Women's Dress in Turkey, 1911
Women's dress among the Turks changes with the fashion. One element in it is stable. No hats are worn, except by the children of a few of the wealthy. Whether…
Location: Turkey
From Turkey and the Turks by Z. Duckett Ferriman, 1911.
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
Women's dress among the Turks changes with the fashion. One element in it is stable. No hats are worn, except by the children of a few of the wealthy. Whether the face is veiled or not, the ears are always covered. In the house, the dress of ladies of the upper classes is precisely that of Europeans of similar standing. The mode of the day in Paris is followed, though Turkish ladies are not likely to adopt the “harem skirt," which is the subject of controversy in the West at present (1911).
That has long been abandoned by all except the peasantry and the poorest class of townsfolk. The shalvar, to give it its Turkish name, varies with the cut and the wearer. Made of calico and gathered in at the ankles, it gives the figure the appearance of a pegtop, and this is what one sees among the peasant women.
The shalvar of silk formerly worn by ladies was a graceful garment, more so, perhaps, than any skirt. Loose, and fastened below the knee, it fell in ample folds over the ankles. The old indoor dress consisted of this and a shirt of crinkled gauze, and over it the yelek, a close-fitting garment, tight at the waist, reaching to the ground, sleeveless, and open at the sides from the hip downwards.
Over this a loose jacket, also open at the sides, and with tight sleeves. Over this, again, a robe of rich material embroidered in coloured silks and gold and silver thread. On the head was a round flat cap worked in gold and seed pearls, and the slippers, always heel-less, were similarly adorned.
The outdoor costume of the Turkish lady at present consists of skirt, and cape drawn up over the head, and the charchaf a short veil, black, or of a dark tint. A good deal of art is displayed in pinning the cape, and if this is well done the costume is graceful. The cape is a modification of the old ferijee, which quite concealed the figure.
It was a loose-sleeved garment reaching to the ankles, with a wide rectangular cape from the neck almost to the hem. The yashmak is now only worn by the ladies of the Imperial harem. It was formerly universal. It consists of two pieces of muslin, folded and pinned in such a way that one edge covers the mouth and the lower part of the nose, and the other passes across the brow above the eyes. This was succeeded by a long veil, very diaphanous, disappearing in the folds of the mantle. The short veils at present worn conceal the features more effectually than either the yashmak or the semi-transparent long veils worn during the closing years of the last century, but it can be raised at any moment, whilst both the long veil and the yashmak were fixtures. The lower part of the latter was removed whilst paying a visit—rather a troublesome process.
The present arrangement undoubtedly saves time and trouble, but the yashmak was certainly far more becoming. A filmy cloud, it really enhanced the charms it pretended to conceal. When the Turkish lady goes for a walk, with no intention of making calls, she wears the yeldirmee, a long ulster-like mantle, which is not closely adjusted to the figure, but has not the looseness of a cloak.
In colour it is usually light, pale mauve, or fawn or silver-grey. The sleeves are wide and edged with narrow gold braid. The sides are open and laced with gold cord. With this she wears the bash-oordoo, which envelopes the head much as in some of the Tanagra figurines. It is not easy to give a name to the bash-oordoo. It is not a mantilla, still less is it a shawl, and it is too long to be a kerchief. It is always of some soft clinging fabric, often of fine-spun cob-web silk, shimmering and silvery. When disposed with art it is very effective, and more than any mode of Western vesture, it allows the wearer to display her individuality. She exposes her face or conceals as much of it as she chooses, and her taste is evinced in the draping of its folds. This is what one sees in the villa gardens, and in the meadows and groves in the vicinity of Constantinople.
It approaches more nearly to the simplicity and grace of classic Greece and Rome than any other modern garb. The delicate hues and flowing lines “compose" well from the artist's point of view, and a group of ladies thus clad always makes a picture.
The tendency to tone down colour is perhaps the most noticeable feature in the dress of Turkish ladies of the present day. In the seventies of the last century, the ferid-jees were apple-green, cherry-red, bright blue, full yellow, intense violet, or even pure scarlet. Crude individually, the effect was splendid in the mass. The greensward of the Sweet Waters on a Friday was dotted with groups which vied in hues with beds of tulips, and when Murad V drove through the streets to his first selamlik, balconies, stands, and pavement resembled gorgeous parterres.
This infantile delight in primary colours was succeeded by the taste for shades of heliotrope and eau de nil, peacock-blue, old gold, coppery bronze, ruby and garnet, and with these came greater richness in material. The broche silks of the close of the last and beginning of the present century have never been surpassed, and at that period, too, the veils were of varied tints, and delicate floral patterns were woven into their fabric.
Now, the short veil is black or a dark brown, and the dress is of the same colour or a very dark blue. Sometimes—but this is exceptional—it is of discreet grey, and this, for the moment, seems to be the only excursion the ladies allow themselves out of the sombre tones in which fashion decrees that they shall appear. They look upon the rainbow hues of the last century much as their English sisters would regard the crinoline. This applies only to their outdoor costume.
Indoors, they avail themselves of all the latitude of the West. Here is a glimpse of a fourteen-year-old girl at a wedding in a great house on the Bosphorus—dress of pale pink satin, veiled with exquisite lace, and in her hair combs jewelled with pearls and diamonds; necklet of sapphires. Her mother is clad in pale green, with collar of emeralds. With her is another lady in white robe lined with ermine. In a land where fortunes are still largely invested in precious stones, jewels naturally form a conspicuous part of dress.
In footwear, Turkish ladies do not differ from Europeans, though the heelless slipper is universal indoors. The men pay great attention to their shoes. As it would be impossible to enter a house in boots which had been worn out of doors, ingenuity has devised the double shoe, a thing peculiar to Turkey. The inner shoe is lightly made, often of kid. Over it is worn a golosh or rather a clog, usually of patent leather. It fits closely, and is secured by a spring in some cases.
It is slipped on and off without using the hands. A small metal projection on the heel is pressed by the toe of the other foot, and the overshoe comes off. The whole arrangement is exceedingly neat. It has none of the clumsiness of the golosh and is very light. Its wearer, when he has shuffled off the outer shoe, pays a visit with easy mind, free of all apprehensions for his host's carpets. It is one of the things which Westerns might well copy, and, in fact, former residents who miss the comfort and cleanliness of the device after returning to England sometimes have shoes of this description made for them in Constantinople and sent home. The humble classes simply slip off their* babooshes* and enter a house in stockinged feet.
The dress described above is, of course, that of the well-to-do. A poor woman, or one in a provincial town or village, probably wears the mahrema, which is a double petticoat of cotton, almost invariably of a small blue and white check pattern. The upper petticoat is drawn over the head and held under the chin. If the face is to be hidden, a kerchief is tucked under the part of the mahrema which goes over the head.
Before going out, the wearer of the mahrema will gather her skirts about her waist, tuck them up as high as possible, put on a pair of yellow bahoosbes or slippers, and, if it is wet, large overshoes over them. Then perhaps she will throw a feridjee of black material over all. Thus arrayed she looks something like a balloon. Her legs are exposed, but that does not matter in the least so long as the face is hidden. Her bundled-up garments and loose overshoes cause that peculiar gait between a waddle and shuffle which is the orthodox mode of locomotion among the women of her class.
This was formerly the outdoor costume of rich and poor. The garments of the former were of silk, that was all. Now, you meet it only among the old-fashioned in Stamboul, but if you go to Amasia or Magnesia, or other provincial towns, you will find it still the rule. It is not prepossessing, but then, it is not intended to be. Probably the Turkish woman uses fewer pins than her sister of the West. But, on the other hand, she is opulent in kerchiefs—those squares of cotton which she turns to so many purposes, the principal one being apparently that of rigging up her garments.
The term is used advisedly, for in the matter of tying knots she has the expertness of a sailor. She can put more things into a bundle, too, than most people, and her bundles never come undone. She is never without at least one on the shortest journey, and she despises portmanteaus.
The foregoing description, of course, conveys no adequate idea of what the people look like. It is difficult to do that in the provinces, where the dress is more or less uniform. In Constantinople it is impossible. The author was at Scutari this afternoon, and from there he went to Eyoub on the Golden Horn. A few illustrations from the concrete may serve to demonstrate the varied character of the dress, but they cannot picture it.
That is the work of the pencil, not the pen. We will confine ourselves to the Turks, ignoring the other nationalities and also the uniforms. Here, on the pier at Scutari, is a little girl in the usual print frock or, rather, smock. Her chestnut hair is plaited and coiled; one little plait tied up with ribbon is left free. The frock is a fine red and white stripe. Across the shoulders and at the hem there is a border of Turkish embroidery in colour. The white muslin bash-oordoo which is thrown loosely over her head is worked with pale lilac leaves.
Two ladies are making their way to the pier. One is in black, the other in a deep blue broche silk, showing a fine pattern design, only faintly relieved from the ground colour. She carries a white sunshade with a floral border of the same hue as her dress. The diamond pins and the air of the ladies proclaim them of the well-to-do. The little girl with them has her hair loose, escaping from a daisied hat. She is the counterpart of a European child, wagging skirt, black net stockings, and needs no further description.
On the steamer come two other ladies, not so elegant as the others, and with them also a little girl. She wears no bash-oordoo; her frock is yellow, covered with a bold design of black and red flowers. She is proudly nursing the baby. His lower half is as that of a mummy; above, he is clad in a garment of the hue of sulphur. There is a patch of scarlet on his cap, and a blue bead to avert the evil eye.
Ferriman, Z. Duckett. Turkey and the Turks. James Pott & Co., 1911.
About TOTA
TOTA.world provides cultural information and sharing across the world to help you explore your Family’s Cultural History and create deep connections with the lives and cultures of your ancestors.
