physical – interaction between ‘state’ and ‘society’,370 where
hence questions of the presentation and legitimation of power were being negotiated.
My contention is that the palace of Sa􀀄dâbâd and the valley of Kâ􀀃ıthane were
spaces, which signalled a profound transformation in the interaction between sultanic
state power, court elites and urban public. In comparison with the so-called classical
age, power had by the early eighteenth century become considerably decentralised
over a diffused net of agents both in the empire’s centre and its provinces, which
made it necessary for the dynasty to vigorously defend its authority against
challenges from these potentially rivalling wielders of power. The new regime of
sultanic visibility which is observable in the reign of Ahmed III and his successors –
as expressed in pompous ceremonies and festivals or the new palace architecture –
was thus the expression of this necessity to demonstrate the centre’s might and
magnificence both towards the common population and other power holders among
the elite. Sa􀀄dâbâd and Kâ􀀃ıthane, so I hold, are spaces, which simultaneously reflect
this new power constellation and shaped it.
Moreover, the social practices at Sa􀀄dâbâd and Kâ􀀃ıthane signal the
constitution of a new urban public sphere in Istanbul, for which public gardens
apparently played a key role. Before examining the issue of representation of power
as expressed in the practices of sultanic feasts and festivities at Sa􀀄dâbâd further, I
370 I am using these terms, yet I do not want to imply that these were in any way real entities nor that
these concepts of social analysis were in any way homogenous or dichotomously opposed entities.
146
will in a first step deal with the nature of this public, which constituted itself at
Kâ􀀃ıthane, and assess its significance in relation to the new regime of visibility
alluded to above.
The Public Assembling at Kâ􀀃ıthane:
Women, Non-Muslims, Dervishes and ‘Riffraff’
Temâ􀀃â-gâh-ı âlem, the public promenade of the world371 – this portrayal of
Sa􀀄dâbâd by the Ottoman poet Arpaeminizade Sami is quite telling as regards social
practice in and around the imperial palace, by hinting at the extraordinary variety of
people that made use of Sa􀀄dâbâd and its surroundings. Both European travelogues
and Ottoman observers in astonishing concordance draw a picture of the meadows of
Kâ􀀃ıthane valley as having been populated by a diversely composed urban common
population, made up of “les hommes, femmes et enfans de diverses nations”372 and
“des citoyens de tous les orders.”373 As we have seen, both Europeans and Ottomans
emphasized in particular the presence of women, who were apparently a lot more
visible here than in the city proper – and for both European and Ottoman – mainly
male – writers, these women constituted an object of erotic interest. On the part of
the Ottoman poets, this erotic interest was complemented by the praise of male
beauties and lovers at Kâ􀀃ıthane. Neither of these discourses was morally and
socially uncontroversial though. As we have seen in the case of Nedim’s poetry,
setting out to Sa􀀄dâbâd with one’s lover could very well entail deceiving the
beloved’s mother – an anecdote, which points to the social restrictions that were in
place with regard to love relationships and at the same time indicates the morally
371 Arpaeminizade in Akay, vol. II, 763.
372 Castellan, 283
373 D’Ohsson, 186.
147
dubitable reputation that Sa􀀉dâbâd had; so morally dubitable apparently, that one
better went their secretly.
As the relatively liberal presence of women is concerned, this was an issue
that aroused fierce criticism. In the eyes of the contemporaries it was a clear
departure from practices of the past – and a break that was a highly contested one.
The chronicler 􀀇emdanizade for example talks of ‘amusement parks’ set up at
Kâ􀀆ıthane, where young men and women set out to in merriment, the girls in lose
dress and where on top of this already scandalous behaviour the girls’ skirts were
blown up on the swings and revealed illicit parts of their bodies. According to the
chronicler, women went to Sa􀀉dâbâd often without the permission of their husbands,
even taking the latter’s money to spend it for amusing themselves. This behaviour
lead according to 􀀇emdanizade even to an increase in divorce cases upon the demand
of the women, when they were not granted the liberty to set for such merriments in
public gardens by their husbands.374 􀀇emdanizade condemns these new practices
among the youth in a highly moralistic and aggressive tone and comes to the
conclusion that there were hardly any honourful women to be found in the city at the
time: “ehl-i ırz diyecek her mahâllede be􀀈 hatûn kalmadı.”375 Even if we take into
account that 􀀇emdanizade in his moralistic zeal was probably exaggerating, this
statement nevertheless shows that Kâ􀀆ıthane was a space where established moral
norms were being challenged. It also exemplifies that the negotiation of established
norms we are witnesses of here was focussed especially on women and women’s
bodies – women’s behaviour constituted in Ottoman eyes apparently a key element
of public morality and with this behaviour drastically changing, public morality was
374 Interestingly, apart from a number of other public gardens, 􀀇emdanizade also counts the
courtyards of the Fatih and Bayezid mosques among the places where such amusement parks were set
up by the grand vizier and which thus became the focus of these immoral practices. 􀀇emdanizade
Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi, 3.
375 􀀇emdanizade Fındıklılı Süleyman Efendi, 3.
148
correspondingly perceived to be breaking down.376 Sumptuary laws, which regulated
women’s clothing and were frequent during the Tulip Period and the following
decades, attest to this state of affairs. These laws equally condemn women for not
following the established style of dressing and the adherence to new inventions and
foreign styles of clothing (libâslarinda gûna gûn ihdâsı bid􀀊at ve kefere avretlerine
taklîd serpû􀀉larında u􀀊cube hey􀀊etler ile nice üslûbu ma􀀊yûb ibdâ􀀊 ve âdâbı 􀀊ismet
bi’l-külliyye meslûb olacak mertebe kıyâfetler), thus behaving and dressing
immorally and in this way causing the corruption of the Muslim community (ümmeti
Muhammedi idlâl ü ifsâda sebeb).377 Sumptuary laws were also aimed at women’s
excursions to public gardens in Istanbul’s surroundings, as these were sites where
under the pretext of strolling and promenading women were supposedly committing
shameful acts (halî’-ül-ızâr ke􀀉tü güzâr ve envâ􀀊-i fezahat ü 􀀉enâyi-i müstebti
harakâtı gayr-i marziyye ictisâr eyledikleri).378 Istanbul’s public gardens – including
Kâ􀀃ıthane – were thus obviously spaces where women were more visible than they
had ever been before, causing social and moral norms to come into flux.
Another element of the public that assembled at Kâ􀀃ıthane, which in
particular European travellers drew attention to, were Istanbul’s different ethnic and
religious groups. While separated along religious lines in their residential areas, the
members of Istanbul’s different religious and ethnic groups were not neatly isolated
from each other; they interacted for example in commercial life, used the same courts
for settling their legal affairs and in their leisure time chose common places of
376 On this topic see also Zilfi, “Women and Society.”
377 The fermân is addressed to Istanbul’s kadı, the head of the janissaries (yeniçeri â􀀇âsı) and the
head of the bostâncıs (hâssa bostâncı ba􀀉ı) and dated 1725 (1138). Ahmed Refik, Hicri On 􀀈kinci
Asırda 􀀈stanbul Hayatı (1100-1200) (Istanbul: Enderun, 1988), 87.
378 This fermân, dated 1751/52 (1165), is addressed to the head of the bostâncıs (hâssa bostâncı ba􀀉ı).
Ahmed Refik, Hicri On 􀀈kinci Asırda, 175.
149
excursion – such as Kâ􀀅ıthane.379 This could lead to the juxtaposition of different
cultures and social practices, as this remark by the English traveller Broughton
illustrates:
Near the cascade is a grove of tall trees, which is the resort of parties from Pera and
Constantinople. I have seen a circle of French gentlemen, with a cloth before them
covered with bottles and glasses and cold provisions, much after the manner of our
jaunting citizens, amusing themselves with a Jew conjurer, and bursting into loud fits of
laughter; whilst the group of Turks, also spectators, and some of them in two little
lattice-work boxes, built as namasgahs, or places of prayer, contemplated the scene with
countenance of invincible gravity, forming a strong contrast with the obstreperous mirth
of the noisy foreigners.380
While interaction between the member of different faith was in itself not so
exceptional in the view of Istanbul’s everyday life, the main difference that
distinguished Kâ􀀅ıthane from other spaces of the city might have been less the
contact itself than its unconcealed visibility of this contact.
Another group that made up the public at Kâ􀀅ıthane were dervishes, who
were permanently present at the tekke situated at Kâ􀀅ıthane village.381 Moreover,
since according to Ottoman poets Kâ􀀅ıthane was so well suited to hold open-air
literary salons (meclis), dervishes were probably also in this context frequenting the
mesîre.382 While Islamic mysticism (tasavvuf) was an established part of Ottoman
religious practice, it nevertheless never lost an element of heterodoxy and thus
constituted a continuous potential challenge to official orthodoxy. The practice of
literary meclis including wine drinking and dervish rituals was therefore not as
innocent as it might seem at first sight and could very well become the venue for
political protest.383
379 See for example M. le Comte Andreossy, Constantinople et le Bosphore de Thrace pendant les
années 1812, 1813 et 1814, et pendant l’année 1826 (Paris: Barrois et Duprat, 1828), Pertusier,
D’Ohsson, Castellan.
380 Broughton, 238-239.
381 Ayvansarayi, 385. As this was the tekke of the 71. janissary unit, I assume that it was a Bektâ􀀆i
convent.
382 On dervish activities at Kâ􀀅ıthane see also Çalı􀀆, “Kâ􀀅ıthane Commons.”
383
Ibid., 250-251.
150
Significant is furthermore a reference in the chronicle of the historian Abdi –
a relatively short work concerned with the events of the Patrona Halil Rebellion in
1730 – which holds that one of the places where the Albanian leader of the rebellion
Patrona Halil and his companions met in order to plan and prepare the uprising was
Kâ􀀇ıthane.384 It has so far not been possible to ascertain, whether this was really the
case, but even if not, the fact that such a claim was being made suggests that this
must have seemed plausible to Abdi’s readers, in turn suggesting that the low
classes, the ‘rabble’ of the city had access to Kâ􀀇ıthane’s meadows, too.385 Abdi also
relates in this episode, that several times during their secret meetings Patrona Halil
and his companions were spotted out by the bostâncıs, the corps of royal gardeners,
which had by the eighteenth century become responsible for the surveillance of all
public spaces located along the suburban shores of the city,386 and that it came to
violent conflict between the guards and the group around Patrona Halil, even
resulting in the death of several people.387 This indicates once again the contested
nature of this public space, where the wish to control public activity by the central
authority clashed with forms of resistance by the population.
Precisely due to its nature as public space Kâ􀀇ıthane was a space, which the
official authorities tried to monitor and control, since it opened the way to challenges
of the established order. In spatial terms, controlling the accessibility to a certain
place is one of the key elements in order to control or appropriate it: by allowing
access to some while denying it to others exclusiveness is created. A case in point is
the prohibition after the construction of Sa􀀊dâbâd for the population of the village
384 [Abdi Efendi.] Abdi Tarihi: 1730 Patrona 􀀃htilâli Hakkında Bir Eser, ed. by Faik Re􀀉it Unat
(Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1943), 29.
385 This is also known to have been the case at other public gardens in Istanbul. Hamadeh relates that
the public garden at Yeniköy “had become a favored hangout for the city’s riffraff” by the middle of
the eighteenth century. Hamadeh, “Public spaces,” 289.
386 On the organization of the bostâncı corps see Erdo􀀇an, “􀀈stanbul Bahçeleri,” 152. For their
position in the eighteenth century see Artan, Theatre of Life, 23; Hamadeh, “Public spaces,” 289, 300.
387 Abdi Efendi, 29.
151
situated upstream from the palace to access their village by waterway coming from
the Golden Horn, since this would obviously have meant passing through the pools,
cascades and canal of the palace garden.388 We clearly see here the appropriation of
the space by the sultan by means of regulating access. It is also clear that in this case,
the villagers probably had hardly any option of resistance, indicating the difference
between the public space of Kâ􀀇ıthane’s meadows, where challenging the public
authorities was possible to a certain degree, and the space of Sa􀀉dâbâd’s palace
ground, which was subject to a much stricter regime of exclusivity.
Although we cannot draw an exact picture of who precisely frequented
Kâ􀀇ıthane at this point, one can conclude from these single instants and observations,
that formerly less or non-represented groups of the population made use of this
public space – a presence, which was not uncontroversial and created considerable
conflict. Kâ􀀇ıthane thus emerges as a public space where established social and
moral norms came to be in flux, were being challenged and negotiated. Despite the
presence of the imperial palace in the centre of the spatial arrangement, the control
by the authorities was apparently less effective here than in other parts of the city.
A Burgeoning Public in Search for Leisure: Challenges to Social Hierarchies
Kâ􀀇ıthane did not constitute an exception in this case – very similar stories can be
told about other public gardens of Istanbul in the eighteenth century. In fact, it was
precisely that century, which saw an increase in the number of public gardens in and
around Istanbul. These were often created by turning formerly exclusive royal
gardens (hâss bâ􀀅çe) into public mesîres, either permanently or by allowing access
to commoners on certain days or hours of the day. The creation of public gardens by
388 P. 􀀆. 􀀈nciciyan, XVIII. Asırda 􀀆stanbul (Istanbul: 􀀈stanbul Fethi Derne􀀇i, 1956), 78.
152
state hand was a means by the authorities to channel a burgeoning public garden
culture, as it allowed the state to monitor public behaviour and uphold public order at
these locations – while at the same time, precisely through the creation of public
gardens – even if controlled – the state encouraged the public life it wished to
quell.389 Simultaneously with public gardens, other arenas of public life sprang up in
the Istanbul of the eighteenth century: large-scale fountains on public squares were
constructed, which became the centres for commercial and leisure activity of
Istanbul’s city quarters; coffeehouses proliferated, often associated with mosque
complexes along the shores of the city; smaller fountains on street corners (sebîl)
were dispensing water to passers-by and platforms for prayer set in picturesque
surroundings (namâzgâh) now became popular destinations for excursions. This
flourishing of a public leisure life points to a society, where new needs for practicing
leisure as well as for public self-presentation had arisen. Ottoman society had in fact
undergone profound transformations since the seventeenth century, leading to
gradual mobility among professional groups, emerging social and financial
aspirations among an urban middle class, increasing material wealth, and changing
habits of consumption.390 This emergent ‘middle class’, which comprised in Shirine
Hamadeh’s words “the wide and amorphous crowd of grandees and commoners,
merchants and artisans, rich and poor women, children, Greeks, Jews, Armenians,
Turks, »Rayas« and Franks, the halk (populace) and the ulemâ􀀁 (…) and »all the
young boys of Istanbul« that populated the paintings and writings of artists, poets,
travellers and chroniclers,”391 inscribed itself and its aspirations in eighteenth-century
Istanbul’s urban space. They did so both by an increasing involvement in the
389 Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 113-126; Hamadeh, “Public Spaces,” 286-289.
390 Hamadeh “Public Spaces,” 283-284.
391
Ibid., 306.
153
architectural patronage of smaller-scale buildings392 as well as by their social
practices in city space, of which the leisure culture at suburban parks and seaside
destinations was among the prime manifestations.
A new leisure culture, a flourishing public sphere, architectural patronage –
these were all sites for the self-presentation of this aspiring middle class, which
constituted a serious challenge to established hierarchies. This becomes tangible for
example in the increase and rigorous enforcement of sumptuary laws during the
eighteenth century – obviously a measure to delineate the borders of the permissible
in public life and to keep a check on the public normative system, as we have already
seen with regard to women in public space above. Different from the previous
centuries, in the eighteenth century sumptuary laws were targeted primarily at public
attire and garden recreation – at two arenas, that is, where middle class aspirations
became most visible: consumption of luxury goods and practices of sociability in
public spaces.393 What was regulated here was hence the appearance and behaviour
of individuals in public sphere – a public sphere, which was no longer the space of
display and self-presentation of the sultan and the core of the court society only, but
was now claimed increasingly by other social groups.
Fostered by the long absence of the court from Istanbul during the latter half
of the seventeenth century, when it had been staying mostly in Edirne, the scene of
the capital had been taken over by other actors with high aspirations. Upon the return
of the court to Istanbul under Ahmed III, the imperial household therefore apparently
felt the need to re-imprint its presence into the urban space of the capital in response
to the multiple contenders that had emerged and did so amongst others by an
extensive building programme as well as frequent processions through the urban
392 Hamadeh, “Splash and Spectacle,” 123-126.
393 Hamadeh, “Public spaces,” 300-302.
154
space.394 The language in which this rivalry between new, old and aspiring elites was
acted out was that of conspicuous consumption – a conspicuous consumption, which
was practiced by an increasingly wide circle of people and posed a serious threat to
established norms and hierarchies.
State and Public in Interaction: Sultanic Visibility
To return to the specific case of Kâ􀀃ıthane, more than being an arena for the
constitution of a public sphere or for the practice of conspicuous consumption by a
‘middle class’, it was a also a space where this public came into direct contact with
the sultan and the court elite, provoking an interaction that is revealing in terms of
the mechanisms of legitimation on the part of the central power. What seems to have
been a key to this relationship is sultanic visibility: in comparison with former
centuries, the sultan and the inner court elite were highly visible at Sa􀀄dâbâd to the
commoners, which points to the increased role the public came to play in the
legitimation of the ruler’s authority.395 Interestingly, a similar process of
transformation from the image of an invisible ruler during the Middle Ages, whose
authority was legitimized by the secrecy of his exercise of power, to the image of a
visible ruler, engaged in splendid self-display can be observed during the seventeenth
and eighteenth century in central Europe.396 In the Ottoman case, the new regime of
visibility was manifested in the spatial outline and architectural features of Sa􀀄dâbâd
and perpetuated in the practice of sultanic feasts and ceremonies.
394 Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 4-6.
395 On the invisibility of the Ottoman sultan during the classical age see Necipo􀀃lu “Framing the
Gaze,” 303-306 and eadem, Architecture, Ceremonial, and Power, 15-22, 29-30.
396 Andreas Gestrich, Absolutismus und Öffentlichkeit: Politische Kommunikation in Deutschland zu
Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 34-59.
155
Visibility in Architecture
In architectural terms, radically differing from the palace buildings of the classical
age, due to its ephemeral wooden building technique and its large window fronts
Sa􀀇dâbâd had gained a new degree of lightness and transparency, which was in
subsequent years perpetuated and refined in the architecture of the Bosphorus yalıs.
Both the harem and the hâss odası building of Sa􀀇dâbâd were in their planning and
layout for example clearly oriented towards the outside, towards palace and public
gardens. Moreover, while harem and hâss odası were still enclosed by walls, the
palace’s garden was separated from the public mesîre only by a low wall with three
gates, which seem to have allowed relatively free access to the palace ground, as the
European engravings suggest, on which one can see people enter freely through these
unguarded gates.397 A high degree of accessibility of the palace gardens is also
tangible in Nedim’s poetry, in which lover and beloved freely explore Sa􀀇dâbâd’s
palatial garden, sit on the edge of the pools, drink water from the fountain or set out
for boat trips along the Cedvel-i Sîm:
Gülelim oynayalım kâm alalım dünyâdan
Mâ-i tesnîm içelim çe􀀆me-i nev-peydâdan
Görelim âb-ı hayât aktı􀀅ın ejderhâdan
…
Geh varıp havz kenârında hırâmân olalım
Geh gelip kasr-ı cinan seyrine hayrân olalım
Gâh 􀀆arkı okuyup gâh gazel-hân olalım
Gidelim serv-i revânım yürü Sa􀀇d-âbâd’a398
Moreover, the spatial setting of Sa􀀇dâbâd, being set at the bottom of the Kâ􀀅ıthane
valley with considerably steep hills rising directly nearby, meant that sultan and
court society when at Sa􀀇dâbâd were situated as if on the stage of an amphitheatre,
visible even from the highest tiers in the back. The French traveller Olivier remarks
this arrangement, although at the time of his visit in the 1790s, the surrounding hills
were apparently neglected and no longer cultivated:
397 See the illustration in d’Ohsson. Appendix, fig. 9.
398 Nedim, 356-357.
156
On regrette seulement que les deux collines qui bornent le vallon, ne soient pas
cultivées, et ornées de maisons de campagne: elles ajouteraient à l’embellissement de
ces lieux, si elles présentaient, en amphithéâtre, la vigne, divers arbres fruitiers et des
champs ensemencés.399
And Nedim also very clearly expresses the visibility of what was happening inside
the palace gardens – and perhaps even inside the courtyards of harem and hâss odası
– from the hillsides, even suggesting an element of voyeurism or unauthorised
observing:
Bir Nihâlistan kitâbıdır o sahrâlar me􀀅er
Kim ana havz-ı dil-ârâ sîmden cedvel çeker
Dâ􀀅a çık da bâ􀀅lardan eyle bu sırra nazar
Oldu Sa􀀇dâbâd 􀀆imdi sevdi􀀅im dâ􀀅 üstü bâ􀀅400
At the occasion of sultanic festivities this amphitheatrical character of Sa􀀇dâbâd
became in fact very literal, when the city’s population would assemble on the
hillsides to watch the activities set on the ‘stage’ at the bottom of the valley. The
following remark by Vandal, pertaining to festive culture in Istanbul in general,
testifies to this practice as being common during the period:
(…) pour y assister [aux fêtes], la foule de Constantinople se réunissait sous des tentes
ou s’entassait sur des gradins [sic!] qui transformaient en amphithéâtre les flancs
creusés d’une colline, et par la bigarrure de ses costumes devenait elle-même une partie
du spectacle.401
What should moreover be underlined is that the sultan at Sa􀀇dâbâd was not only
highly visible during feasts and processions – this, after all, had well existed in
previous centuries – but more importantly, perhaps, that it was a place closely
associated with the sultan’s residence, which was now subject to the public gaze.
Previously, the sultan would return behind the high walls of the Topkapı Palace after
pompous feasts and parades – at Sa􀀇dâbâd, however, a closer look was possible:
here, the sultan was visible ‘at home’, so to say. Even if this home was only a
399 Guillaume Antoine Olivier, Voyage dans l’Empire Othoman, l’Égypte et la Perse, fait par ordre
du Gouvernement, pendant les six premières années de la République, 2 vols. (Paris: Agasse, 1798),
193-194.
400 Nedim, 347.
401 Vandal, 86.
157
temporal one, this nevertheless constitutes an important transformation of sultanic
visibility.
A Culture of Courtly Festivities
Let us nevertheless consider the festivities that were held with great frequency and
pomp at Sa􀀁dâbâd throughout the eighteenth century, since these constitute a
determining element of the social practices at Sa􀀁dâbâd. Contrary to claims
frequently made by historians of the Tulip Age, which have condemned the culture
of courtly festivities as a wasteful squandering of resources, feasts were in fact a
major vehicle for the upholding of royal legitimacy, as has been convincingly
demonstrated in research on European court societies of the early modern age.402 The
courtly feast was a structural element that significantly contributed to the particular
functioning of the court societies of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries and was
essential for upholding the legitimacy of the sovereign. It did so firstly by
demonstrating the power and magnificence of the sovereign through its immense
splendour, in this way attesting that the sovereign was indeed entitled to and worth
the extent of authority he claimed. Secondly the feast served as an important means
to integrate power contenders by having them participate in the royal selfpresentation
and gift-exchange of feasts, thus establishing important moral bounds
and obligations, as well as by obligating them to considerable financial investments
necessary for an adequate court life, thus reducing their opportunities to build up
402 The literature on the topic of feasts in European history is quite rich; here some references, which
seem to be representative of this field of research: the collection Geselligkeit und Gesellschaft im
Barockzeitalter, ed. by Wolfgang Adam, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997), in particular the
article by Axel Schmitt, “Inszenierte Geselligkeit: Methodologische Überlegungen zum Verhältnis
von ‘Öffentlichkeit’ und Kommunikationsstrukturen im höfischen Fest der frühen Neuzeit,” in: Ibid.,
vol. II, 713-734; Jürgen Jochen Berns, “Die Festkultur der deutschen Höfe zwischen 1580 und 1730:
Eine Problemskizze in typologischer Absicht,” Germanisch-romanische Monatsschrift 34 (1984):
295-311; Eberhard Straub, Repraesentatio Maiestatis oder churbayerische Freudenfeste: Die
höfischen Feste in der Münchner Residenz vom 16. bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts (München:
Stadtarchiv München, 1969); Richard Alewyn and Karl Sälzle, Das große Welttheater: Die Epoche
der höfischen Feste in Dokument und Deutung (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1959) and Gestrich.
158
rivalling power centres.403 This is of course not only true for courtly societies in
Europe – the same mechanisms have been remarked for festivities at the Safavid and
to a lesser extent the Mughal court, both dynasties, which were dependent for the
upholding of their rule upon the integration of various power holders and did so by a
culture of court festivals centred around a highly visible, public ruler.404 The early
modern feast was moreover the locus where a pre-civic (“vorbürgerlich”) public
constituted itself, which increasingly had a stake in the legitimation of power, despite
all claims to absolutist rule by early modern sovereigns.405 At Sa􀀇dâbâd and
Kâ􀀅ıthane we can observe precisely these mechanisms at work, so I hold, which a
closer analysis of the feasts and ceremonies at Sa􀀇dâbâd shall demonstrate.
Festivities at Sa􀀇dâbâd were held at various occasions throughout the year
such as religious holidays, the birth, circumcision or wedding of the sultan’s children
or in the honour of foreign ambassadors. In their basic outline, these festivals bore
great resemblance to each other: tents were set up at the edges of the Cirîd Square,
by the Cedvel-i Sîm and in front of the palace buildings406 for the sultan, the grand
viziers, other dignitaries and invited guests. After the arrival of the sultan and all the
dignitaries in a pompous procession from the Mirahor Kö􀀆kü, where they had
previously arrived by boat coming from the Topkapı Palace, after moreover the
obligatory deference rituals accompanied by the offering of coffee and sweets,
different entertainments and shows would start to be performed on the Cirîd Square.
Usually, the artillery and gunners started by show shootings on targets, for which
403 See in particular Schmitt, 713-715; Straub 4-11.
404 Necipo􀀅lu, “Framing the Gaze,” 306-317; on the use of Mughal gardens as sites of political and
leisurely activities see Catherine B. Asher, “Babur and the Timur Char Bagh,” in: Environmental
Design: Mughal Architecture, Pomp and Ceremonies 1-2 (1991), 46-55 and for the Safavid case see
Mahvash Alemi, “Urban Spaces as the Scene for the Ceremonies and Pastimes of the Safavid Court,”
Environmental Design: Mughal Architecture, Pomp and Ceremonies 1-2 (1991), 98-107.
405 Gestrich, 63-74; Schmitt, 713-715.
406 For a plan with the set out of the tents at the 1740 festival in the honour of the Prussian
ambassador by Gudenus see Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 65.
159
they were rewarded with gold coins by the sultan, followed by cirîd games, horse
races, animal fights, wrestling, the shows of acrobats and jugglers, as well as dance
performances and singing. Significant is the fact that at these occasions up to
thousands of commoners assembled on the hillsides around Sa􀀇dâbâd in order to
watch the performances. The chronicler Subhî relates for example that at a grand
vizieral feast at Sa􀀇dâbâd in the spring of 1741 (1154), more than 30000 thousand
spectators (sıbyân u ricâl) had assembled on the hills in order to enjoy the games and
performances and persevered throughout the whole feast for about eight hours
despite the burning sun.407 And at the feast held upon the completion of Sa􀀇dâbâd in
August 1722, the public which had convened around the Cirîd Square in order to
watch the events (meydân temâ􀀈âya cem􀀉 olan esnâf-ı nâsdan) was even integrated
into the games: they were called to take part in a race at the end of which the winners
were rewarded with gifts.408
While urban commoners had as audience been part of feasts and festivals
hosted by the sultan or the court elite in the previous centuries also,409 in the
eighteenth century the performances of the Ottoman “theatre state”410 reached a new
intensity: festivals were now held more often, on greater scale and were spatially no
longer confined to the Hippodrome (Atmeydanı) close to the Topkapı Palace, but
were literally taken out into all parts of the city. Pompous imperial processions were
407 Subhî, 690.
408 Ra􀀆id, vol. V, 449.
409 For example at the 1582 circumcision feasts under Mehmed III or those under Mehmed IV at
Edirne in 1675. For the 1582 celebration see Nurhan Atasoy, 1582 Surname-i Hümayun: An Imperial
Celebration (Istanbul: Koçbank 1997); Robert Stout, The Sur-i Humayun of Murad III: A Study of
Ottoman Pageantry and Entertainment (PhD dissertation, The Ohio State University, 1966); Derin
Terzio􀀅lu, “The Imperial Circumcision Festival of 1582: An Interpretation,” Muqarnas 12 (1995): 84-
100. The 1675 celebrations at Edirne are subject of the work by Özdemir Nutku, IV. Mehmet’in Edirne
􀀇enli􀀆i (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1972).
410 I have borrowed the term from Rahimi, who in turn has borrowed it from Clifford Geertz in order
to denote “a set of invented or reconstructed ceremonies aimed at enacting and representing power
through ritual performance.” Babak Rahimi, “Nahils, Circumcision Rituals and the Theatre State,” in:
Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee: Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth Century, ed. by Dana Sajdi
(London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 93.
160
traversing the city space at the occasion of festivals or when the sultan would move
to one of his numerous summer palaces – amongst them prominently featuring
Sa􀀇dâbâd.411 The following remark by Lenoir, French dragoman at the Porte who
accompanied Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi to France in 1721, shows this trend very
clearly:
Quand il [le sultan] sort en pompe, & pour faire voir sa magnificence, il est accompagné
de quinze mille hommes à Cheval, tous armés de pied en cap de toutes sortes d’armes
complettes, & traverse de cette maniere, la Ville d’un bout à l’autre, jusques à la Porte
qui va à Andrinople, pour aller à une Maison de plaisir qui est à une lieue de la Ville.412
At Sa􀀇dâbâd, the ceremony of the sultan’s arrival followed similar lines. The sultan
would set out from his permanent residence at Topkapı Palace by boat in the
morning, rowing down the entire length of the Golden Horn. Strips of the Golden
Horn’s coasts were among the busiest quarters of the entire town, especially those at
Karaköy and Eminönü, as these were the port and commercial areas of Istanbul, and
the sultan in his colourful and splendid boat must have attracted considerable
attention. Usually, the sultan would descend at Mirahor Kö􀀆kü, the pavilion of the
head of the imperial stables, which was situated at the mouth of the Kâ􀀅ıthane river.
At this pavilion the sultan would already be awaited by the grand vizier and other
dignitaries as well as janissary and other military units. Together these would form a
procession of considerable dimensions, accompanied by the music of the
mehterhâne, the military band, and then parade – the sultan and dignitaries on horse
back, lesser ranks on foot – upstream along Kâ􀀅ıthane river, cross it by the Fil
Köprüsü (literally Elephant Bridge) in order to finally arrive at Sa􀀇dâbâd palace.
Considering that the entire riversides were public mesîre and that moreover the
dignitaries’ pavilions were situated on the hillsides, this procession was probably
411 Rahimi, “Nahils,” 97-99. For the 1720 celebrations see Esin Atıl, Levni and the Surname, The Story
of an Eighteenth-century Ottoman Festival (Istanbul: Koçbank, 1999) and eadem, “The Story of an
Eighteenth-century Ottoman Festival.”
412 Sieur de Lenoir, Nouvelle description de la ville de Constantinople, avec la relation du voyage de
l’Ambassadeur de la Porte Ottomane et de son séjour à la Cour de France (Paris: Simar & Osmont,
1721), 128.
161
observed by a considerable number of commoners and perhaps also court dignitaries,
as long as these were not themselves involved in it, and were obviously devised
precisely for this purpose: to be seen and admired. The chroniclers consequentially
all underline in floury language the pomp (ihti􀀃âm, meymenet, ha􀀃met) of these
ceremonies, which according to them were a source of awe especially for foreign
ambassadors.413
It is obvious that these parades were a major array of sultanic display, both to
the own population and court society, as well as to foreign ambassadors.414 At the
same time, they also made manifest and continually enacted court hierarchy in
spatial terms, as the parade would proceed in a particular, carefully staged order, to
the description of which the chroniclers devoted considerable attention. Arrived at
Sa􀀁dâbâd, this hierarchy of status and rank would again be enacted in the allocation
of the tents from where the performances on the Cirîd Square were watched. Here,
accessibility to the imperial tent of sultan and grand vizier as well as seating order
were clear markers of a person’s status in the context of the court society. The sketch
by Gudenus of the tent arrangement at the 1740 festivity in the honour of the
Prussian embassy at Sa􀀁dâbâd clearly reflects this: closest to the imperial tent, the
tents of the “ministers of the Porte” (Ministren der Pforte) were placed, next to
which those of the ambassador and of “lesser Turks” (geringere Türcken) had been
installed.415
The enactment of status was all-pervasive – dignitaries would line up
according to their rank, would be allowed to pay their reverences according to their
413 See for example the remarks of Subhî on the Iranian ambassador in whose honour a feast was held
at Sa􀀁dâbâd in 1154. Subhî, 693.
414 Hamadeh comes to the same conclusion taking into account the total of eighteenth-century
building activities in Istanbul patronized by the court, which she characterizes as “a long and
sustained effort to create an imperial capital that reflected a glorious image of Ottoman sovereignty”
(34) addressed both at foreign diplomats and Ottoman society. Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures, 34-36.
415 Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 65.
162
position at court, and would be allocated robes of honour in accordance with their
status. We thus see at these ceremonials both a self-display of the court society
towards the outside – addressing the urban population or foreigners – and the careful
enactment of court society for itself. Procession and ceremonial were thus as much
directed towards the exterior as towards the interior, in the former case having the
function to testify to the sultan’s power and might, both in order to inspire awe and
in order to demonstrate that the sovereign actually lived up to the status he held,416
and in the latter case serving to enact and thereby reinforce existing hierarchical
systems while at the same time carrying the potential for re-negotiating them.417
Essential for the legitimative function of both feast and ceremonial, be it directed
towards the wider public or internal court circles, was thus the emergence of the ruler
from an invisible monarch to being conspicuously present in urban space. Faced with
a society in flux, which challenged previous sultanic prerogatives, visibility became
the key to legitimation.
In Search of Allies: Changing Power Relations and 120 Pavilions
Underlying this shift in legitimation were complex transformations in the social,
political and economic spheres that had taken place during the seventeenth
century.418 Often regarded as a period of ‘crisis’ or decentralization, these
416 Straub, 7-11.
417 On the political and social functions of court ceremonies in the European context see Elias, 144,
Berns, pp. 299-301. For an analysis of the ceremonial and gift exchange at the 1720 circumcision
feasts with regard to the French ambassadors role in them see Faroqhi, “Negotiating a Festivity.”
418 For social, political and economic transformations of the Ottoman Empire during the seventeenth
and eighteenth century see (amongst many others; this does of course not claim to be an exhaustive
list): Rifa􀀁at Ali Abou El-Haj, Formation of the Modern State: the Ottoman Empire Sixteenth to
Eighteenth Centuries (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press 2005); Karen Barkey, Bandits and
Bureaucrats: The Ottoman Route to State Centralization (Ithaca: Cornell University 1994); Cornell H.
Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: the Historian Mustafa Ali (1541-1600)
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986); Norman Itzkowitz, “Eighteenth Century Ottoman
Realities,” Studia Islamica 16 (1962): 73-94; Madeline C. Zilfi, Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema
in the Postclassical Age (1600-1800) (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1988); Rifa􀀁at Ali Abou-El-
Haj, The 1703 Rebellion and the Structure of Ottoman Politics (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch163
transformations had – amongst other effects – uprooted the elite structure of the
classical age and caused significant shifts in the distribution of political and
economic power tendentially away from the sultan and the core of the imperial
household. The person of the sultan had lost importance in actual governing matters
of the empire and real power was concomitantly wielded by a grandee-directed
bureaucracy – a bureaucracy dominated by the structural element of households,
which were frequently engaged in factional strife.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the imperial centre around sultan
and grand vizier was therefore engaged in the attempt to regain the upper hand and
consolidate its power by securing the loyalty and support of the various power
holders. With respect to the ulemâ􀀁, for example, this was done by strengthening the
patrimonial prerogatives of a restricted number of Istanbul-based ulemâ􀀁 families and
in this way authorizing what in effect amounted to the institutionalization of an
ulemâ􀀁 aristocracy.419 Moreover, as a measure to secure the loyalty of court
dignitaries towards the dynasty, these were married to Ottoman royal princesses,
who thus became the heads of their own imperial households and bore considerable
political influence. As political power in the empire henceforth resulted from
marriage to these royal princesses, these households came to be the loci of real
power.420 Moreover, power had over the course of the seventeenth century not only
become diffused among the elites of the capital but also on an empire-wide level,
with provincial authorities – the so-called â􀀁yân – coming to hold a greater share of
Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1984); Ariel Salzmann, Tocqueville in the Ottoman Empire:
Rival Paths to the Modern State (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2004); Ariel Salzmann, “An Ancien Régime
Revisited: “Privatization” and Political Economy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Empire,”
Politics and Society 21/4 (1993): 393-423; Studies in Eighteenth-Century Islamic History, ed. by
Thomas Naff and Roger Owen (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1977); Leslie
Pierce, The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1993); The Early Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire, ed. by Virginia H.
Aksan and Daniel Goffman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
419 Zilfi, Politics of Piety.
420 Artan, “Theatre of Life” and eadem, “Charismatic Leadership.”
164
power by the eighteenth century. The institution of the mâlikâne system was a
response to this constellation: the centre awarded the right to tax collection to
provincial power holders and gained their loyalty (as well as cash in advance) in
return.421 As Salzmann has pointed out, one may conceptualize these moves by the
centre aimed at securing its hold over various power holders as a mechanism of the
“redistribution of rights”, which was a typical feature of the ancien régime, whether
in Europe or Asia.422 By doing so, the Sublime Porte emerged in the early eighteenth
century again as the principal regulatory force that oversaw not only one but several
circuits of redistribution of privilege and power both in the provinces and the
centre.423
This dynamic is very clearly reflected in both spatial layout and practices at
Sa􀀄dâbâd – the significance of architectural transparency and feasts in this respect
has already been examined. Furthermore, the attempt to incorporate the lesser court
elite, dignitaries and office holders into the centre of power became physically
concrete in the form of the more than 120 pavilions belonging to court dignitaries,
located on the hillsides of Kâ􀀃ıthane and the neighbouring valleys and constructed
one year after Sa􀀄dâbâd upon imperial decree. This spatial constellation reminds of
similar arrangements in France under Louis XIV, where nobles were likewise
ordered to build their summer residences in close proximity to the royal palace of
Versailles and where the supposedly absolute monarch was also dependent upon the
support of the nobility.424 In the case of Sa􀀄dâbâd, too, these pavilions were a means
to integrate the lesser power holders and bind them indeed very physically to the
dynasty. This function of reinforcing the bonds between the sultan and important
421 Mehmet Genç, Osmanlı 􀀆mparatorlu􀀅unda Devlet ve Ekonomi (Istanbul: Ötüken, 2007), 99-152;
Salzmann, “Measures of Empire”.
422 Salzmann, “Measures of Empire,” 50 and eadem, “Ancien Régime Revisited.”
423 Salzmann, Tocqueville, 78-79.
424 Elias, 71.
165
court grandees is exemplified by the fact that the sultan would even stay overnight in
the grandees’ pavilions, as happened for example during a feast at Sa􀀄dâbâd in May
1729 (􀀃evval 1141), when Sultan Ahmed III spent the night at the kasır of the
Defteremini Abdullah Efendi, situated near the opposite end of the Cedvel-i Sîm.425
Moreover, the grandees’ pavilions at Sa􀀄dâbâd also suggests the penetration
of urban, public space by the entire court society and not as had been common before
only by its core, consisting of the sultan and his harem. This move in turn entailed
that the lesser dignitaries, too, were encouraged to engage in conspicuous
consumption at their summer pavilions. Subhî for example remarks that upon the
distribution of land titles (mülknâme) to the dignitaries in 1723, which entitled them
to construct their own pavilions, the new land owners started eagerly competing with
each other concerning the embellishment of their pavilions and gardens: herkes mâlik
oldukları arsa-i hâliyelerinde birbirlerine ızhâr-ı çemen-pîrâzî-i mahâret ve arz-ı
kâlây-ı berg ü 􀀉âh-ı gayret ile (…) her ba􀀇-ı behîn tarh-ı nev-bünyâd-ı re􀀉kîn-sâz-ı
irem-i zâtü’l-􀀊ımâd olmu􀀉tu.426 Although we have no information about what actually
happened in terms of social and cultural life at these pavilions in the years between
1722 and 1730, it is certainly not too far fetched to suppose that their owners led a
quite leisurely life at these summer residences, probably comparable to that of the
sultan yet less pompous. The notoriously crabby 􀀃emdanizade seems to suggest this
in one of his comments condemning the vice and debauchery at Sa􀀄dâbâd’s
pavilions: [􀀈brahim Pa􀀉a] Sa’d-âbâd’ı âbâdan etmekle binâ’ olunan kö􀀉klerde olan
i􀀊lân-ı fısk-u fücûra ruhsat verdi.427
Significantly, it was these summer residences, which were destroyed during
the Patrona Halil Rebellion in 1730 – and not as is commonly believed the imperial
425 Çelebizade, 612.
426 Subhî, 138.
427 􀀃emdanizade, vol. I, 4.
166
palace itself – in a symbolic act ordered by the new sultan Mahmud I as one of his
first imperial decrees. The chronicler Sâmi relates that the new sultan did not consent
to the suggestion by Istanbul’s kadı to burn (ihtirâk) the pavilions, but only gave
permission to their destruction (hedm ü tahrîb), because to burn them down would
constitute a “cause for laughter” (bâ’is-i hande) for the Christian nations, the
enemies of the Ottoman state (a􀀁dâ-yı dîn ü devlet olan milel-i Nasârâ).428 This
indicates that the Ottoman elite was in fact quite concerned about its international
reputation and more specifically, that it was aware of the symbolical significance
Sa􀀁dâbâd carried for the Europeans at the time. Abdi writes in his account of the
rebellion, that it was during the sultan’s procession to Eyüp for the sword girding
ceremony that the sultanic decision to have the pavilions destroyed in a period of
three days was cried out by the çâvû􀀆 â􀀅âları. Differing from other accounts,
according to Abdi this notification was apparently not intended as an invitation for
pillaging towards the urban commoners sympathizing with the rebels, but instead
directed at the owners of the pavilions, that is, at the state dignitaries themselves
(âlây ortasından Sa􀀇dâbâd’da kö􀀆kü olan), who were thus in fact ordered to destroy
their own residences (kö􀀆k sâhipleri kö􀀆kleri hedm edesiz)429 – quite obviously a
symbolic act ordered by Mahmud I in order to distinguish himself from the old
regime, both a concession to the rebels and at the same time perhaps also a symbolic
demonstration of authority by the new sultan towards the court grandees, who were
almost humiliatingly ordered to pull down the splendid pavilions they had been
commanded to erect just a few years earlier. Contrary to Abdi, Sâmi relates that it
was the common population – in his words “the mob” (ha􀀆arât)430 – who was
responsible for the destruction. One might speculate that enraged rebels arrived at the
428 Subhî, 38.
429 Abdi Efendi, 45.
430 Subhî, p. 38.
167
site before the pavilion owners and started pillaging it, but at this point there is no
further evidence that would resolve the contradiction.431
Yet, the fact that in both narratives it is the dignitaries’ pavilions that stand at
the centre of the controversy and not the sultanic palace itself throws a different light
on the question of legitimacy obviously involved here. As the sultanic decree for the
destruction was quite clearly issued as a reaction towards the crisis of legitimacy
caused by the rebellion – being among the first legal acts of the new sultan – one
might assume that it was these pavilions and probably the conspicuous consumption
they were the site of, which the rebels disapproved of, and not the conspicuous
consumption by the sultan himself. Moreover, it seems that the spatial arrangement
of Sa􀀊dâbâd as constructed in 1722 with the over one hundred surrounding pavilions
was a symbol of the order before the rebellion, which the rebels had risen up against.
This is also evident in the strong moral stance Sâmi takes against the destruction of
the pavilions, which he finds to be a malicious and immoral act of guilt done to
Muslim property (ümmet-i Muhammed’in emlâkine mücerred fısk u fesâd olmak
töhmetiyle hedm ü tahrîbi)432 – the court historian, himself part of the court elite,
obviously condemned here the destruction of the symbol that represented the world
he himself was a part of.
Sa􀀊dâbâd’s character thus did significantly changed with the Patrona Halil
Rebellion and the destruction of the pavilions.Their demolition symbolized a
departure from the specific power constellation between centre and contending loci
of power as it had been orchestrated by 􀀈brahim Pasha. While the culture of courtly
festivities at Sa􀀊dâbâd was again taken up under Mahmud I – at latest in 1736/37
431 Artan holds this to be the case based on Ayvansarayi’s entry on Sa􀀊dâbâd’s mosque (Artan,
Theatre of Life, 53). However, Ayvansarayi does not mention anything of that kind; he just states that
the pavilions were destroyed in 1730: “1141 senesi rebîü’l-evvelinin on be􀀉inde (19.10.1728) vukû’
bulan Patrona ve Muslî fitnesinde erkân-ı devletin Sa􀀊dâbâd’da vâki’ yüz yi􀀇irmi aded kasırları hedm
olunmu􀀉dur.” (Ayvansarâyî Hüseyîn Efendi, 385)
432 Subhî, 38.
168
(1149) when a feast was held in honour of the Iranian ambassador – the destruction
of the pavilions was final, an attempt at revival never made. In fact, in 1731/32
(1144), the old owners were expropriated and the entire land that had formerly been
occupied by the dignitaries was endowed as vakıf land to the bostâncıs, who were to
cultivate it in order to prop up their income.433 With the bostâncıs constituting a kind
of urban police force responsible for keeping up public order, this property exchange
might be interpreted as an increase in control by the authorities over the public
gardens at Kâ􀀃ıthane.
Conspicuous Consumption and the Emergence of Taste
Yet conspicuous consumption at Sa􀀄dâbâd continued until the last quarter of the
century, when the palace was again neglected until its major reconstruction in 1809 –
and this conspicuous consumption can indeed be considered a leitmotif of the spatial
practice at Sa􀀄dâbâd on the part of the elite. Conspicuous consumption is of course
not a phenomenon unique to the eighteenth century, but an increased level of
consumption that was no longer confined to the core of the elite, but now also
practiced by wider segments of the society was indeed a novelty.434
At the basis, it was economic and political circumstances, which made this
increased consumption – which the Tulip Age is so famous for – possible.
Politically, the early eighteenth century was a time of stability: in 1711 the Russians
had been defeated at the Pruth, in 1718 the Passarowitz Treaty settled the conflict
with the Venetians and Austrians, the Iranian front was more or less quiet until the
late 1730s and diplomatic relations with European states had been strengthened with
permanent embassies set up in Paris and Vienna. With the absence of costly wars,
433 Subhî, 138-139.
434 On the subject of (conspicuous) consumption see the collection Consumption and the World of
Goods, ed. by John Brewer and Roy Porter (Routledge: New York and London, 1994).
169
economic resources of the state were thus freed and the Ottoman economy in fact
experienced an expansion in practically all sectors until about the 1760s.435 The early
eighteenth century was moreover a time of expanding global markets in preindustrial
mass consumer goods, which transformed urban life and patterns of social interaction
– the tulip being one of those goods along with textiles, coffee and tobacco.
Alongside with the flourishing international market for luxury goods, the Ottoman
domestic market for consumer goods, especially textiles, also grew in the eighteenth
century.
The increased prosperity of state and society and the new consumption
practices had complex repercussions on the social field, as traditional hierarchies
were put into question. Aspiring middle classes and women of all social ranks
challenged the established elites by engaging in the field of conspicuous
consumption, previously confined to a limited section of the state’s elite – as already
mentioned a controversial development, which is reflected in the sumptuary laws of
the period. In the field of clothing for example, the previously cited edict of 1725/26
[1138] asserts that the female population of the capital did no longer dress according
to their ranks (merâtib-i nâsa göre) and as prescribed by religious and sultanic law
(kıyâfet-i hasb-el-âdeler-i ruhsat-ı 􀀆er􀀁iyye mutâbık ve kavânîni hikmet ihtivâ’ya
muvâfık)436 since they had used the absence of the court at Edirne to adopt shameful
and immoral innovations in clothing – the danger posed to established ranking by
consumption becomes clearly manifest here. Apart from the clearly moralistic
discourse directed at women and their bodies, what is moreover of interest is that the
decree mentions economic consequences of these new trends: women were
reproached for their involvement in economic matters and for their wasteful
435 Mehmet Genç, “L’économie ottomane et la guerre au XVIIIe siècle,” Turcica 27 (1995), 177-196.
436 Ahmed Refik, Hicri On 􀀅kinci Asırda, 87.
170
expenditure by purchasing fashionable clothing (elbise-i nev-zuhûr tedârikine ikdâm
iderek zî-kudret olanları zükûr ü nisâye harâm olan isrâfı mâl ve itlâfı emvâl ile
günehkâr) and moreover for causing damage to the artisans of the city, whose by
now old-fashioned products were no longer in demand (kâr-i kadîm olan elbise ve
akmi􀀉e kâsid ü bî-itibâr oldu􀀇undan ehl-i sûkda ve sair ehl-i beldede zarûret ü
ihtiyâc vukû􀀁una bâ’is).437 We see here the emergence of a system of relatively
rapidly changing fashions, which had both economic and social repercussions
unsettling the old order.
Thus that people not belonging to the traditional elite could purchase the
signs that had previously been a secure marker of elite status caused considerable
concern; and since this trend could despite all legislation not be contained, it obliged
the elite to look out for other signs of distinction – and this is precisely the place
where taste and refinement become important notions. With this in mind, the
seemingly unreasonable craze for tulips by Ottoman elite members can be
understood as a way of defending the loosening boundaries of the nobility by making
taste (zevk) and refinement the decisive categories for belonging to the noble (kibâr)
estate.438 Interestingly, a very similar trend of such an “invention of taste”439 can be
observed in Ming China, although about a century earlier, in the late sixteenth and
early seventeenth century. There, too, as traditional elites saw their social position
threatened, taste provided “a mechanism to stress not just the things possessed but
the manner of possessing them”440 and prevented the cultural and economic
hierarchies from collapsing into each other until it would become only a matter of
437 Ahmet Refik, Hicri On 􀀈kinci Asırda, 87.
438 Ariel Salzmann, “Age of Tulips,” 88-94. See also Madeline C. Zilfi, “Goods in the Mahalle:
Distributional Encounters in Eighteenth-Century Istanbul,” in: Consumption Studies and the History
of the Ottoman Empire, 1550-1922: An Introduction, ed. by Donald Quataert (Albany NY: State
University of New York Press, 2000), 290.
439 Craig Clunas, Superfluous Things: Material Culture and Social Status in Early Modern China
(Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004), xiv.
440
Ibid., xiv.
171
wealth to be able to belong to the cultured nobility: “Here, taste comes into play, as
an essential legitimator of consumption and an ordering principle which prevents the
otherwise inevitable-seeming triumph of market forces.”441
In Europe, too, the notion of taste emerged during the eighteenth century, and
the intellectual discussion on the subject ended up defining taste as the capability to
distinguish universal aesthetic beauty and therefore as being opposed to fashion – in
this way, taste became the characteristic of the elite, while fashion was only the bad
taste of the masses.442 Consequentially, taste seems to have indeed easier transcended
cultural than class boundaries: members of the Ottoman, Persian and European elites
were perhaps closer in their understanding and appreciation of material culture as
they were to the lifestyle of their respective compatriots of the lower classes. The
travel reports by European travellers for example attest to such a shared transcultural
elite consumer culture, which becomes apparent in their great interest and praise of
Ottoman material splendour and magnificence, although this praise was surely also
coloured by a good pinch of Orientalist interest in the exotic East, whose art and
cultural achievements European Orientalists regarded as not going beyond decorative
artefacts and ornamentation.443 Yet despite all exoticism, a genuine appreciation of
Ottoman elite material culture shines through the travelogues, especially through
those of the eighteenth century, when the feeling of absolute superiority among
Europeans had not yet evolved, which would come to determine the nineteenthcentury
discourse.
On the side of the Ottomans, the same can be said for Yirmisekiz Çelebi
Efendi whose account of his experiences in France is to a large degree focussing on
441
Ibid., 171.
442 Szambien, 103-105.
443 Gülru Necipo􀀃lu, The Topkapı Scroll: Geometry and Ornament in Islamic Architecture (Santa
Monica, CA: The Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1995), in particular chapter
4: “Ornamentalism and Orientalism: The Nineteenth and Early Twentieth-Century European
Literature,” 61-71.
172
the material culture of the French court – and the fact that he was able to appreciate
this court culture so enthusiastically points to a framework of shared or at least
comparable aesthetics and consumption practices. Ottomans were moreover in direct
contact with elite European material culture, which lay just a boat ride away in
Galata and Pera, on the opposite side of the Golden Horn, where the ambassadors of
the European states had their residences, where European travellers were housed and
where Christian missionaries established their churches. The Ottoman elite was not
at all ignorant of this fact and displayed a keen interest – the degree of which
admittedly varied according to individual personality – towards their neighbours’
architecture, attire and way of life. On 14 March 1759 (15 Receb 1172) for example,
when splendid festivities were held throughout the city at the occasion of the birth of
a royal princess, the sultan, while spending one day at the Galata Palace, used the
opportunity to pay a visit to the residences of the European ambassadors at Pera in
order to inspect the decoration and embellishment of their houses.444 What this
suggests is the existence of what Ariel Salzmann has termed a “shared material
civilization”, which “linked court societies across early modern Europe and Asia”445
– in terms of trading relations, consumer patterns and aesthetic values.
The focus on Sa􀀇dâbâd and Kâ􀀅ıthane as social space, as a space which was made
use of by a wide array of different ‘user groups’, has highlighted social, political and
economic transformations of eighteenth-century Ottoman and in particular Istanbul
society. The new emphasis on sultanic visibility, which constituted a definite
departure from the manner of sultanic self-representation during the Ottoman
classical age, was a central theme of social practices at Sa􀀇dâbâd and Kâ􀀅ıthane. This
444 􀀆emdanizade, vol. II, 26.
445 Salzmann, “Age of Tulips,” 93 and 97.
173
motive was manifest both in the architecture and spatial layout of Sa􀀄dâbâd, putting
an emphasis on openness and transparency, as well as in the practice of sultanic
feasts and the accompanying ceremonial. Together, architecture and feasts were
aimed at displaying the dynasty’s pomp and magnificence to the public, which would
assemble in masses on Kâ􀀃ıthane’s hillsides and thus literally turn Sa􀀄dâbâd into an
amphitheatre – an amphitheatre on whose stage unfolded the drama of sultanic
legitimation of power. This drama of legitimation now more than ever before
addressed as its audience the urban public – the sultan visually demonstrated at
Sa􀀄dâbâd as well as at other locations in the city his might and magnificence, thereby
inspiring awe and deference among the commoners and emerging triumphant over
aspiring power contenders. As a result of complex political, economic and social
transformations since the beginning of the seventeenth century power had become
diffused by the early eighteenth century and the distinction lines between ‘state’ and
‘society’, between ‘elite’ and ‘commoners’ were more flue than ever and constantly
being contested. In this situation, the centre of power – epitomized in the figures of
the sultan and his grand vizier – was now in need to search for allies and gain the
support and loyalty of potential contenders. At Sa􀀄dâbâd, we see this dynamic
physically enacted in space: ceremony and feasts determined hierarchies and
established obligations on the part of the dignitaries towards their sultan and their
pavilions on the hills surrounding the palace were a physical imprint into space of the
bound between court grandees and the sovereign.
But social practice is also the site of potential resistance against hierarchies –
and Kâ􀀃ıthane in its quality of being public space, which was less constrictive than
other spaces inside the city was precisely such a site. Here, women who were
engaged in the conspicuous consumption of fashionable clothing actively questioned
the boundaries of established hierarchies, lovers set out for secret amorous
174
adventures, dervishes practiced the recitation of heterodox poetry and even rebellious
commoners conspired on Kâ􀀃ıthane’s meadows. These meadows were the site where
this hard to quell, not at all quietly obedient public came into physical contact and
direct interaction with the power holders – and this interaction was governed by the
themes of visibility and conspicuous consumption; themes, which had become the
essential ingredients of sultanic legitimacy.
175
CHAPTER 7: CONCLUSION
As I have tried to show in this study, the sultanic summer palace of Sa􀀄dâbâd cannot
be reduced to a mere illustration for swift general statements about the nature of the
Ottoman eighteenth-century or the Tulip Age. Acknowledging that the space made
up by the palace and the surrounding gardens and public meadows was a socially
produced space has enabled me to challenge stereotypical judgements, which see
Sa􀀄dâbâd either as a metaphor for the Tulip Age as an area of carefree pleasure and
joy or as a first manifestation of Ottoman Westernization attempts. Considering
Sa􀀄dâbâd to be a socially produced space in Lefebvre’s sense instead highlights the
immense complexity of this spatial constellation, where several levels interpenetrated
each other: a produced, in the literal sense ‘constructed’ physical reality actively
influenced different mental representations of and discourses about Sa􀀄dâbâd while
being at the same time determined by them. Both of these aspects – physical and
mental space – in turn informed the lived experience various people had in their
interaction with the physical environment of Sa􀀄dâbâd and accordingly influenced
the social practices taking place at this location.
The analysis of these spatial levels as undertaken in this study suggests that
despite all complexity sultanic visibility and display can be identified as the
dominant themes of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s spatiality, which come to the fore on all three spatial
levels. As far as the physical materiality of Sa􀀄dâbâd is concerned, transparency and
an orientation towards the exterior were the key characteristics of the palace’s light
and ephemeral architectural style. Moreover, the setting of the palace at the bottom
of the Kâ􀀃ıthane valley with steep surrounding hillsides meant that the palace and its
residents were exposed to the gaze of those assembled on the surrounding meadows
in a way literally resembling an amphitheatre. The setting of the more than 120
176
residences belonging to court dignitaries around Sa􀀄dâbâd accentuates all the more
the high degree of visibility, which differed so marked from the sultan’s seclusion
during the so-called classical age as incorporated in the architecture of the Topkapı
Palace.
On the level of social practice, too, it was sultanic display in the form of
pompous processions and festivities often attended by crowds of commoners, which
constituted a determining element of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s social space. These in turn
informed the mental representations of the sultanic palace, as the Ottomans closely
associated the building with its patrons, Sultan Ahmed III and his grand vizier,
􀀃brahim Pasha. This marked emphasis on sultanic display, so I have argued, needs to
be understood as a strategy by the sultan to uphold legitimacy: the display of wealth
and magnificence both towards other elite members and the urban public served to
attest to the power of the sultan and maintain his position at the apex of a hierarchy
of lower ranking power holders. Conceptualizing these feasts, pageants or imperial
building programmes as manifestations of conspicuous consumption instead of
instances of wasteful expenditure by the elite has highlighted their structural
significance, since in a highly status conscious society the ostentatious display of
wealth was vital for the upholding of rank and legitimacy.
Ceremonies and festivities held at Sa􀀄dâbâd were moreover an important
means to integrate the various power holders that had by the early eighteenth century
come to wield a significant share of political and economic power due to complex
developments of ‘decentralization’ during the seventeenth century. In the early
eighteenth century, the Porte was therefore in the need to maintain its superiority
towards these potential contestants. This was – as in many other early modern states
– achieved through establishing networks of obligation between the central authority
and the lesser power holders by the distribution of rights and privileges on the part of
177
the Porte. Feasts and ceremonies with their complex ceremonial regulations – often
taking place at Sa􀀄dâbâd – were another important means of binding the dignitaries
to the centre and reinstate hierarchies and ranks. Moreover, having the court
grandees erect summer residences around Sa􀀄dâbâd palace represented another
strategy of guaranteeing their tight integration into the network of power at the apex
of which stood the sultan in a very concrete, material manner – the grandees were
effectively obliged to participate in the sultanic performance of pomp and
magnificence that was staged at Kâ􀀃ıthane.
The grandees’ summer residences at Kâ􀀃ıthane also indicate that it was not
only the sultan, who was engaged in a process of penetrating the urban space of the
Ottoman capital during the first half of the eighteenth century, but in fact the entire
court elite. In marked difference from the regime of visibility of the classical age,
Sa􀀄dâbâd in exemplary form signals the emergence of the sultan from his seclusion
behind the high walls and cypress screens of the Topkapı Palace. It was urban public
space, which now became the stage on which the sultan and his entourage presented
their splendour – yet this stage was not an uncontested one: it was at the same time
invaded to an increasing degree by the urban commoners. Moreover, the sultan
presented himself not only in urban space, as had already been the case in previous
centuries, but it was now his very residence itself – even if only temporal – which
was being exposed to the public gaze, adding a new quality to the Ottoman regime of
visibility.
When looking at the wider space surrounding Sa􀀄dâbâd, it becomes clear that
far from being an exclusive space reserved for sultanic use, Kâ􀀃ıthane can be
considered a public space and a prime location where an urban public constituted
itself. To determine with more accuracy the exact composition of this public remains
to be researched in the future; yet the sources suggest that formerly less represented
178
population groups like women and non-Muslims now became more visible. Being a
public space, social and moral norms were less strictly observed in Kâ􀀃ıthane than in
other parts of the city – lover and beloved, women, heterodox dervishes and the
city’s ‘riffraff’ all made use of this public mesîre. By doing so, these social groups
were involved in constantly challenging and (re)negotiating the boundaries of the
socially permissible, despite the regime of control that was instituted over Kâ􀀃ıthane
and similar public gardens by the bostâncıs and series of sumptuary laws.
What is decisive is that Sa􀀄dâbâd’s spatial layout suggests that the interaction
between this public on the one and the sultan and the court elite on the other hand
was apparently an intended one: the palace garden, the Cedvel-i Sîm and the Cirîd
Square were all relatively freely accessible, the palace’s inner courtyards was
observable from the hillsides and commoners were moreover integrated into sultanic
festivities. An increased dominance of state power in the public space did thus
obviously not entail the exclusion of urban commoners but on the contrary
encouraged their presence and sought interaction. This is indeed significant as it
points to the changed status of this public, which had apparently become an
increasingly important factor for sultanic legitimation.
As far as the seemingly never-ending debate concerning the ‘imitation
question’ is concerned, the focus on the aspect on architectural discourse has allowed
distinguishing between a European and an Ottoman discourse on Sa􀀄dâbâd, which
attributed very different meanings to the palace building. The accounts of European
travellers continually purport Sa􀀄dâbâd to be an imitation of French palace models
and naturally enough, when the travellers were in reality confronted with the alleged
Ottoman version of Marly or Versailles upon their visit to the “Sweet Waters of
Europe”, their judgement was prone to be a negative one – Sa􀀄dâbâd was predestined
to perform badly in comparison with the monumental and strictly symmetrical
179
originals. As a result, Sa􀀁dâbâd could only be an imperfect imitation of the European
models – a narrative solution, which allowed maintaining a safe distance between the
superior Europe and the inferior Orient. It is precisely this discourse which has been
taken up uncritically by modern historiography and whose legacy continues until
today, turning Sa􀀁dâbâd into a symbol for a first attempt at Westernization by an
Ottoman Empire that had allegedly begun to achieve consciousness of its own
inferiority and turned to the West for inspiration and reform.
In contrast to their European contemporaries, the eyes of eighteenth-century
Ottoman observers were turned towards the opposite direction: they saw Sa􀀁dâbâd in
a line with the famed palaces of mythical Persian kings as well as in comparison with
the celebrated Safavid capital of Isfahan – and judged, that Sa􀀁dâbâd was so splendid
and magnificent that it surpassed all these models. The Ottoman poets and
chroniclers here set themselves within a Turko-Persian cultural tradition and at the
same time singled out Ottoman cultural achievements as the culmination of this
tradition. Moreover, in the context of the current political tensions with the Safavid
Empire during the mid-eighteenth century, maintaining the superiority of Sa􀀁dâbâd
over Persian architectural model was an obvious move that translated the political
strife onto the cultural sphere. Hence, in the Ottoman eyes, Sa􀀁dâbâd was not at all
perceived as a Western imitation – quite on the contrary, the sultanic palace was
considered as so unique in its splendour that it remained beyond any worldly
comparison.
The disparity between the Ottoman and European discourses is noteworthy
and suggests an ambiguity surrounding the building of Sa􀀁dâbâd, which the
Ottomans seem to have known how to employ. Sa􀀁dâbâd could thus serve as the
manifestation of Ottoman superiority in chronicles and poetry and be ostentatiously
presented to Iranian ambassadors visiting the Ottoman capital while simultaneously
180
allowing 􀀆brahim Pasha to make reference to Versailles when conversing with the
French ambassador to the Porte.
Different from the – perhaps intended – ambiguity on the level of discourse,
on a factual level there is considerable evidence suggesting that French models were
in fact the decisive source of inspiration in the planning of Sa􀀇dâbâd: apart from the
enthusiastic but in architectural terms vague report by Yirmisekiz Mehmed Efendi,
the head of the corps of royal architects, Mehmed Â􀀅â, might have made use of plans
and architectural handbooks from France at the sultan’s private library at the Topkapı
Palace when designing the layout of Sa􀀇dâbâd palace and its garden. Moreover,
􀀆brahim Pasha, the grand vizier who commissioned the palace, seems to have
consulted these sources, too – he himself attested to have been inspired by French
palace models when commissioning Sa􀀇dâbâd in a conversation with the French
ambassador Marquis de Villeneuve.
Acknowledging this influence does not necessitate an adherence to a
framework which positions the Ottomans in a passive and inferior position to
Western Europe, since cultural exchange is not necessarily based on the relationship
between an active donor and a passive recipient. In fact, the recipient plays a crucial
and active role in cultural transactions by choosing, appropriating and potentially
rejecting what is on offer. If one acknowledges French models to have been a main
source of inspiration for Sa􀀇dâbâd, the question, which then needs to be asked, is
why these models appeared attractive to the Ottoman decision makers and why they
were chosen to be applied in this particular way. On the one hand, one can point here
to the indigenous tradition of gardens featuring geometrical and symmetrical layouts
– the French fashion of axiality and rigid symmetry was thus not as foreign to
Ottoman aesthetics as commonly assumed. After all Ottoman garden planning was
informed by Turko-Persian garden traditions, which were based on the principle of
181
the chaharbagh arrangement, featuring symmetrical layouts with a main water axis –
elements constitutive of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s design. Despite their differences, French models
therefore easily fit within a familiar set of aesthetic and planning principles. On the
other hand, the application of schemes emphasizing axial vistas and monumentality –
although in Sa􀀄dâbâd this never reached the scale of French, Safavid or Mughal
architecture – seems to indicate a concern on the part of the Porte for a visually more
impressive, more monumental representation of sultanic power than had been the
case in the imperial gardens of the classical age with their natural, asymmetrical
compositions – which brings us back to the main theme of sultanic display; a theme,
as we have seen, which pervaded all levels of Sa􀀄dâbâd’s spatiality.
There are of course still many questions to ask and answers to find. One area, which
remains to be investigated concerns the social constitution of the public, which made
use of the mesîre of Kâ􀀃ıthane, and what their ‘use’ of the space actually consisted
of. Similar questions might be asked with respect to the dignitaries who built
residences on the hillsides of Kâ􀀃ıthane – who exactly were they, what were their
motivations in constructing a residence with view on a sultanic palace and what use
did they make of their residences? Additionally, clearer knowledge of the property
relations of the land in question would add to our understanding of the underlying
economic mechanisms structuring the space of Kâ􀀃ıthane.
Yet despite all shortcomings and questions left open, this study has started reconsidering
the history of an architectural monument, which has acquired such an
emblematic stance in modern historiography that a mere hint at it is enough to evoke
a number of stereotypical images concerning the Tulip Age and an Ottoman Empire
allegedly at the outset of Westernization. By unravelling the historical process of the
production of Sa􀀄dâbâd as a social space through physical intervention, written and
182
visual discourse and social practices, it has however become clear that a specific
regime of visibility that was intricately linked with the legitimation of sultanic power
lay at the heart of the building and structured the different spatial levels connected to
it. Nothing is here to be found of the indulgence in worldly pleasures far apart from
the world of politics in the manner described by Ahmed Refik, nor of a full-scale
copying of European models. Instead a subtle play of seeing and being seen was
staged at the amphitheatre of Kâ􀀃ıthane, with a highly visible sultan performing a
play of pomp and magnificence in front of the court elite and the urban public – yet
what became increasingly blurred in this play, was the neat distinction between
actors and spectators. As much as the sultan performed before court and public, so
did the commoners in turn manifest their presence in public space.
183
APPENDICES
APPENDIX A: Transcriptions of Selected Archival Documents
Cevdet Maliye (C.ML) 9990
[1] Mülkn􀀋me-i hümay􀀐n yazıla k􀀌
[2] Derg􀀋h-ı 􀀁􀀋l􀀎 cebeci ba􀀊ısı Sebz􀀎 Seyy􀀎d Mehmed z􀀎de mecdehu 􀀁ar􀀑-ı 􀀂􀀋l
􀀌düb Sa􀀁d􀀋b􀀋d'ıñ c􀀋nibinde [3] (…)de v􀀋􀀄ı􀀁 bir 􀀆arafı derg􀀋h-ı 􀀁􀀋l􀀎 cebeciler
ket􀀃üd􀀋sı Abdull􀀋h 􀀋􀀍􀀋 b􀀋􀀍ı ve bir 􀀆arafı b􀀏st􀀋niy􀀋n-ı [4] 􀀃􀀋􀀅􀀅a oda ba􀀊ısı
b􀀋􀀍ına mutta􀀅ıl olub 􀀁ar􀀑en otuz ve 􀀆avlen yüz elli 􀀇ir􀀋􀀁 [5] olma􀀄 üzere
muta􀀅arrıf oldu􀀍ı b􀀋􀀍ıñ yedine mülkn􀀋me-i hüm􀀋y􀀐nı v􀀌rilmek ric􀀋sına istid􀀁􀀋-yı
[6] 􀀁in􀀋yet 􀀌tmegin m􀀐cibince ba􀀊 mu􀀂􀀋sebeye 􀀄ayd olunub mülkn􀀋me-i
hüm􀀋y􀀐n v􀀌rilmek ferm􀀋n-ı 􀀁􀀋l􀀎 [7] 􀀅􀀋dır olma􀀍ın vech-i me􀀊r􀀐􀀂 üzere
mu􀀄addim􀀋 m􀀋l􀀎yede oldu􀀍u 􀀊ür􀀐t 􀀇ikr􀀎 ile [8] mülkn􀀋me-i hüm􀀋y􀀐n yazılma􀀄
iç􀀐n i􀀊bu k􀀋􀀁ime v􀀌rildi
fi 23 􀀊[a􀀁b􀀋n] sene 1135
[imza:] Seyfull􀀋h
[mühür:] Seyfull􀀋h 􀀁abd ve m􀀋 il-ma􀀍z il-emn 􀀁abdull􀀋h [?]
184
Cevdet Saray (C.SM) 8953
[...]
[1] Ter􀀑os n􀀏􀀏􀀒yesi n􀀏􀀒bine 􀀏ükm k􀀐
[2] Sa􀀍ad􀀏b􀀏d-ı fera􀀏-i büny􀀏da v􀀏ki􀀍 ba􀀍􀀌ı ma􀀏allerde 􀀉ars olunma􀀑 içün
bu def􀀍a da􀀐􀀊 bir mı􀀑d􀀏r [3] e􀀍c􀀏r ü mütenevvi􀀍a getürülmek (...) olma􀀑la
n􀀏􀀏iye-i mezb􀀓rede elli 􀀍aded 􀀑ara 􀀏􀀋􀀏ç ve elli [4] 􀀍aded u􀀏lam􀀓r ve elli
􀀍aded kest􀀏ne ve elli 􀀍aded çın􀀏r ve elli 􀀍aded dı􀀍b􀀓d􀀏􀀑 k􀀐 mecm􀀓􀀍 [5] iki
yüz elli 􀀍aded e􀀍c􀀏r-ı mütenevvi􀀍a ihr􀀈ç ve sef􀀒neyle 􀀏sit􀀏ne-i sa􀀍adete na􀀑l
ve teslim ettirilmek [6] üzere tert􀀒b olunub lakin e􀀍c􀀏r-ı mezk􀀓re gelüb 􀀑ars
olundu􀀑da ta􀀏allu􀀑 eylemeyüb 􀀓utma􀀑 içün [7] i􀀏r􀀈ç oldı􀀑ı va􀀑itde ve
gerek na􀀑lında mehm􀀏emken kökerlinin 􀀓opr􀀏􀀑ı d􀀏􀀑ılama􀀑 ve yerin [8] ve
􀀍􀀏􀀏ları da􀀐􀀊 zedelenmemek içün bir 􀀏o􀀍ça mu􀀏􀀏fa􀀔aya muht􀀏ç oldu􀀑ından
gayr􀀒 [9] her birisi yedi􀀍er ve sekizer ya􀀍ında biri birine olg􀀓n 􀀏􀀑􀀏çlardan olub
biri birinden [10] büyük ve küçük olmama􀀑 ve d􀀏lları da􀀐􀀒 per􀀒􀀍􀀏n olmayüb
end􀀏mları mevz􀀓n ve müs􀀏v􀀒 [11] ve 􀀑addları ber􀀏ber olma􀀑 ve çat􀀏l
olmayüb per􀀒􀀍􀀏n üzere olması l􀀏zım [12] 􀀏􀀏lden olma􀀉la 􀀒md􀀒 i􀀍b􀀓 emr-i 􀀍er􀀒f
cel􀀒l-ül-􀀑adrim ile müb􀀏􀀍ir ta􀀍y􀀒n olun􀀏n [13] zide 􀀑adrüh􀀓 vardı􀀑da 􀀒c􀀏b
eden ücretlerini re􀀍􀀏yanıñ tek􀀏l􀀒flerinden na􀀑􀀊􀀒 ve ma􀀏s􀀓b [14] olma􀀑 üzere
ol-mı􀀑d􀀏r e􀀍c􀀏r-ı mütenevvi􀀍a müb􀀏􀀍ir-i m􀀓m􀀏-ileyh ma􀀍rifetiyle n􀀏􀀏􀀒ye-i
mer􀀑􀀋mede v􀀏􀀑i􀀍 􀀓a􀀑lardan [15] (...) ve inti􀀏􀀈b ve 􀀑ara 􀀏􀀑􀀏çları küçük
yapr􀀏􀀑lı olmayüb ba􀀍􀀔ı yapr􀀏􀀑lı ol􀀏n 􀀑ara [16] 􀀏􀀑􀀏çdan olma􀀑 ve kez􀀏lik
􀀏􀀒n-i 􀀑arsında mu􀀑addem 􀀑ıble c􀀏nibine mütevecci􀀏 ol􀀏n ma􀀏ala
müceddeden [17] d􀀒kilecek yerde ye􀀍􀀒lı boy􀀏sıyla da􀀏􀀊 y􀀊ne 􀀑ıble 􀀓arafına
v􀀏􀀑i􀀍 olma􀀑 içün çı􀀑􀀈rılaca􀀑 [18] 􀀏􀀑􀀏çların 􀀑ıble 􀀓arafına dü􀀍en yerlerine
i􀀍􀀏retler v􀀏􀀑i􀀍 oldu􀀑dan 􀀒oñra mehm􀀏emken [19] kökleriniñ 􀀓opr􀀏􀀑ları
d􀀏􀀑ılmadan 􀀓opr􀀏􀀑larıyla ma􀀍􀀈n ma􀀏allerinden i􀀏r􀀏ç ve 􀀏􀀒n-i i􀀏r􀀏cında [20]
􀀍acele olunmayüb te'eyyüd ile mecm􀀋􀀍 yerden kökleriyle çı􀀑􀀈rılub ve
􀀓opr􀀏􀀑ları bir ho􀀍ça [22] 􀀒􀀈rdırılüb ve b􀀏􀀑landırüb 􀀍arablara ta􀀏m􀀒n ve gerek
mu􀀏􀀈fa􀀔a olunara􀀑 n􀀏􀀏􀀒ye-i [23] mezb􀀓reniñ semtine 􀀑ar􀀒b iskeleye na􀀑l ve
iskeleden da􀀏􀀊 kökleri ve d􀀏lları bozulma􀀑sızın [24] sef􀀏ine v􀀏􀀌􀀍 ve ta􀀏m􀀒n
ve 􀀏sit􀀏ne-i sa􀀍adete na􀀑l ve 􀀒􀀒􀀏l ve tesl􀀒m etdirmekden ziy􀀏de [25] ihtim􀀏m
eyleyüb ihm􀀏l ve müs􀀏ma􀀏adan be􀀑􀀏yet ictin􀀏b eylemek b􀀏bında ferm􀀏n-ı
􀀍al􀀊 [26] 􀀒adr olma􀀑ın 􀀍ur􀀓􀀓iyle emr-i 􀀍er􀀒f yazılma􀀉a tezkere verildi
fi 22 􀀒[afer] 1136
[27] B􀀏larda Ter􀀑os n􀀏􀀏􀀊yesi y􀀏zıl􀀏n ma􀀍􀀈n m􀀓cibince Midye ve Yoros ve
􀀌􀀒le ve 􀀎􀀑􀀈b􀀈d [28] ve R􀀓meliyle ve 􀀎na􀀓olı 􀀎ı􀀒􀀏rları c􀀏niblerine da􀀐􀀊 veçh-i
me􀀍r􀀓􀀏 üzere as􀀑e (...) bir 􀀑ı􀀓􀀍a [29] emr-i 􀀍er􀀒f yazılma􀀑a 􀀍er􀀏 verildi
fi 24 􀀒afer 1136
[imza]
185
APPENDIX B: Illustrative Material
186
Fig. 1 Plan of Sa􀀁dâbâd with gardens and Cedvel-i Sîm by Eldem.
Reproduction from Eldem, Sa’dabad, 20-21.
187
Fig. 2 Plan of Sa􀀄dâbâd. Reconstruction by Eldem based on Gudenus’ sketches.
Reproduction from Eldem, Sa􀀇dabad, 34-35.
A bridge (kö􀀆klü köprü), B imperial landing pier, C mosque, Ç courtyard of the hâss odası D
courtyard of the harem, E Kasr-ı Cinan, F Çe􀀃me-i Nur, G smaller cascade, H larger cascade
a mounting steps (bini􀀆 ta􀀆ı), b covered path, pergola, c overflow tunnel of watermill, d cascade and
underground tunnels for overflow water, e regulatory water reservoir, f marble water jets, g dragon
headed bronze fountain, h five willows
Gates
I gate leading to mosque, II uphill gate, III main gate to the hâss odası, IV uphill gate of the hâss
odası, V side of the hâss odası VI secondary gate to the harem, VII the harem’s main gate, VIII gate
to the quarters of the darü’s-sa􀀇âde â􀀅âsı, IX kitchen entrance, X entrance to servant quarters
188
Fig. 3 Ground floor plan. Reconstruction by Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 36 based on the plan by Gudenus from
1740
Hâss Odası: a Tahtânî kasır, b rooms with sedir, c small entrance hall with stairs, ç reception and
audience hall (dîvânhane), d sitting area, e bostâncı quarters, f coffee kitchen, g quarters of palace
servants, h1-h6 rooms, i kitchen, j water mill, k water reservoir with fountain, l water closets and
hamam, m gallery (sofa/hayât), n1-n11 rooms, according to Gudenus for female servants, o1-o4
189
rooms of darü’s-sa􀀄âde â􀀃âsı apartment, p gallery (sofa/hayât), r open room of darü’s-sa􀀄âde â􀀃âsı
aparment, s service rooms, t hammâm, u room, ü stairs leading to upper room, v paved and covered
court, x stone supporting walls of upper room, y not defined by Gudenus
For the gates see the caption of fig. 2
Fig. 4 Upper floor plan. Reconstruction by Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad, 38 based on the plan by Gudenus from
1740.
190
Hâss odası: a fevkânî kasr-ı hümâyûn, b room, c small upper hall, ç reception hall (sofa), d room, e
room, f room, g passage bridge
Harem: h passage room, h-i-j passage rooms, k room (probably the sultan’s), l watercloset, m gallery
(sofa/hayât), n1-n4 rooms, o1-o4 rooms, p stair to the ground floor, r quarters of palace servants, s
room of the head of the kitchen (ahçıba􀀃ı) (Eldem does not give a reference for this), 􀀃 upper part of
the kitchen with four openings in roof surface, t void above apartment underneath, u upper level room
above dam, ü room with view
Fig. 5 Detail of a sketch by Gudenus of Sa􀀄dâbâd from 1740. Reproduction from Eldem, Sa􀀄dabad,
40.
191
Fig. 6 Detail from the engraving of Sa􀀁dâbâd by Hilaire in M.-G.-F.-A. Choiseul-Gouffier, Voyage
pittoresque de la Grèce, vol. II, 2 (Paris: Blaise, 1809), plate XCII, p. 487. Reproduction from Eldem,
Sa􀀁dabad, 40.
Fig. 7 Detail of the illustration in Mouradgea d’Ohsson’s Tableau générale by the painter l’Espinasse,
ca. 1770s. Reproduction from Eldem, Sa􀀁dabad, 41.
192
Fig. 8 Anonymous painted illustration in Enderunlu Fazıl’s Zenanname depicting Sa􀀁dâbâd and its
gardens ca. 1720s.
Reproduction from Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization,” 39.
Fig. 9 Illustration in Mouradgea d’Ohsson’s Tableau générale of Sa􀀁dâbâd and the surrounding area
by the painter l’Espinasse, ca. 1770s.
Reproduction from Hamadeh, “Question of Westernization,” 39.
193
Fig. 10 “The Sweet Waters of Europe” in Thomas Allom, Constantinople ancienne et moderne
comprenant aussi les sept églises de l'Asie mineure (Paris: Fisher, Fils et Co., 1840)
194
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Archival Documents
Ottoman Prime Minister’s Archives (Osmanlı Ba􀀉bakanlık Ar􀀉ivi, OBA), Istanbul
Maliyeden Müdevver (MAD.d): 1282
Cevdet Tasnifi
Saray (C.SM): 6775, 8953
Maliye (C.ML): 27320, 9988, 9990
Belediye (C.BLD): 1018
Evkaf (C.EV): 30693
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