Abigail Cabot Putnam was the daughter of Isaiah Putnam, one of the descendants of John Davenport, early regent of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and founder of the New Haven plantations and Yale College.
She led the privileged life of a Boston Brahmin. Her family was the closest America could come to English aristocracy, and because of her wealth, family history, and stunning beauty, she was one of the most sought-after women in Victorian New England.
She rode in elegant carriages, was seen to by valets, footmen, and personal servants, was dressed by her maid, served first at dinner, and was the belle of all the balls held at the family's summer estate on the North Shore.
As many women of her class and station did, she travelled abroad; but after the obligatory and quite desultory trips to Europe, she wanted something more - a taste of the sybaritic east as Enobarbus had described it to Antony after seeing Cleopatra. The splendor of her person, her palace, and her royal barge were beyond imagination. An outing on the Nile was a spectacle of sound and light with Cleopatra at the center, a glorious woman of unmatched beauty, elegance, and charm.
The glory days of Dynastic Egypt were long gone as were the glory days of Persepolis and Babylon, but the princely tradition of pashas, palaces, and resplendent harems still existed in Turkey, and it was reputed that the women of Suleiman Pasha were the most beautiful of the empire. Suleiman himself was reported to be handsome man, tall, stately, courtly and brilliant - a master at chess, a botanist, a visionary leader, and a devout Muslim.
The splendor of his palace was renowned throughout the Middle East and nothing in the Saudi Kingdom or the Trucial states even came close. It was a show case of the finest gold ornaments, crystal chandeliers, Carrera marble floors, Italian sconces, Persian carpets, alabaster and fine china, elegant balustrades, verandahs, and formal gardens.
'I would like to meet him', said Abigail, and so it was that she set off for Constantinople for an audience with Suleiman Pasha.
Her reputation preceded her, and when the Turkish prince got word of her request, he readily agreed. No effort would be spared to show the visiting American the very best of Turkish hospitality and regal attention.
'A most charming man', she wrote in her journal, and went on to describe the caparisoned honor guard, the thousands of roses, the scent of frankincense and myrrh, and the magnificence of Suleiman Pasha's throne.
'Greetings, my most honored guest and most beautiful woman', he said, gesturing to an ornate chair placed behind him As they got settled tea and sweets were served and a chorus of dancing girls, all dressed in traditional costumes from the Black Sea, gracefully bowed and showed their gracious welcome.
It was clear to Abigail that the pasha showed her more than just diplomatic interest. His affections were respectful, correct, and proper but there was no mistaking his romantic intentions. As he escorted her to the formal dining hall and seated her next to him, she had no doubt about the adventure ahead.
Of course some cultural finesse was required and some retreat of Western sexual propriety - the man had a harem after all and three wives. Sexual pleasure and connubial responsibility went hand in hand, parallel emoluments in a royal life, and if she were to become his lover, she would be one, perhaps not even primus inter pares.
What in fact was a harem like? An elegant suite of women, draped in luxury and awaiting the bell? Private quarters with a shared convivial women's gathering place, a feminine place of gossip and lambency? What would it be like to be treated as next in line?
Or would it be the operatic love affair of The Thousand and One Nights? A royal seduction, bliss in the arms of her prince, loved by the wealthiest man in Asia, feted and treated like a princess, a queen? She would be the woman to steal his heart, the power behind the throne, the legendary foreign queen of Turkish romance.
Nonsense of course. She was not one given to cheap dime-store novels of illicit romance. She was more ethnographer and seditious interloper than dreamy-eyed American ingenue. She would take what came, play the Queen of Hearts, the complaisant lover, the English peaches-and-cream beauty, the priceless gem of an already splendiferous collection.
'Let me show you to your quarters' said Suleiman Pasha, and with a retinue of accompanying servants led her to her chambers, fanciful but tasteful quarters, the ornate windows of which opened on to the rose gardens below and the Bosporus beyond. She would be alone here, the preamble perhaps to something more traditional; or perhaps this is the way it was done. A harem might be a collective noun only not a clutch of women gathered around a bath.
Well after midnight she was visited by Suleiman Pasha who stayed until the first morning light. He had been kind, attentive, and an unadorned and sexually deliberate lover. Never a jealous woman but only curious about the inner workings of a Turkish harem, she wondered when her turn would come around again, whether she would be moved to more suitable surroundings, etc.
He visited her again the next night and the night after that, and when she felt more comfortable and more confident of his attentions, she asked him about his other 'duties'.
'I have eyes only for you', he responded and slipped a ruby encrusted diamond ring on her finger. 'You are my goddess, my life'.
This of course is what the Arabian Nights was all about - the elixir of love intoxicating a prince, a passionate lover stealing his affections from all other women, and her eventual reign as the Cleopatra of the Bosporus.
This was not what Abigail Cabot Putnam was all about, however, and she quickly began to find the pasha's attentions predictable. And the palace! She had held her tongue, this scion of stern Anglo-Saxon aristocratic New England heritage -Townsend secretaries, Chippendale chairs, Revere silver and Stuart, Copley, and West portraits on the walls. The palace was beyond Baroque and Rococo, a kitschy display of opulence. There was no sense of order, discipline, or restraint amidst the glitz and glamour. East and West would not meet anytime soon.
The days of sexual quarantine were over. Turkey was not Hanafi Saudi Arabia. Elegance and chivalry still existed and that the pashas of the day were gentlemen. Abigail would take her leave of Suleiman Pasha with due honor and respect. She cared for the man, saw the unexpected turmoil she had caused in him - he had not been prepared for such a pearl-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed goddess of such infinite charm and sexual maturity. 'Oh to have children with her', he often thought as he retired to his chamber, overcome with a desire unbecoming of a pasha but profound nonetheless.
'Let's be in touch'. Of course she wasn't that dismissive and cruel, and showed him all the courtesy and respect he deserved, but his hangdog look was simply not princely. She rode in the royal carriage to the port and to the ocean liner to take her back to America, Boston, and Beacon Hill. 'Bye-bye' said and waved her handkerchief to the tearful pasha and his princely retinue.
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