Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul: A Seventeenth-Century Biographer's Perspective: 19 (Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies) [1 ed.] 1472472292, 9781472472298

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Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul

Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul explores biography writing and dream narratives in seventeenth-century Istanbul. It focuses on the prominent biographer ‘Aṭā’ī (d. 1637) and with his help shows how learned circles narrated dreams to assess their position in the Ottoman enterprise. This book demonstrates that dreams provided biographers not only with a means to form learned communities in a politically fragile landscape but also with a medium to debate the correct career paths and social networks in late sixteenth and early seventeenth-century Istanbul. By adopting a comparative approach, this book engages with current scholarly dialogues about life-writing, dreams, and practices of remembrance in Habsburg Spain, Safavid Iran, Mughal India and Ming China. Recent studies have shown the shared rhythms between these contemporaneous dynasties and the Ottomans, and there is now a strong interest in comparative approaches to examining cultural life. This first English-language monograph on Ottoman dreamscapes addresses this interest and introduces a world where dreams changed lives, the dead appeared in broad daylight, and biographers invited their readers to the gardens of remembrance. Aslı Niyazioğlu is Assistant Professor of History at Koç University, Istanbul. After receiving her PhD from Harvard University in 2003, she taught at the University of Oxford and was a fellow at Wissenschaftskolleg Institute of Advanced Study at Berlin. She works on early modern Ottoman history with a special interest in the lives of poets, scholars, and Sufis of Istanbul.

Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies General editors: Leslie Brubaker, A.A.M. Bryer, Rhoads Murphey and John Haldon

Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies is devoted to the history, culture and archaeology of the Byzantine and Ottoman worlds of the East Mediterranean region from the fifth to the twentieth century. It provides a forum for the publication of research completed by scholars from the Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies at the University of Birmingham, and those with similar research interests. For a full list of titles in this series, please visit https://www.routledge.com/series/BBOS Sylvester Syropoulos on Politics and Culture in the Fifteenth-Century Mediterranean Themes and problems in the memoirs, Section IV Edited by Fotini Kondyli, Eirini Panou, Vera Andriopoulou, and Mary B. Cunningham The Emperor Theophilos and the East, 829–842 Court and frontier in Byzantium during the last phase of iconoclasm Juan Signes Codoñer Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest Islamic architecture in the lands of rum, 1240–1330 Patricia Blessing Imperial Lineages and Legacies in the Eastern Mediterranean Recording the imprint of Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman rule Edited by Rhoads Murphey Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul A seventeenth-century biographer’s perspective Aslı Niyazioglu

Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies University of Birmingham

Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul A seventeenth-century biographer’s perspective Aslı Niyazioğlu

First published 2017 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2017 Aslı Niyazioğlu The right of Aslı Niyazioğlu to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Niyazioæglu, Asli, author. Title: Dreams and lives in Ottoman Istanbul : a seventeenth century biographer’s perspective / Asli Niyazioglu. Description: Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon : Routledge, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016018592| ISBN 9781472472298 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315578071 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Istanbul (Turkey)—Biography—History and criticism. | Biographers—Turkey— Istanbul—History—17th century. | Biography as a literary form. | Dreams in literature. | Aòtåa’åi, Aòtåa Allåah ibn Yaòhyåa, active 17th century. Classification: LCC CT21 .N59 2017 | DDC 920.0094961/8—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016018592 ISBN: 978-1-4724-7229-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-57807-1 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by diacriTech, Chennai Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies Volume 19

Emine, Yahya ve Mehmet’e

Contents

Acknowledgements Note on Transliteration and Manuscripts Introduction 1 The biographer between this world and the hereafter Patrons and adversaries Sufi sheikhs and the very special dead Father and son 2 Collection of lives as a well-ordered garden Ottoman biographers and Sufi lives: an overview A well-ordered garden: empire, decorum and exclusivity Gardener at work: ‘Aṭā’ī and his sources 3 From this world to the realm of dreams Dreams, careers and biographers Nightmares on the Sufi path The hereafter in the mirror of dreams 4 The dead and visits from the hereafter The living and the dead in early seventeenth-century Istanbul Apparitions and embraces Dreams and tokens of remembrance Epilogue

Appendix: Sample biographical notice Bibliography Index

Acknowledgements

Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul marks the culmination of a long journey into the world of the poets, scholars and Sufis of early modern Istanbul. I thank Cemal Kafadar for introducing me to the wonders of this world and for being such a vast source of inspiration over many years. Mehmet Sinan Niyazioğlu, Rossen Djagalov and Zeynep Yürekli have kindly accepted ‘Aṭā’ī into their lives and commented vigorously on my writings at different stages of this project. Without their love and unfailing support, this book would not have been possible. It was a great pleasure to share my drafts with Zeynep Altok, Emine Fetvacı, Gloria Fisk and Ilham Khuri-Makdisi. I have been very fortunate to have such amazing friends. I cannot thank them enough for love, laughter and fun as well as their invaluable feedback. This book also owes a great deal to the support of friends, colleagues and former students. I especially would like to thank Hatice Aynur, Abby Comstock Gay, Sooyong Kim, Selim Sırrı Kuru, Lucienne Thys-Şenocak, Kerem Tınaz, Görkem Özizmirli, Oya Pancaroğlu, Mehmet Polatel, Alexis Rappas, Günsel Renda, Dana Sajdi, Michael Sheridan, Derin Terzioğlu, Ahmet Tunç Şen, Max Weiss and Özge Yıldız. I am grateful to Rhoads Murphey for providing support at a crucial stage of the project and making the publication possible. I thank them all for many insightful comments and suggestions. During my teaching and research in Oxford, Berlin and Istanbul, Eugene Rogan, Celia Kerslake, Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, George Khalil and Cengiz Kırlı provided inspiration and encouragement, as always. I am also immensely grateful to my former mentors Nevra Necipoğlu, Gülru Necipoğlu and our late professor Şinasi Tekin for showing me ways to engage in a conversation with past lives. Gönül Alpay Tekin has been an amazing guide into bewildering realms of Ottoman poetry. I thank them with all my heart. Another great source of support for this work has been the assistance of the staff and directors of libraries where I conducted research. I especially thank the librarians of Süleymaniye Library, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, Boğaziçi University Library and Koç University Library in Istanbul, Widener Library at Harvard University, Bodleian Library at Oxford University, and Staatsbibliothek in Berlin. I was fortunate to work at these collections thanks to financial support from the Koç University Harvard-Koç Visiting Scholar Program, Bilim Akademisi Young Scientist Award, British Institute Research Grant and a Wissenchaftskolleg zu Berlin fellowship. I would like to thank dear friends Martin Alaçam, Oytun Altaşlı, Serpil Bağcı, Jed Boyer, Özge Dursun, Gloria Fisk, Scott Redford and Sinan Ünver for their support and understanding.

I am grateful to Rossen Djagalov for making the exploration of history and imagination together such a great joy. Thank you all for being patient with me when I turned into a monster during the writing process and cheers to our many wonderful nights and days (how many years!). I also thank Ines, Alberto and Alejandro Garcia for making the beautiful Gijon home and Carlos Garcia for making the world an incredibly beautiful place. Finally, I thank my parents Emine and Yahya Altunel and my brother Mehmet Sinan Niyazioğlu who have supported me with their patience, good humor, and love. How fortunate have I been to share life with such wonderful people! It is to them I dedicate this book with love and gratitude.

Note on transliteration and manuscripts

The following diacritical marks are used throughout this book:

‫ﺚ‬ ‫ﺝ‬ ‫ݘ‬ ‫ﺡ‬ ‫ﺥ‬ ‫ﻧ‬ ‫ﺶ‬ ‫ﺹ‬ ‫ﺽ‬ ‫ﻁ‬ ‫ﻅ‬ ‫ﻉ‬ ‫غ‬ ‫ﻕ‬ ‫ﻙ‬ ‫ﺀ‬ ‫ﻭ‬

s c (j for Arabic and Persian) ç (ch for Persian) ḥ ḫ ẕ

ş (sh for Arabic and Persian) ṣ ẓ, ḍ ṭ

ż ‘ ġ ḳ (q for Arabic)

k, g, ñ ’ v (w for Arabic)

Source material quoted in this book is predominantly Ottoman Turkish, for which I use modern Turkish orthography with the diacritical marks listed above. The same diacritical marks are used for Arabic and Persian, with the exceptions noted in the parentheses. The Arabic definitive article is transliterated as al- for Arabic and Persian texts, as in al-Shaqā’iq alNu‘māniyyā, instead of the Ottoman Turkish Şaḳā’iḳü’n-Nu‘māniyyā. For names of places, people and groups, diacritical marks are omitted but poets’ pen-names

are transliterated fully. For Ottoman Turkish geographical names, the modern Turkish orthography is adopted, except when there is an English equivalent for the latter, as in Istanbul instead of İstanbul. Anglicized versions of Ottoman, Arabic and Persian words are used as they appear in the Merriam-Webster dictionary: kadi, ulema, vizier, and so forth, the exceptions being medrese instead of madrassa, and Quran instead of Koran. Titles of works are repeated in a shortened form after the first mention. *** At the time of the completion of the Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul, the much-needed critical edition of the Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ is still unpublished. I am grateful to Suat Donuk for sharing with me his unpublished transliteration, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî-Hadâ’îku’l-Hakâ’ik fî Tekmileti’ş-Şakâ’ik (İnceleme-Metin), which he submitted as a PhD thesis to Celal Bayar Üniversity in 2015. Regrettably, this meticulous transliteration was still in preparation for publication at the time of the completion of my project. Thus, all references are made to the published edition currently in use: the facsimile of the 1851-52 printed edition prepared by Abdülkadir Özcan in 1989. There are 34 complete and 19 incomplete copies of the Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts recorded in our library catalogues today. Among them, we have an autograph copy comprised of 5 out of 8 volumes in separate manuscripts. In my citations from the Ḥadā’iḳ, I use this incomplete autograph copy (Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2341, 2342, 2344, 2344 and İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü Library Yazmalar ŞR 000182) and compare it with Suat Donuk’s edition, which is based on three complete Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts (Süleymaniye Library Esad Efendi 2309, Topkapı Palace Library Revan 1438, and Edirne Selimiye Library 4702). I thank Ali Emre Özyıldırımlı for bringing to my attention the previously unknown autograph copy of the second volume at İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü Library.

Sigla E1 E2 E3 E3 IA E R1 SE P

Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2341. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2342. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2343. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2344. İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü Library, Yazmalar ŞR 000182. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi, 2309. Topkapı Palace Library, Revan 1438. Edirne Selimiye Library, 4702. Facsimile of the nineteenth-century printed edition, published by Abdülkadir Özcan as the second volume of Şâkaik-i Nu’mâniye ve Zeyilleri (Istanbul, 1989).

Introduction

This book explores the practices of biography writing and dream narratives in seventeenthcentury Istanbul. It focuses on the prominent biographer Nev’īzāde ‘Aṭā’ī (d. 1637) and with his help shows how seventeenth-century learned circles narrated dreams to present their views on debated issues of their period.1 If we could have accompanied a biographer like ‘Aṭā’ī on one of his sojourns in Istanbul, we would have listened to accounts of dreams shared among friends at garden parties, students in medrese rooms, family members at homes and Sufis in their lodges. The significance of dreams for Sufi orders and their acceptance among Islamic scholars must have contributed to this dream exchange. Not all dreams were trusted but those considered as divine messages were cherished and circulated in various genres, including first-person narratives, chronicles and poetry. Biographers participated in this milieu and included dreams in their works. They referred to dreams as mirrors that reflected the divine world that was hidden from ordinary eyes. By paying attention to the dreams that biographers chose to include in their works, we can begin to see what they thought were hidden aspects of life but needed to be revealed. Understanding how biographers such as ‘Aṭā’ī talked about lives through dreams is important as there is a growing scholarly interest in Ottoman life stories. A small number of scholars have been exploring early modern Ottoman intellectual pursuits through the lives of poets, scholars and Sufis of the empire.2 This biographical turn has resulted in a number of recent studies which discuss major transformations in Ottoman history focusing on individual lives. They examine, for instance, the legal history of sixteenth-century Ayntab through court cases of peasant women;3 warfare in the Indian Ocean through the policies of grand viziers and the actions of corsairs;4 and imperial building and art projects through the political struggles of the members of the ruling elite.5 With creative archival work, these studies have contributed greatly to our understanding of the relationship between individual life stories and larger political and social changes.6 We are yet to explore, however, what the Ottomans themselves chose to tell about their own lives and those of others as it is often through life stories that they revealed their intellectual world. This book aims to address this omission. Like their contemporaries in other parts of the world, Ottoman learned circles were keen on writing about themselves and recording their biographies in collected lives.7 Sufis, scholars and poets appeared, life by life, in biographical dictionaries, a genre of life-writing produced

in the Islamic world since the eighth century.8 Biographers, who were often members of learned circles themselves, brought together hundreds of subjects from their peers and predecessors in extensive collections. Following earlier Arabic and Persian works as their models, biographers presented information about the education, careers, works and characters of their subjects as well as colorful anecdotal stories.9 Supplement after supplement, they created an almost continuous tradition from the mid-sixteenth to the early twentieth century. In the development of the genre, the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries were a crucial period. This was a time of empire building during which a bureaucratic state apparatus was formulated and new political actors questioned established authorities.10 As the learned circles strove to advance their position in the hierarchic state structure, they sought ideal guides to promising paths. Biographers played an important role in this quest. In their biographies, they promoted what they perceived as exemplary lives and condemned others. Among them, ‘Aṭā’ī’s Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ fī Tekmiletü’ş-Şaḳā’iḳ (Gardens of Truths in the Completion of the Peonies) (c. 1634) is the most comprehensive collection of this period and offers fascinating portraits of controversial lives in the early seventeenth century. It consists of 1133 biographical entries of the sheikhs and ulema, the scholars and teachers of Islamic law (sing. ‘ālim), who died between the years 1558 to 1634. The surviving dated copies suggest that the Ḥadā’iḳ began to receive readers’ attention shortly after it was completed.11 ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporaries used and praised it often. According the bibliophile Katip Çelebi (d. 1657), for instance, ‘Aṭā’ī moved his pen with eloquence and skill. Katip Çelebi wrote, “nothing among the unique and subtle points was left out in his writing. Thus, a comprehensive history of the ulema and the sultans of their times in seven volumes appeared. Nothing of the same caliber was composed in the lands of Rūm.”12 ‘Aṭā’ī’s meticulous record of curriculum vitae, analyses of character traits and anecdotal stories about over one thousand lives is a remarkable achievement that offers an insider’s view of early modern Ottoman learned circles. In this book, I find it useful to approach biographical dictionaries as “ life-writing,” a term used to describe the recording of selves, memories and experiences, whether one’s own or another’s.13 As the Oxford life-writing group argues, “life-writing encompasses everything from the complete life to the day-in-the-life, from the fictional to the factional. It embraces the lives of objects and institutions as well as the lives of individuals, families and groups. Lifewriting includes autobiographies, memoirs, letters, diaries, journals (written and documentary), anthropological data, oral testimonies, and eye-witness accounts.”14 This comprehensive definition allows me to examine biographical dictionaries in dialogue with new research on Ottoman first-person writing.15 Studies have shown the diverse ways in which Ottomans talked about their lives in diaries, dictionaries, chronicles and miscellanea collections (mecmū‘a), but biographical dictionaries, a major genre of Ottoman literature, have rarely been studied as sources of life-writing. We are yet to explore what the biographers wanted to say and what the contemporaneous readers sought on the pages of their books.16 A major reason for this neglect is the difficulty of seeing how the biographers observed and commented on their world. It is difficult because it requires the suspension of our contemporaneous expectations from life-writing. Since factual information is what we usually prioritize today, in our readings of these books we often focus on the parts which we perceive

as factual aspects of a biography. The Ḥadā’iḳ has been especially prone to this kind of reading mainly for gathering data. With Abdülkadir Özcan’s publication of a facsimile edition and comprehensive index of the nineteenth-century printed copy, the Ḥadā’iḳ has become a major reference source for modern historians. Recently, a much needed edition and transliteration was prepared by Suat Donuk.17 We also have Adnan Karabeyoğlu’s unpublished dissertation on its style, Zahid Sıdkı Güvemli’s bibliography of manuscripts in Istanbul libraries and Nejat Yeter’s transliteration of the biographies of poets in the Ḥadā’iḳ.18 Apart from these valuable contributions, there has not been any scholarly interest in the Ḥadā’iḳ itself as a subject of intellectual history. Like many other biographical works, the Ḥadā’iḳ has been consulted almost only for the rich factual information it contains. In his study of seventeenth-century Ottoman history writing, Gabriel Piterberg has shown how Ottoman texts are not unstructured collections of facts but rather constitute an interpretive and judgmental narrative discourse. As an agenda for future studies, he proposes to approach the live record left to us by the Ottomans to find not only transparent informants but also engaging interlocutors.19 In this book, I follow Piterberg’s call and argue that a biographical work such as the Ḥadā’iḳ can offer us much more insight into the lives of Ottoman learned circles when we pay attention to what we tend to consider “non-factual” aspects.20 Rather than a source for data-mining, I examine ‘Aṭā’ī’s text as an exemplar of the biographical dictionary genre and explore its features. In such a perspective, instead of being neglected as non-factual material, topoi inserted narratives such as dreams, or other such formal features, become central to our understanding of the role of the Ottoman imaginary. Dream narratives are an important example. Because we conceptualize historical context mostly as the social relations of the here-and-now, we have almost exclusively studied thisworldly experiences mentioned in the Ḥadā’iḳ and neglected otherworldly encounters. However, when we neglect the accounts of experiences that transgress the limits of the material world such as dreams, we see only one facet of the recounted lives. ‘Aṭā’ī related these accounts to comment on the biographies and present a different vista. His Ḥadā’iḳ is a book of careers where appointments and social ties defined one’s hierarchical position among the learned elite. Yet, it is also a book where the dreamers woke up to another sight of their world, a fearsome and restless world where social networks and career paths were turned upside down. Recent studies on the early modern Habsburg and Safavid dreams are particularly helpful for understanding the function of dreams in Ottoman biographical works. Rather than discussing the authenticity of dreams, these studies focus on the function of the dream reports as a medium of communication. The reported dream in early modern Spain, as Ann Marie Plane and Leslie Tuttle argue, was an effective vehicle in placing political information in a tangible form accessible to an audience across a broad spectrum.21 As studied by Luís R. Corteguer, María V. Jordán and R. K. Britton, dreams became a means to say things about early modern Habsburg society that were not easy to share otherwise, and thus voiced powerful sociopolitical critiques.22 Similarly, for early modern Iran, Sholeh A. Quinn shows that dream reports provided a productive vehicle for Safavid historians to communicate new political ideas and discuss changing views on dynastic legitimization.23

A closer look at the dream accounts in the Ḥadā’iḳ allows us to see current debates as well. In this case, the primary topics of debate are contested career paths and social networks. Whereas the members of the learned circles followed different career paths simultaneously in the early sixteenth century, the bureaucratization of the mid-sixteenth century resulted in “the hardening of the artilleries” and made it more diffıcult to switch between different career paths.24 This development seems to have resulted in a close examination of career choices and the social networks that sustain them. Biographers partook in this milieu. They narrated dreams of deceased learned men to promote what they perceived as correct paths and ideal guides. “Words,” ‘Aṭā’ī wrote, “are the water of life that can revive the dead.”25 But which dead did he want to bring back? For whom, and why? These questions take us to the complex web of relations between the worlds of the living and the dead, which are bridged by the dreams.

Why call the dead? For ‘Aṭā’ī, deceased Ottoman learned men were hidden treasures in tombs, waiting to be brought out. In his introduction to the Ḥadā’iḳ, he wrote how his acquaintances had pointed out the life-giving characteristics of biography writing. They complained that whereas the learned men of the Persian and Arab lands had been revived through pleasant words in biographies, those of Ottoman lands were almost forgotten except for a few lines on their tombstones. As an Ottoman ‘ālim he agreed with them. At the time, he had already completed two prestigious literary tasks – a dīvān collection of poetry and a series of five mesnevīs, called a Ḫamse – and thus must have found himself ready to take the challenge.26 Although we do not know whether he had a specific patron in mind, he may have thought that such a collection would interest the chief mufti of the period who could reward him with a promotion. In 1632, he began his biographical project. He set out to save deceased Ottoman learned men from oblivion and bring them back to the world for his readers.27 In his study of early modern European exemplarity, Timothy Hampton discusses how the humanist historians saw the past as a reservoir of models for present action.28 Like their contemporaries in Europe, the early modern Ottoman literati also scrutinized past lives for examples to follow and cautionary tales to avoid. “The science of history,” writes ‘Aṭā’ī’s father, the scholar Nev‘ī (d. 1599), “shows the exemplary of the world and presents insight into humankind. By providing acquaintances with events of the times, it makes one experienced about matters and prudent about affairs of the people. There is no limit to its benefits.”29 Similarly, Taşköprizade (d. 1561), the author of the Arabic biographical dictionary alShaqā’iq al-Nu‘māniyyā (Crimson Peonies) describes “the object of history” as “the conditions of the individuals of the past, such as prophets, saints, scholars, sages, poets, kings, sultans and others.”30 For him, the usefulness is “to learn from those conditions, to seek advice from them and to form the habit of experience through acquaintance with the vicissitudes of time.”31 Mehmed Ḫakī (d. 1657), the seventeenth-century translator of Taşköprizade’s Shaqā’iq into Ottoman Turkish, presents the book also as a source of models for those who devote themselves to the cultivation of knowledge. 32 Seventeenth-century readers such as Katip Çelebi, Peçevi (d. 1650) and Kalender Pasha (d.

1616) seem to have agreed with these biographers’ suggestions. In a treatise on current debates, Katip Çelebi cites an example from the Shaqā’iq while advising students to devote themselves completely to their studies and not to seek careers in the state service.33 Like him, the historian Peçevi cites a biographical entry to present a cautionary tale. He writes how he consulted the biographical dictionary of Jāmī (d. 1492) to reflect on the consequences of an unjust execution. When he heard about the execution of the Nakşbendi sheikh Rūmī, a sheikh whom he personally knew and admired, he sought Jāmī’s work from his library and read the entry about Majdaddin al-Baghdadi (d. 1219) as an example of divine wrath brought about by such executions.34 The topos of praising the benefits of learning about model lives from the past could be also found in Kalender Pasha’s compilation of stories from the lives of the prophets.35 This interest in the past and such readings of history are, of course, not unique to the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Ottoman readers and writers. Yet, a number of scholars have noted how the intellectual circles from this period were especially interested in seeking models from the past. This was a period when a number of Ottoman authors perceived a decline in their society and sought solutions in the exemplary models from history. As discussed by Cemal Kafadar, when the slowdown of the Ottoman expansion was accompanied by changes in political organization of the state, late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century ruling circles felt a threat to their privileged positions. Perceiving their times as a departure from the Ottoman state’s achievements in sustaining a powerful central authority in the sixteenth century, they reflected longingly upon the administrative practices of previous generations and posited as exemplary models the previous sultans like Süleyman and his viziers.36 Meanwhile, other groups had different suggestions for whom to follow. The Shariaminded reformers known as Kadızadelis adopted the life of the Prophet as their model, and criticized beliefs and practices that they considered to be corrupt innovations (bid‘at), responsible for the troubles of their society.37 Different members of Ottoman society participated in these debates and circulated their views on whom to follow through various genres. In his study of seventeenth-century chronicles, Rhoads Murphey, for instance, has discussed how “it became the definitive role of the seventeenth-century historian, as intellectual, to use his powers of observation to provide a critique of social mores and to monitor the moral performance of those entrusted with positions of power and authority.”38 Dream narratives in biographical works, I argue, should also be considered in the context of this milieu. Early seventeenth century authors seem to have developed a new kind of interest in dream narratives and used them as rhetorical tools to comment on their contemporaneous situation. In a recent study, Ahmet Tunç Şen has shown how a dream report provided its author, the prominent poet and judge Veysī (d. 1628) with a creative medium to partake in seventeenthcentury debates. Veysī narrated a dream to argue that the political troubles of his times were not unique to this period but could be observed throughout history. In this dream, Veysī found himself listening to a conversation between Alexander Dhu’l-Qarnayn and Sultan Ahmed (r.1603-1617). He reported how Alexander gave the sultan many examples from history concerning other hard times. Thus, the dream report allowed a seventeenth-century author to connect with an exemplary figure from the past and discuss his position on the perceived

contemporary problems. Like his colleague Veysī, ‘Aṭā’ī narrated dreams to connect with past lives and promote his views on the right guides to follow in early seventeenth-century Istanbul. The question then is: where does ‘Aṭā’ī take us when we enter his book of deceased learned men and follow him through dreams between this world and the hereafter?

The dreamscape of Ottoman biographers In this book, I examine the dreams in the Ḥadā’iḳ as a medium of debate on career choices and the social networks which sustained them. Before discussing which dreams ‘Aṭā’ī chose to include in his work and how he narrated them to address contemporaneous audience interests, I would like to briefly discuss the significance of dreams for ‘Aṭā’ī. Our contemporaneous understanding of dreams would have probably surprised seventeenth-century dreamers and biographers like him. Whereas many of us may not consider dreams as a trustworthy way of acquiring knowledge, recent research has shown how early modern Ottoman writers often present dreams as an important cognitive tool in which divine knowledge, otherwise impenetrable to the human intellect and sense perceptions, is unveiled.39 Like many of his contemporaries, ‘Aṭā’ī also followed the renowned mystic Ibn ‘Arabī’s (d. 1240) views on dreams.40 For him, sleep is the envy of the awakened; its light opens the eye of the heart, brings hidden beauties and catches true points. These divine lights remove the veil of darkness and reveal the pure mirror of revelation. Such dreams were considered as divine messages, shared with others and recorded in writing.41 Our knowledge of Ottoman ways of remembering, recording and circulating dreams is limited. Yet we do know that Sufi sheikhs played an important role in these dream cultures. Like many other practitioners of Sufism throughout history, Ottoman sheikhs, especially those from the Halveti and Bayrami orders, used dreams in the training of their disciples. The Halveti sheikh Sinan Efendi (d. 1529), for instance, wanted disciples to tell their sheikh all their dreams. The sheikhs listened to the dreams of their disciples to monitor spiritual states, and the disciples paid close attention to their messages. The initiation story of İbrahim Tennūrī (d. 1482) demonstrates the significance of dreams for the disciple–sheikh relationship. It is also an interesting example of the special spiritual practices used to induce and remember dreams. According to his biographer, when İbrahim Tennūrī wanted to become a disciple of the Bayrami sheikh Akşemseddin (d. 1459), the sheikh asked him about his dreams. As he could not remember any, he was placed in a retreat for forty days. The retreat worked: he had a hundred dreams and remembered each with great precision.42 Since Sufism was well spread among Ottoman society, many men and women must have engaged in similar practices. We even have written records of some of their experiences such as the dream diaries of a sultan and woman mystic who sent their dreams to Halveti sheikhs. 43 Ottoman biographers participated in this dreamscape by contributing to the circulation of selected dreams. Although they did not include dreams frequently in their works, they narrated them to explain significant junctures in the lives of their subjects. Biographers, as Isabel Moreira has shown in the case of medieval European hagiographers, did not relate dreams randomly but selected them according to the specific areas of audience interest.44 Ottoman

biographers were also selective. Many different kinds of dreams must have been shared among their circles. While the seventeenth-century mystic Asiye Hatun, for instance, recorded her dreams about how she struggled with worldly desires, the traveler Evliya Çelebi (d. after 1683) narrated dreams shared among his patron and his wife which foretold her death from childbirth.45 Ottoman biographers, however, were mostly interested in dreams about careers and social networks. Should one be a Sufi sheikh, a kadi, a musician? Whose guidance should one follow? They answered these questions by narrating dreams. Like the writers of early modern German self-narratives studied by Gabriele Jancke, early modern Ottoman biographers were mainly concerned with professional lives and wanted to share dreams almost only about careers.46 It is perhaps not surprising to find dreams about careers in a book like the Ḥadā’iḳ. This was an era of empire-building during which a bureaucratic state-apparatus was formulated and Ottoman learned circles were integrated into the central state-apparatus. The biographers, their subjects and readers, as much as we can infer from rare ownership records and marginalia in manuscripts, partook in this project. Like ‘Aṭā’ī, a provincial kadi, they received positions from Istanbul, many of them navigated in a centrally regulated and competitive system of appointments. In their rank-conscious world, career concerns seem to have played an important role. Biographers responded to this concern. They presented detailed records of appointments and networks – and also career dreams – carefully in their works. The social relationships that sustained these career paths were also important for the biographers. Although often overlooked in the rich scholarship on the history of dreams, a significant function of dreams is to establish, or to enrich, social ties.47 We see this function in the dream accounts of Ottoman biographers. Many of them narrated the circulation of the dreams as carefully and in as much detail as the dream itself. In these narratives, through the figure of the dream interpreter, biographers highlighted the authority of particular individuals and their role in the professional lives of their subjects. Significantly, biographers were selective in the kinds of bonds they wanted to present. They did not record just any relationship but chose to highlight the social ties. For instance, Taşköprizade, who wrote a biographical dictionary about Sufi sheikhs and the ulema, narrated almost only the career dreams of the ulema interpreted by the Sufi sheikhs, showing how these two groups were related. Other biographers had different authority figures to promote as ideal guides in their projects. Whereas in his biographical collection of the Sufi sheikhs, Ḥulvī (d. 1654) focused on the ways dreams bind disciples with their sheikhs, and ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi (d. 1571), in his biographical dictionary of poets, narrated almost exclusively the dreams shared among poet friends.48 But why narrate dreams about careers and social networks? Ottoman biographers, I will argue, used dream narratives as a medium of debate to present their position and criticize others. For instance, the bureaucrat Laṭīfī (d. 1582) narrated how a judge withdrew from his career after a dream of Judgment Day. In the dream, the judge saw water mills crushing the heads of corrupt judges running on the blood of their victims. Ulema biographers like Taşköprizade and ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, however, reported the sanction of their judgeship by the Prophet and its rewards in afterlife in their dreams.49 Thus, biographers like Laṭīfī, Taşköprizade and ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi narrated dreams to confirm the higher status of the paths they

endorsed and to voice their criticism of those they objected. Thus, they partook in a long tradition of narrating dreams for praise and polemic in Islamic life-writing. Medieval Arab and Persian biographers, whose works Ottoman biographers took as models, presented dreams to confirm the special status and authority of individual Sufis and jurists as well as to authenticate spiritual genealogies, mystical orders and legal schools.50 While the Ottoman biographers participated in this tradition, they focused on the career choices of their subjects. When we look at their dream realm, we see the significance of bonds in a fragile world where they ask, “Where am I?” and “Who will help me here?” Here, my readers may question whether these dreams were actually dreamt or whether they were literary fabrications. These questions require the much-needed examination of the ways Ottoman authors represented reality and claimed the veracity of oneiric experiences, which are beyond the scope of this project. I would like to note, however, that Ottoman biographers rarely raised questions about the veracity of the dream accounts.51 When a biographer did not agree with a dream account, he either omitted the incident or suggested a competing narrative. This is not to say that biographers like ‘Aṭā’ī believed in all dreams indiscriminately. They, as many other men and women of the past, were anxious to identify the “true” dreams which carried divine messages, and set them apart from “confused” dreams caused by bodily humors, and more importantly, from dreams sent by the devil to lead the dreamer astray. One way to separate a “true” dream from a demonically-inspired dream or a vain imagining was the clarity and directness of its message. Significantly, almost all the dreams ‘Aṭā’ī narrated have clear messages and the majority are “literal dreams” that deliver their message promptly. Thus, rather than authenticating the experience as an actual dream, the Ottoman biographers seem to have been more concerned with sharing its message with their readers. Rather than discussing the authenticity of dreams, recent studies on early modern dreams, as discussed above, have focused on the function of the dream reports as a medium of communication. Following their example, in this book I do not discuss whether these accounts were fabricated or not, but focus instead on what the biographers wanted to share with their readers about past lives by narrating them. Gotfried Hagen has argued that the melding of the past, present and future in the dream time allowed the dreamer to meditate on their lives and understand it as part of a divinely ordered and meaningful history.52 In her study of modern Egyptian dreams, the anthropologist Amira Mittermaier has also examined the interconnectedness of the dreams and shown how they provided the dreamers with a medium to connect with saints, the Prophet as well as sheikhs, family and friends. I also see Ottoman dreams as bridges between different realms.53 Dreams, I argue, united the living and the dead, the past and the future, the human and the divine in seventeenth-century Istanbul. Through the complex web of relations between this world and the hereafter, the biographers displayed to their readers what was hidden and what needed to be revealed.

Scope and outline This book aims to contribute to new studies in Ottoman and Middle Eastern history by bringing together three emerging fields, which have often been treated in isolation from each other. First, it contributes to the small but growing field of the history of Ottoman dreams. Studies by

Cemal Kafadar, Özgen Felek, Gotfried Hagen and Dror Ze’evi have shown the significance of dreams for Ottoman lives, the variety of genres in which they were recorded, and how they can be studied to explore Ottoman lives.54 But we have yet to comprehend why dreams were narrated to explain significant junctures in life stories. I engage in a dialogue with the studies on dreams in early modern life-writing and discuss the ways biographers narrated dreams to promote their views on contested career choices of their times. By cross-referencing this study of Ottoman life-writing and dreams with recent scholarship on Habsburg, Safavid, Mughal and Ming dreams, I hope to inscribe Ottoman dreams into the history of the early modern world. Comparative studies in economic and political life of the early modern world have shown the shared rhythms between contemporaneous dynasties and there is now a strong interest in comparative approaches to cultural lives of the period. Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul aims to address this interest and explores the parallels among early modern dreamscapes. Second, Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul contributes to recent studies on the ways Ottomans observed and commented upon their lives. Pioneering historians have examined the narrative strategies of Ottoman historians to better understand early modern Ottoman views on state and society.55 Piterberg, for instance, has shown how seventeenth-century bureaucrathistorians engaged in a vigorous debate on controversial political events in their chronicles.56 More recently, Dana Sajdi has explored how people outside of the ruling elite also partook in this tradition and shared their opinions by composing chronicles.57 Inspired by these historians, I aim to widen the scope of current scholarship by suggesting Ottoman life-writing as a rich source to explore early modern Ottomans’ ways of looking at their world. Whereas previous scholarship has mostly concentrated on the scribes and their this-worldly experiences based on chronicles, my book focuses on connection between this- and otherworldly experiences through life-writing and proposes to examine not just scribes but also other members of Ottoman learned circles. Although some scholars have examined the institutional structure of the Ottoman learned establishment, few have explored what the learned circles wanted to tell about their lives, and therefore found significant about their world, systematically and in depth.58 For this inquiry, I build on the scholarship of Arabic and Persian life-writing, which has explored how different interest groups voiced their competing claims to authority by writing biographies.59 We can also identify competing representations of Ottoman lives in biography writing. Recent studies by Ali Anooshar and Guy Burak as well as earlier contributions by Walter Andrews, Hans Georg Majer, Necai Gamm and Barbara Flemming have also shown how an Ottoman biographer would choose certain stories to tell for a purpose, and these choices reveal the views, positions, agendas and interests of its author.60 In dialogue with this scholarship, I explore how Ottoman biographers narrated dreams to voice the anxieties of the careerconscious ruling elite, and how they presented their search for guides in a medium of debate. Through this research, Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul aims to further our knowledge of the formation of communities of Sufis, scholars and poets in early modern Istanbul. In her pioneering study on the function of Ottoman hagiographybwriting, Zeynep Yürekli has shown how Bektaşi hagiographers narrated saints’ lives to link diverse social

groups and establish communal solidarity in Anatolia and Balkans at a time of persecution.61 Her work presents how much we can learn from hagiography writing about community building. My book contributes to this line of research. By mostly focusing on inter-personal relations, I examine institutions and spaces that sustained learned communities. I discuss the ways learned circles sought to establish solidarity among diverse groups of Sufis and scholars in a fragile political landscape. Biographers, I argue, struggled to bring their learned communities together by establishing bonds between the living and the dead. Finally, this book aims to contribute to the writing of Islamic history through the lens of Sufi lives. My examination of a seventeenth-century judge’s view of Sufi sheikhs is one of the first book-length studies of the relationship of Sufi sheikhs and the ulema in the early modern Middle East, a crucial relationship, which has been often pointed out but rarely examined in depth. Although Sufism’s broad reach to great numbers and its prominent place in the literary and intellectual production are well known in our field, studies about the roles of Sufi sheikhs in Ottoman society are still rare. Innovative research projects have analyzed the social construction of sainthood covering a wide region from Morocco to South Asia.62 In Ottoman studies, scholars such as Ahmet Karamustafa, John Curry, Derin Terzioğlu, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak and Deniz Çalış Kural have contributed to this new avenue of research and explored the practices and teachings of Ottoman practitioners of Sufism.63 Others, such as Alberto Fabio Ambrose, Nathalie Clayer, Dina Legall, Reşat Öngören and Necdet Yılmaz, have provided us with in-depth surveys of selected orders and their changing relationship with the ruling elite.64 Since they have focused mostly on the self-representation of Sufi communities, we have yet to explore how different communities within Ottoman society perceived Sufi sheikhs, especially during periods such as the early seventeenth century, when Sufi beliefs and practices were highly criticized. My book aims to bridge this gap by discussing the role of dreams in establishing bonds between Sufis and the ulema when competing paths were under careful scrutiny. *** To explore what ‘Aṭā’ī wanted to share with his readers by narrating dreams of the Sufis and the ulema, I examine the language of dreams in biographical writing and thereby introduce my readers to this biographer’s milieu where dreams changed lives, the dead appeared in broad daylight and biographers invited their readers to the gardens of remembrance. Chapter One provides the first in-depth analyses of a seventeenth-century Ottoman writer’s ways of speaking about his literary pursuits through dreams. I focus on three individuals: ‘Aṭā’ī’s father Nev‘ī, his friend Fā’iẓi (d. 1621) and the sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede (d. 1590) whose support he singled out in his introductions to his narrative poetry (mesnevīs). Rather than ignoring introductory passages for being common topoi, as is often done, I take these three relationships as starting points to discuss the ways ‘Aṭā’ī claimed his ties to early seventeenthcentury literary networks. ‘Aṭā’ī explained his reasons for composition when he narrated his conversations with the dead in his dreams. Thus, the chapter revolves around his otherworldly experiences and explores how he situated himself as a writer between this world and the hereafter by narrating his own dreams to other ulema poets of his time.

In this novel examination of the closely linked web of fathers, friends and Sufi sheikhs and its role in the production of early modern Ottoman literature, I argue that the reminiscences ‘Aṭā’ī chose in writing about these three men are not random stories, but a carefully constructed attempt to promote himself among the ulema elite. I identify the literary group to which ‘Aṭā’ī belonged, and re-construct his social network from a paper trail of letters, odes, chronograms and invective poetry. My examination of this rich and often neglected material shows how ‘Aṭā’ī claimed a place for himself as the “poet-son-of-a-poet” and searched for support from his father’s circles for whom Fā’iẓi and ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede were also important. This was a difficult quest in a world where death, dismissal and even executions often shattered social networks. ‘Aṭā’ī, however, was keen to preserve and perpetuate these delicate ties and called attention to the importance of bonds beyond death. He highlighted the role of the deceased Ottoman learned men in his literary pursuits through accounts of his dreams and presented himself as a custodian of their memory in a fragile world. After introducing the biographer in the first chapter, Chapter Two turns to the biographical work. My first aim here is to understand the meaning of early seventeenth-century Ottoman biographical dictionaries for their authors. Prompted by ‘Aṭā’ī’s decision to call his book a “garden” (the Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’ḳ translates as Gardens of Truths), I scrutinize the frequent use of garden imagery throughout the work. In this first detailed discussion of early modern Ottoman views on biography writing, I examine how ‘Aṭā’ī presented his subjects literally as plants who depended on their gardener to live. Focusing on the Ḥadā’iḳ’s formal aspects, I argue that ‘Aṭā’ī described the dynastic, hierarchic and exclusive garden of the learned elite. I develop this analysis by using a broad variety of narrative poetry (mesnevī), Sufi treatises and advice literature manuscripts to better understand the Ḥadā’iḳ and its cultural context. Even a quick glance at the Ḥadā’iḳ reveals that this book is not a realm of equals: length and embellished style separate the high-ranking officials from their lower-ranking peers. Here I show how language plays a crucial role in delineating one’s place in the rank-conscious world of the Ottoman ruling elite and cannot be ignored as “empty rhetoric,” as is often done in Ottoman studies. I also discuss ‘Aṭā’ī’s selection criteria and argue that contrary to the common assumption in the field, the Ḥadā’iḳ is not a comprehensive and objective account of Ottoman learned men, but an Istanbul-centered collection. I examine the ways he brought together ulema and sheikhs from various different learned communities and how he presented them as members of the imperial social order. The last section of this chapter focuses on one biographical entry as an example and discusses how ‘Aṭā’ī used the common metaphors of kingship as a garden in Islamic traditions and wrote how he eliminated the weeds and highlighted unique plants of this exclusive imperial garden in response to its critics among the early seventeenth-century ruling elite. While ‘Aṭā’ī presented his subjects as within the Ottoman imperial project and following its codes of decorum, he also revealed anxieties about position in this rank-conscious world. Chapter Three shows the ways in which ‘Aṭā’ī’s dream stories turn the orderly imperial garden of the Ḥadā’iḳ upside down. Dreamers in the Ḥadā’iḳ are discontented ulema who anxiously question where they stand and whether they can reach salvation. A close reading of selected dreams reveals how ‘Aṭā’ī narrated his colleagues’ decisions to leave their careers at a time when concerned members of learned circles, including the ulema themselves, watched

over what they perceived as corrupt and oppressive judges. This chapter begins with a survey of the Ottoman dreamscape. It shows how Ottoman biographers were selective in the dreams they included in their works and how they were almost exclusively interested in dreams about career choices. Should one become a judge or should one leave one’s career for Sufism? Here we step into contested terrain because biographers had varied answers and narrated dreams to support their particular views. In this chapter, I delineate ‘Aṭā’ī’s position in this debate and compare his narratives with those in other biographical works and dream diaries. I discuss how ‘Aṭā’ī narrated dreams to criticize the hierarchical and career-conscious world of the seventeenth-century Ottoman learned circles, which he carefully presented through the arrangement, style and selection of his book. The fourth and the last chapter turns to another debated issue of the period: the place of the dead in the world of the living in early seventeenth-century Istanbul. While the Salafi-minded preacher Kadızade (d. 1635) vehemently opposed those seeking assistance from the dead, Halveti sheikhs such as Sivasi (d. 1639) encouraged visits to graves by pointing to the help the dead offered. Biographers played important roles in these debates. They narrated stories of dreams and visions to advocate their views about the proper relationship between the living and the dead. This chapter examines how ‘Aṭā’ī, the biographer who devoted himself to recording the lives of a thousand deceased men, situated himself among these debates. In this first exploration of Ottoman apparitions and dreams of the dead, I focus on three deceased visitors in the Ḥadā’iḳ stories: a sea captain who visited his friend at his house; a deceased beloved who appeared to his lover; and the Sufi sheikh Celaleddin Rūmī (d. 1273), who greeted a Bayrami sheikh at his lodge. I find the ontological approach suggested by anthropologists working on ghost beliefs particularly helpful in understanding these meetings, and study the Ottoman deceased visitors as beings with desires, demands and biographies. After a brief discussion of seventeenth-century debates on the relationship between the dead and the living, I examine what the dead looked like, who appeared to whom, and why they arrived according to ‘Aṭā’ī. Significantly, ‘Aṭā’ī did not narrate how the dead visited the living to deliver didactic messages or affirm their status, as often seen in earlier Islamic sources. Instead, he emphasized how death did not sever the ties of friendship and love. In his stories, the deceased knock on doors, wait at gates, embrace upon meeting and present gifts to friends and beloveds. Their meetings show the significance of the relationship between the dead and the living for ‘Aṭā’ī and the ways he wanted to emphasize the tangibility of their bonds of affection. Thus, by studying these relationships, this chapter also explores the little known history of friendship and love in the world of the seventeenth-century Ottomans.

Notes Nev’īzāde ‘Aṭā’ī, Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ fī Tekmiletü’ş-Şaḳā’iḳ, the facsimile of the nineteenth-century printed edition with an index published by Abdülkadir Özcan as the second volume of Şâkaik-i Nu’mâniye ve Zeyilleri (Istanbul, 1989). This is the edition which will be used for references unless otherwise noted. Please see the “Note on Transliteration and Manuscripts” for more information on this edition and manuscript variations. For an overview of the biographical approaches to Ottoman studies and a stimulating discussion of the historiography, see Derin Terzioğlu, ‘Tarihi İnsanlı Yazmak: Bir Tarih Anlatı Türü Olarak Biyografi ve Osmanlı Tarih Yazıcılığı’, Cogito, 29 (2001): 284– 296; Cemal Kafadar, Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken, Dört Osmanlı: Yeniçeri, Tüccar, Derviş ve Hatun (Istanbul, 2009), pp. 13–29.

Leslie Peirce, Morality Tales, Law and Gender in the Ottoman Court of Aintab (London, 2003). Giancarlo Casale, The Ottoman Age of Exploration (Oxford and New York, 2010) Gülru Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire (London: 2007); Emine Fetvacı, Picturing History at the Ottoman Court (Indiana, 2013). See also the contributions to the recent volume, Virginia H. Aksan and Veysel Şimşek (eds), Living Empire: Ottoman Identities in Transition, published as a special issue in Osmanlı Araştırmaları/Journal of Ottoman Studies, 44 (2014). See for instance the encyclopedia entry by Craig Howes where he briefly discusses how biographical collections became increasingly prominent in Europe from the sixteenth century onwards. Craig Howes, ‘Collected Lives,’ in Margaretta Jolly (ed.), Encyclopedia of Life Writing, Autobiographical and Biographical Forms (London and Chicago, 2001), vol. 1, pp. 223–25. See also the entry on China in the same volume, Pei-Li Wu ‘China, to the 19th century’, pp. 206–8. Chase Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge, 2003), 55–83. See also Michael Cooperson, Classical Arabic Biography: The Heirs of the Prophet in the Age of Ma’mun (Cambridge, 2000); Louise Marlow (ed.), The Rhetoric of Biography, Narrating Lives in Persianate Societies, (Cambridge and London, 2011); and Jawid Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism (Richmond, 2001). Mustafa Uzun, ‘Tezkire (Türk Edebiyatı)’, TDV İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 41, pp. 69–73; Halûk İpekten, Türk Edebiyatının Kaynaklarından Türkçe Şu’ara Tezkireleri (Erzurum, 1988); James Stewart-Robinson, The Ottoman Biographies of Poets, PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1959 and his ‘The Tezkere Genre in Islam’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 23 (1964): 57–65. Baki Tezcan, The Second Ottoman Empire: The Political and Social Transformation in the Early Modern Ottoman World (New York, 2010). Four among the 33 dated copies of Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts date from the period between 1642-1679, whereas only one dates from the period immediately after the completion of the Ḥadā’iḳ. Among them, we have an autograph copy of the Ḥadā’iḳ (the first four chapters) in the Süleymaniye Library Esad Efendi collection. For the detailed description of the 52 surviving manuscript copies, see Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî- Hadâ’îku’l-Hakâ’ik fî Tekmileti’ş-Şakâ’ik (İnceleme-Metin), PhD Thesis, Celal Bayar Üniversitesi, 2015, pp. 153–85. Katip Çelebi, Kashf al-ẓunūn ‘an asāmī al-kutub wa-al-funūn, (Cairo, 1858), vol. 1, p. 501: Fa-mā shadhdha min qalamihi nādira min al-nawādir wā lā nukta min al-nukat. Fa-ṣāra tārīkhan kāmilan fī ‘aḥwāl al-‘ulamā’ wa salāṭīn zamānihim fī sab ‘mujalladāt. Lam yu’allaf mithluhu fī al-Rūm. For theoretical discussions of the term and its uses in the scholarship, see Marlene Kadar, ‘Coming to Terms: Life Writing from Genre to Practice’, in Marlene Kadar (ed.), Essays on Life Writing: From Genre to Critical Practice (Toronto, 1992), pp. 3– 21. ‘What is Life-Writing’, Oxford Centre for Life-Writing, https://oxlifewriting.wordpress.com/about/what-is-life-writing/ (accessed online 13 July 2015). Cemal Kafadar, ‘Self and Others: The Diary of a Dervish in Seventeenth Century Istanbul and First-Person Narratives in Ottoman Literature’, Studia Islamica, 69 (1989): 121–151; Selim Karahasanoğlu, Kadı ve Günlüğü, Sadreddinzâde Telhisî Mustafa Efendi Günlüğü (1711–1735) Üstüne bir İnceleme, (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası, 2013); Derin Terzioğlu, ‘Man in the Image of God in the Image of Times: Sufi Self-Narratives and the Niyāzī-ı Mıṣrī (1618–94)’, Studia Islamica, 94 (2002): 139–165. See also the articles by Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, Nelly Hanna and Astrid Meier in François-Joseph Ruggui (ed.), The Uses of First Person Writings Africa, America, Asia, Europe (Brussels, 2013) and the articles by Hatice Aynur, Denise Klein and Jan Schmidt in Ralph Elger and Yavuz Köse (eds), Many Ways of Speaking about the Self: Middle Eastern (Oriental) Ego-Documents in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish: 14th – 20th Century (Wiesbaden, 2010). For a pioneering example, see Hatice Aynur, ‘Autobiographical Elements in Aşık Çelebi’s Dictionary of Poets’, in Elger and Köse (eds), Many Ways of Speaking about the Self, pp. 17–26. Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî- Hadâ’îku’l-Hakâ’ik fî Tekmileti’ş-Şakâ’ik (İnceleme-Metin). Karabeyoğlu, Adnan B., Nevī-zāde ‘Aṭā’ī’nin Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ fī Tekmileti’l- Şaḳā’īḳ İsimli Eserinde Geçen Yabancı Kelime Grupları ve Yapılarına göre Türkçe Cümle İlişkileri, PhD thesis, Istanbul University, 1997; Zahir Sıdkı Güvemli, ‘İstanbul Kütüphanelerinde Hadaikü’l-Hakaik Nüshaları’, Yeni Türk Dergisi, 66 (1938): 214–20 and 75–76 (1939): 125–29; Nejat Yeter, Şaka’iku’n-Numaniye ve Zeylindeki Şairlerin Biyografileri, İnceleme, Metin, İndeks, MA thesis, Gazi University, 1991. Gabriel Piterberg, An Ottoman Tragedy: History and Historiography at Play (Berkeley, 2003), p. 48. See for instance, Thomas F. Mayer and D.R. Woolf (eds), The Rhetorics of Life-writing in Early Modern Europe: Forms of Biography from Cassandra Fedele to Louis XIV (Ann Arbor, 1998) and Marjorie Dryburgh and Sarah Dauncey, Writing Lives in China, 1600–2010, Histories of the Elusive Self (New York: 2013). Ann Marie Plane and Leslie Tuttle, ‘Introduction: The Literatures of Dreaming’, in Ann Marie Plane and Leslie Tuttle (eds), Dreams, Dreamers, and Visions: The Early Modern Atlantic World (Philadelphia, 2013), p. 19. Luís R. Corteguer, ‘The Peasant Who Went to Hell: Dreams and Visions in Early Modern Spain’, in Dreams, Dreamers, and Visions, pp. 88–104; María V. Jordán, ‘Competition and Confirmation in the Iberian Prophetic Community: The 1589 Invasion of Portugal in the Dreams of Lucrecia de León’, in Dreams, Dreamers, and Visions, pp. 72–88. See also the introduction of the

same volume by Plane and Tuttle, pp. 1–33; Francisco de Quevedo, Dreams and Discourses, Sueños y discursos, trans. R. K. Britton (Warminster, 1989), pp. 1–37. Sholeh A. Quinn, Historical Writing During the Reign of Shah ‘Abbas: Ideology, Imitation and Legitimacy in Safavid Chronicles (Salt Lake City, 2000), pp. 133–136; Sholeh A. Quinn, ‘The Dreams of Shaykh Ṣafī al-Dīn in Late Safavid Chronicles’, in Louise Marlow (ed.), Dreaming Across Boundaries, pp. 221–35; Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs: Cultural Landscape of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge MA and London, 2002), pp. 308–24. Cornell Fleicher, ‘Preliminaries to the Study of the Ottoman Bureaucracy’, Journal of Turkish Studies, 10-12 (1986-88): 130– 145. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 3. For ‘Aṭā’ī’s life and literary pursuits, see Kortantamer, Tunca, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si (İzmir: Ege Üniversitesi Yayınları, 1997) and Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 91–110. There are 34 complete and 19 incomplete copies of the Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts recorded in our library catalogues today. For a detailed description of these manuscripts and their relationships, see Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 154–186. Timothy Hampton, Writing from History: The Rhetoric of Exemplarity in Renaissance Literature (Ithaca and London, 1990), pp. 8–9. Nev‘ī, Netāicü’l-Fünūn, published as İlimlerin Özü: Netâyic el-Fünûn, ed. Ömer Tolgay (Istanbul, 1995), p. 85: İlm-i târîh ibret-nümâ-yı âlem ve bâsiret-efzâ-yı benî Âdemidir. Kişi(y)i vekâyi‘-i dühûra vukûf ile mücerrib-i umûr ve müdebbir-i mesâlih-i cumhûr ider. Menâfiuhû hadd yokdur. Franz Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1968), p. 531. Ibid. Mehmed Hāḳī, Tercüme-i Şakāikü’n-Nu‘māniye, TSMK, H. 1263, y. 257b, cited by Tülün Değirmenci in ‘Osmanlı Sarayının Geçmişe Özlemi: Tercüme-i Şakâ’ikû’n-nu‘māniye’, Bilig, 46 (2008): 115–116. Katib Çelebi, Mīzānü’l-Ḥaḳḳ, translated as The Balance of Truth, trans. Geoffrey Lewis (London: 1957), p.151. Peçevi İbrahim Efendi, Tārīḫ-i Peçevī, eds. Fahri Ç. Derin and Vahit Çubuk (Istanbul, 1980), pp. 463–64. Serpil Bağci, ‘Presenting Vaṣṣāl Kalender’s Works: The Prefaces of Three Ottoman Albums’, Muqarnas 30 (1): 255–313. Cemal Kafadar, ‘The Question of Ottoman Decline’, Harvard Middle Eastern and Islamic Review, 4 (1997–98): 30–75; Cemal Kafadar, ‘The Myth of the Golden Age: Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the Post-Süleymanic Era’, in Halil İnalcık and Cemal Kafadar (eds), Süleyman the Second and His Time (Istanbul: 1993); Cornell H. Fleisher, ‘From Şehzâde Korkud to Mustafa Âli: Cultural Origins of the Ottoman Nasihatnâme’, in Heath W. Lowry and Ralph S. Hattox (eds), 3rd Congress on the Social and Political History of Turkey (Istanbul, 1990), pp. 67–77; Douglas Howard, ‘Ottoman Historiography and the Literature of “Decline” of Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries’, Journal of Asian History, 33 (1988): 52–77; Pal Fodor, ‘State and Society, Crises and Reform in 15th–17th Century Ottoman Mirror for Princes’, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaria, XL/2–3 (1986): 217–240. Semiramis Çavuşoğlu, The Kadızadeli Movement: An Attempt of Seriat-Minded Reform in the Ottoman Empire, PhD thesis, Princeton University, 1990; Derin Terzioğlu, Sufi and Dissident in the Ottoman Empire: Niyāzī-ı Mıṣrī (1618–1694), PhD thesis, Harvard University, 1999, pp. 190–220; Madeline C. Zilfi, Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the Post-Classical Age (Minneapolis, 1988). Rhoads Murphey, ‘Ottoman Historical Writing in the Seventeenth-Century: A Survey of the General Development of the Genre after the Reign of Sultan Ahmed I (1603– 1617)’, in Essays on Ottoman Historians and Historiography (Istanbul, 2009), p. 94. See the collected articles in Özgen Felek and Alexander D. Kynsh (eds), Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies (Albany, 2012) and Louise Marlow (ed.), Dreaming Across Boundaries: The Interpretation of Dreams in Islamic Lands (Boston, Washington D.C. and London, 2008). For a seventeenth-century discussion on types of dreams and their veracity, see Vecdī, Haḳīḳat-i Rü’yā, ms. Topkapı Palace Library, M. Reşat 1062, fols 24b–28b; Leah Kinberg, ‘Literal Dreams and Prophetic Hadiths’, Der Islam, 70 (1973): 179–300. Heft-Hvān, published as Nev’i-zâde ‘Atâyî, Heft-Hvân Mesnevisi: İnceleme-Metin, Turgut Karacan (ed.) (Ankara, 1974), p. 150: Hvāb ammā ki reşk-i bīdārī / Dīde-i cānı açdı envārı, Cive-gāh-ı ‘arāyis-i ġaybī / Naḳş-bend-i nikāt-ı lā-reybī.. Rūḥ-baḫş-ı ‘adem müşa‘bid-i cūd / Levḥ-i mir’āt-ı ṣāf-ı keşf-i şühūd… Cān gözün açdı nūr-ı Rabbānī / Gitdi cümle ḥicāb-ı ẓulmānī. Enīsī, Emir Hüseyin, Menāḳıb-ı Aḳşemseddīn, published as Manâḳib-i Aḳşemse’d-dîn by Ali İhsan Yurd and Mustafa Kaçalin in Akşemseddin Hayatı ve Eserleri (Istanbul: Marmara Üniversitesi İlahiyat Fakültesi Vakfı, 1994), p. 143. For the practice of retreat, see Hamid Algar, ‘Čella’, Encyclopeadia Iranica, vol. 5, pp. 123–125; available online at www.iranicaonline.org/articles/cella-term-referring-to-any-forty-day-period (accessed online 13 July 2015). Özgen Felek, ‘(Re)creating Image and Identity: Dreams and Visions as a Means of Murad III’s Self-Fashioning’, in Felek and Kynsh (eds), Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, pp. 249–273; Cemal Kafadar, ‘Mütereddit Bir Mutasavvıf: Üsküplü Asiye Hatun’un Rüya Defteri: 1641–1643’ in Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken, pp. 123–191. Isabel Moreira, Dreams, Visions, and Spiritual Authority in Merovingian Gaul (Ithaca, 2000).

See Cemal Kafadar, ‘Mütereddit Bir Mutasavvıf’ and Nuran Tezcan, ‘Seyahatname’deki Aşk Öyküsü: Bir Kaya Sultan Vardı!’, Kebikec, 21 (2006): 13–27. Gabriele Jancke, ‘Autobiography as Social Practice in Early Modern German Speaking Areas: Historical, Methodological and Theoretical Perspectives’, in Olcay Akyıldız, Halim Kara and Sagaster Börte (eds), Autobiographical Themes in Turkish Literature: Theoretical and Comparative Perspectives (Würzburg, 2007), pp. 65–80. See for instance Jonathan G. Katz, ‘Dreams in the Manāqıb of a Moroccan Sufi Shaykh: ‘Abd al-‘Azīz al-Dabbāgh (d. 1719)’, in Louise Marlow (ed.), Dreaming Across Boundaries, The Interpretation of Dreams in Islamic Lands (Boston and Washington D.C., 2008), pp. 270–85; Shahzad Bashir, ‘Narrating Sight: Dreaming as Visual Training in Persinate Sufi Hagiography’ in Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, pp. 233–249. Aslı Niyazioğlu, ‘Secrets of the Ottoman Lives? Ottoman Turkish Biographical Dictionaries and Dream Narratives’, in FrançoisJoseph Ruggiu (ed.), The Uses of First Person Writings (Brussels, 2013), pp. 196–197. Aslı Niyazioğlu, ‘On Altıncı Yüzyıl Sonunda Osmanlı’da Kadılık Kabusu ve Nihânî’nin Rüyası’, Journal of Turkish Studies/Türklük Bilgisi Araştırmaları, 31/II (2007): 133–143. Alexander D. Kynsh, ‘Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies: An Introduction’, in Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, pp. 1–15. Kafadar, ‘Müterreddin Bir Mutasavvıf’, p. 130. Gottfried Hagen, ‘Träume als Sinnstiftung Überlegungen zu Traum und historischem Denken bei den Osmanen (zu Gotha, Ms. orient. T 17/1)’, in Hans Stein (ed.), Wilhelm Pertsch: Orientalist und Bibliothekar (Gotha: Forschungs- und Landesbibliothek, 1999), pp. 109–135. Amira Mittermaier, Dreams That Matter: Egyptian Landscapes of the Imagination, (Berkeley, 2011). Kafadar, ‘Mütereddit Bir Mutasavvıf’; Felek, ‘(Re)creating Image and Identity’; Murad, b. Selim, [Sultan Murad III], Kitābü’lMenāmāt, Sultan III. Murad’ın Rüya Mektupları, ed. Özgen Felek (Istanbul, 2012); Gottfried Hagen, ‘Dreaming ‘Osmāns: Of History and Meaning’, in Özgen Felek and Alexander Kynsh (eds), Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, pp. 99–123; Gottfried Hagen, ‘Träume als Sinnstiftung Überlegungen zu Traum und historischem Denken bei den Osmanen (zu Gotha, Ms. orient. T 17/1); Dror Ze’evi, Producing Desire: Changing Sexual Discourse in the Ottoman Middle East, 1500–1900 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London, 2006), pp. 99–125. Kaya Şahin, Empire and Power in the Reign of Süleyman: Narrating the Sixteenth-Century Ottoman World (New York, 2013); Erdem Çıpa and Emine Fetvacı (eds), Writing History at the Ottoman Court, Editing the Past, Fashioning the Future, (Blomington and Indianapolis, 2013); Dimitris Kastritsis, The Sons of Bayezid: Empire Building and Representation in the Ottoman Civil War of 1402–1413 (Leiden, 2007), pp. 195–221; Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley, Los, Angeles and London, 1995); Rhoads Murphey, Essays on Ottoman Historians and Historiography (Istanbul, 1990); Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Ali (1541-1600) (Princeton, 1986). Gabriel Piterberg, An Ottoman Tragedy: History and Historiography at Play. Dana Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus: Nouveau Literacy in the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Levant (Stanford, 2013). Denise Klein, Die osmanischen Ulema des 17. Jahrhunderts: Einegeschlossene Gesellschaft? (Berlin, 2007); Madeline Zilfi, Politics of Piety: The Ottoman Ulema in the Post-Classical Age (Minneapolis, 1988). Louise Marlow (ed.), The Rhetoric of Biography, Narrating Lives in Persianate Societies; Jawid Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism; Michael Cooperson, Classical Arabic Biography: The Heirs of the Prophet in the Age of Ma’mun; David Morray, An Ayyubid Notable and his World. Ali Anooshar, ‘Writing, Speech, and History for an Ottoman Biographer’, International Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 69/1 (2010): 43–62; Guy Burak, The Second Formation of Islamic Law: The Hanafi School in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire, (Cambridge, 2015), pp. 65–122; Hans Georg Majer, Zu Uşakizade, Seiner Familie und Seinem Zeyl-i Şakayık (Munich, 1978); Walter Andrews, Tezkere-i Şuara of Latifi as a Source for Critical Evaluation of Ottoman Poetry, PhD thesis, University of Michigan, 1970; Necai Gamm, Riyāżī’s Riyāżü’-ş-Şu‘arā, PhD thesis, University of Chicago, 1976; Harun Tolasa, Sehî, Latifî, Âşık Çelebi Tezkirelerine göre 16. y.y.’da Edebiyat Araştırma ve Eleştirisi (İzmir, 1983); Filiz Kılıç, XVII. Yüzyıl Tezkirelerinde Şair ve Eser Üzerine Değerlendirmeler (Ankara, 1998). For a bibliography of other studies on Ottoman biographical dictionaries of poets, see Haluk İpekten, Türk Edebiyatının Kaynaklarından Türkçe Şu’ara Tezkireleri (Erzurum, 1991). Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire: The Politics of Bektashi Shrines in the Classical Age (Ashgate, 2012). See for instance, Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Morrocan Sufism (Austin, 1998); Shahzad Bashir, Messianic Hopes and Mystical Visions: The Nurbakshshiya Between Medieval and Modern Islam (Columbia, 2003); Carl Ernst and Bruce Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love: The Chisti Order ii South Asia and Beyond (London, 2002). Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1500 (Salt Lake City, 1994); John J. Curry, The Transformation of Muslim Mystical Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halvetî Order, 1350–1650 (Edinburgh, 2010); Derin Terzioğlu, Sufi and Dissident in the Ottoman Empire; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Osmanlı Toplumunda Zındıklar ve Mülhidler: 15-17. Yüzyıllar (İstanbul, 1998); Deniz Çalış Kural, Şehrengiz, Urban

Rituals and Deviant Sufi Mysticism in Ottoman Istanbul (Farnham, 2014). Alberto Fabio Ambrosio, Bir Mevlevi’nin Hayatı, 17. Yüzyılda Sufilik Öğretisi ve Ayinleri, trans. Ayşe Meral (Istanbul, 2012); Nathalie Clayer, Mystiques, état et société: les Halvetis dans l’aire balkanique de la fin du XVe siècle à nos jours (Köln, Leiden, New York, 1994); Dina Le Gall, A Culture of Sufism: Naqsbandis in the Ottoman World, 1450–1700 (Albany, 2005); Reşat Öngören, Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf Anadolu’da Sufiler, Devlet ve Ulema, (XVI. Yüzyıl) (Istanbul, 2000); Necdet Yılmaz, Osmanlı Toplumunda Tasavvuf: Sufiler, Devlet ve Ulemâ (Istanbul, 2001).

1 The biographer between this world and the hereafter

During a stroll along the Bosphorus, Nev‘ī Efendi shared with his son ‘Aṭā’ī his memories of the garden of a deceased friend in Ortaköy, which used to be famous for its literary gatherings. Its owner Fuzayl Efendi (d. 1583 or 1584), as the father recalled, was a devoted patron of literature and wanted to be remembered as such. He presented writing desks crafted by his own hand to his friends as memorabilia. Then, he died suddenly one day in this garden, at a literary gathering under his great tree. His garden was destroyed shortly after his death, but neither the garden nor Fuzayl Efendi were forgotten. Nev‘ī Efendi and ‘Aṭā’ī cherished their memory. The father told the son their story and the son ensured its remembrance by recording it in writing.1 The Ḥadā’iḳ is not an impartial record of distant figures as often assumed, but selectively recollected lives intimately known by the biographer. In this book, the biographer embraced the special dead among family, patrons, teachers and friends with his writing. Although these ties have been often unnoticed, ‘Aṭā’ī revealed them occasionally by inserting himself into his work. He displayed his relation to his subjects through brief but frequent remarks. He noted, for instance, how he sipped handfuls from the boundless ocean of knowledge of his teacher Feyzullah Efendi (d. 1611 or 1612) or how he opened his ears to collect bucketful of the gems spread during a literary gathering of the poet Bāḳī (d. 1600).2 He also presented his subjects as oceans with precious pearls from which he was eager to benefit. When death separated him from them, he wrote how the separation cut a hole in his heart, but through this hole he sang their songs.3 ‘Aṭā’ī’s respectful portrait of the deceased and his yearning for some of them should not mislead us into thinking of the early seventeenth-century literary circles solely as a group of affectionate colleagues eager to esteem their dead. This was a world of foes as well as friends, a world of violent deaths awaited eagerly and vicious executions celebrated with great joy. Writing and circulation of couplets played an important role in marking these enmities. A couplet attributed to Fā’iẓi, for example, advocated the execution of Nef‘ī (d. 1635), the satirist. “It is a duty, according to all four schools of law to execute him,” it said, “like killing a poisonous snake.”4 Fury seems not to have diminished after some of the executions. Joy for the death was shared publicly through the circulation of chronograms such as “the execution of

Yemişci is excellent” by the chief judge Nādirī (d. 1626), who celebrated the death of an enemy.5 The historian Peçevi (d. 1649[?]) himself joined these voices of hostility and wrote in his history how he ate the rose jam of an executed enemy, a finance director, who had treated him badly. After the execution, Peçevi was assigned as an inspector to confiscate his property and took with him all the rose jam that the finance director had not offered him when alive.6 ‘Aṭā’ī was not an exception; as well as recording some of these remarks about adversaries, he also described in one of his mesnevīs how he danced with joy when he learned about the death of his two enemies among the high-ranking ulema.7 In a seminal article, Cemal Kafadar has shown how we need to look at the Ottoman ‘self’ with its connection to the ‘others.’8 Since the publication of this article over twenty years ago, we still know very little about the kinds of ties that bound the Ottomans together and how they were remembered through writing. Our neglect for the significance of social ties would have surprised the Ottoman biographers. Unlike our inclination for writing biographies focusing on one subject, Ottoman biographers often chose to portray multiple life stories within their social networks. Not only did they write collected biographies where they displayed each life story with its relation to hundreds of others, but they also emphasized the role of fathers, teachers, Sufi sheikhs, friends and colleagues in each entry. In these works, they oriented the reader from entry to entry with cross-references and thus linked the biographies to each other the way these people were united in life. Dana Sajdi has recently explored the significance of these social ties for the eighteenthcentury Damascene literary circles in an inspiring study. She has examined the chains of authorities that connected the ulema and Sufis across generations and between contemporaries. She has shown how the learned elite used a wide variety of mediums to sustain these chains, such as education certificates, socialization at picnics, and mystical dreams as well as biographical dictionaries. Sajdi argues that “the result of this complex of diachronic and synchronic connections is a relatively closed – or an attempt at a closed – world where ‘in’ and ‘out’ are clearly demarcated by a whole network of chains that bind scholars and limit intruders.”9 While the creation of a social body and its defense from outsiders was certainly a crucial function of these connections, Sajdi’s discussion of chains is also helpful for understanding many other social and intellectual concerns of the learned men. Throughout Ottoman history, poets, scholars, and Sufis highlighted their place in selected chains to insert themselves in literary traditions, seek a place among contemporaries, and distinguish their unique role in their particular milieu. This chapter seeks to understand the place ‘Aṭā’ī sought for himself among his literary circles within the ties of family, patronage and sheikh–disciple relationships. Like many of his colleagues, ‘Aṭā’ī was engaged in literary pursuits to advance his social position in a competitive world. He claimed a place for himself as the “poet-son-of-a-poet” and searched for support from his father’s circles. This was a difficult search. Early seventeenth-century Ottoman politics were perilous. Dismissals and executions often severed the ties between a patron and a poet. ‘Aṭā’ī, however, was keen in preserving such delicate ties. Especially after the death of his friend Fā’iẓi, he called attention to the persistence of bonds beyond death. He highlighted the role of the deceased Ottoman learned men in his literary pursuits and presented

himself as a custodian of their memory. This chapter is organized around three figures whose support ‘Aṭā’ī singled out in the introductory sections of his three mesnevīs. Rather than ignoring these passages for being common topoi as is often done, I ask why these particular men – his father Nev‘ī Efendi, patron Fā’iẓi and Sufi sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede – were important for ‘Aṭā’ī. I take these relationships as starting points to discuss the ways ‘Aṭā’ī sought, established and concealed his ties to delicate social networks. Because ‘Aṭā’ī often shared his views through images and stories, I explore their complex uses, especially the recurrent theme of gardens, the dead and dreams. Two of the three men were dead and helped ‘Aṭā’ī through dreams, and thus the chapter revolves around ‘Aṭā’ī’s otherworldly ties and explores how he situated himself as a writer between this world and the hereafter. But first let us briefly look at our main source for this chapter, ‘the reason-for-composition’ (sebeb-i te’līf) passages of the Ottoman mesnevīs. These passages take us to literary gatherings among friends in beautiful spring gardens, into rooms at night where the sleepless poet contemplates the meaning of life and receives divine inspiration, or behind a door where a knock announces news of a patron’s order. In these customary passages, the poet describes under what circumstances he decided to undertake the project and often presents the social bonds which united him to his literary circles. It is here that he seeks to establish a rapport with his readers and convince them of his authority. Interestingly, these rich vistas of Ottoman literary pursuits have received little critical attention. The majority of modern literary scholars have approached them as unreliable for acquiring historical truths because of the frequent use of topoi. The uses of topoi in these sections and what they reveal about Ottoman poets’ ways of speaking about their literary pursuits are yet to be explored. An interesting characteristic of ‘Aṭā’ī’s reason-for-composition passages is the significance of three particular individuals for his writing life: his friend and patron Fā’iẓi in ‘Ᾱlemnümā (c. 1617), the deceased Sufi sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede in the Nefḥatü’l-Ezhār (c. 1625) and his father in the Heft Ḫvan (c. 1627). ‘Aṭā’ī’s emphasis on receiving their support sets him apart from his literary models who relate dreams and visions but do not specify a certain figure as their connection to the hereafter. In the Makhzan al-Asrār, Niẓāmī (1180–1217) included a lengthy passage that describes his composition as a result of spiritual nocturnal journeys that took him to heavenly gardens.10 The poets who took Maḫzen as their model followed his example and related reaching veiled mysteries through meditation and visiting distant lands spiritually to witness beauties of creation. In none of these journeys do we read about meetings with others, especially guides like that of ‘Aṭā’ī.11 Late sixteenth-century Ottoman poets who also wrote mesnevīs taking the Maḫzen as a model parted from these earlier reason-for-composition sections by mentioning the encouragement of their contemporaries. For instance, following his model Niẓāmī, Cinānī (d. 1594) begins the sebeb-i te’līf passage of Riyāẓü’l-Cinān (Gardens of Heavens) by describing a night where he sits alone, contemplates his life, and worries about death. But unlike Niẓāmī, Cinānī is able to complete the project only by receiving the encouragement of his friend Ᾱzerī (d. 1584).12 Similarly, for Ᾱzerī, it was a request from his beloved that inspired the writing of the Naḳş-ı Ḫayāl (The Embroidery of Images).13 Furthermore, as we will discuss in detail

later for Yahya Bey, it was the Sufi sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede who motivated him to write the Gülşen-i Envār (The Garden of Lights).14 Cinānī, Ᾱzerī and Yahya Bey seem to have preferred to emphasize the impact of their social bonds as major motivations for their poetry in these works. Significantly, none of those inspirational encounters took place in the realm of dreams or involved the deceased. Thus, compared to his earlier models and the late sixteenth-century poets, ‘Aṭā’ī’s sebeb-i te’līf passages reveal a particular balance between this-worldly and otherworldly orientations. On the one hand, ‘Aṭā’ī set himself apart from his immediate predecessors the late sixteenthcentury Ottoman poets by presenting dreams of a deceased figure from a certain generation as a major motivation for his poetry rather than only emphasizing the support of friends. On the other hand, unlike earlier models such as Niẓāmī, he did not choose to present himself solely as a poet with otherworldly orientations. When the curtains over his inner eye were lifted, he did not find himself in a distant nocturnal vision but in front of prominent figures who tied him to the ulema poets of Istanbul, the fragile social world of early seventeenth-century Istanbul.

Patrons and adversaries It was a particularly turbulent time when ‘Aṭā’ī sat at his writing desk composing the Ḥadā’iḳ in 1633.15 While he worked on his manuscript and commemorated the learned lives of past generations, the lives of many of his contemporaries were at risk. In September 1633, in an attempt to reassert his power against rebellious groups, the sultan meted out harsh punishments for those who transgressed his bans on coffee shops, tobacco and night walks. Ottoman historians present a dark account of that autumn. Na‘īmā (d. 1716), for instance, writes: “It is narrated that Sultan Murad traveled in the city of Istanbul at nights. If he found anybody without a light, he would execute him without pardon. He raided any place that had tobacco leaves or tobacco smell. If anything was found, he would execute the owner. It is also narrated that at nights too he would scrutinize and climb up to the hearths of the suspected houses to smell for tobacco smells.”16 Na‘īmā also narrated a story about the chilling punishments of those who disobeyed the sultan. The sultan caught an imam’s son without a lantern when he was returning home from a neighborhood mosque. He stuttered during his interrogation. Unable to explain his situation, he was executed on the spot.17 We do not know whether the sultan actually climbed on top of chimneys sniffing to locate smokers or executed a stuttering young man for not carrying a light. Still, the circulation of the stories shows us the public reaction against these policies. For Na‘īmā, “it is impossible to describe the amount of fear and hatred which invaded the hearts of the people as one or two corpses were found in the streets of Istanbul every morning.”18 The high-ranking ulema were among the victims. Among them was the kadi of İznik, who was executed for disloyalty. The people of İznik saw his exposed corpse, the body of the highest member of the ‘ilmiyye of their city, hanging at their city gates for three days. Historians recorded the public disapproval and the circulation of stories that claimed his martyrdom.19 The kadı of İznik’s execution was followed by the execution of the chief mufti Aḫizāde Hüseyin Efendi in 1634. Aḫizāde had become the chief mufti with janissary support after an

uprising against Sultan Murad in February 1632. The tension between the sultan and the chief mufti intensified after the execution of the kadı of İznik. When the sultan suspected a revolt against him organized by the chief mufti, he rushed back to Istanbul. Aḫizāde was executed swiftly and secretly. His body also disappeared. Although the majority of executed officials were buried at prestigious locations, his corpse was not returned to his family. This was a chilling execution even for a milieu used to violence.20 These events, especially Aḫizāde’s execution, must have been particularly shocking for ‘Aṭā’ī. Not only was this the first execution of a chief mufti in Ottoman history, but Aḫizāde Hüseyin Efendi had been one of ‘Aṭā’ī’s patrons, to whom he dedicated his mesnevī Heft Hvān only five years earlier, in 1627. Although 1633 was an exceptionally violent year for the ulema, ‘Aṭā’ī experienced similar periods of oppression and uprising throughout his career in the early seventeenth century. How did a poet navigate in this milieu where dismissals, exiles and executions could threaten the fragile ties of patronage? Attending garden parties seems to be an unlikely answer at first sight. Yet, it was a garden gathering at Anadolu Hisarı on the Asian shores of the Bosphorus which ‘Aṭā’ī chose to highlight as a major motivation for his first mesnevī ‘Ᾱlemnümā (c. 1617). This choice is not surprising. Poems and gardens, which may seem ephemeral today, played crucial roles in establishing lasting bonds among learned circles. Historians of early modern China, for instance, show the multiple ways literary gatherings at gardens brought the Ming poets together, established group solidarity and ensured the continuation of literary circles across generations.21 In her study of eighteenth-century Damascene learned circles, Dana Sajdi also presents the significant role of garden gatherings in seeking patrons. She discusses how picnics provided a chance to show off literary virtuosity, and thus functioned as an informal instrument of both competition and certification.22 Like the early modern gardens of Guangdong, Jiangnan and Damascus, the seventeenthcentury gardens of Istanbul also united poets with their patrons. For ‘Aṭā’ī, they were the major setting for producing poetry and joy. However, these garden gatherings were also fragile. Aṭā’ī wrote how they were easily destroyed with the winds of death and thus shared his fears of losing his sources of support. ‘Aṭā’ī’s first account of these literary gatherings narrates how he received his friend Fā’iẓi’s encouragement to compose his first mesnevī at a garden party. In the sebeb-i te’līf section of the ‘Ᾱlemnümā, ‘Aṭā’ī first presents himself as a poet in distress. He is like an oyster shut firmly in the midst of seas of sorrow. He cannot open his mouth to spread the pearls of poetry. Then, suddenly, a breeze guides him outside towards the gardens of Anadolu Hisarı. He follows a nightingale’s song and a candle’s light and finds himself at a literary gathering. The participants are especially interested in the sāḳīnāmes (books of the cup bearer). His friend Fā’iẓi suggests composing one beginning with a description of Anadolu Hisarı. ‘Aṭā’ī takes up the challenge.23 Finding inspiration after a period of sorrow, or receiving encouragement at a garden gathering, is among the common themes of the introductory sections of the mesnevīs.24 Rıfat Kütük and Lokman Turan, for instance, argue that we should not employ these passages as reliable sources for a poet’s life.25 I agree with them that we cannot know whether a poet like ‘Aṭā’ī decided to compose his book after this particular gathering. However, this passage is important because it shows what ‘Aṭā’ī wanted to present about his particular journey as a

poet. Here we can see how he wanted to emphasize the role of Fā’iẓi and a literary gathering at Anadolu Hisarı in his writing life. In fact, I was fortunate to find a letter from Fā’iẓi to ‘Aṭā’ī that reveals Fā’iẓi’s interest in ‘Aṭā’ī’s poetry.26 In this letter, Fā’iẓi asks ‘Aṭā’ī to send him his most recent poems without delay. “You had promised before. Why not send them?” writes Fā’iẓi.27 He is especially interested in the Sāḳīnāme and asks whether it is completed. He also reminds ‘Aṭā’ī about the generous chief mufti, possibly suggesting himself as an intermediary to present the work.28 Such shared literary pursuits seem to have united ‘Aṭā’ī and Fā’iẓi from an early age. They must have met as young poets when ‘Aṭā’ī studied with Fā’iẓi’s father Feyzullah Efendi. Fā’iẓi, like ‘Aṭā’ī, composed mesnevīs: an uncompleted Sāḳīnāme, which ‘Aṭā’ī found “charming and delicate,” and an unfinished Leylā ve Mecnūn, which ‘Aṭā’ī copied in his own hand, as we know from a manuscript notice.29 ‘Aṭā’ī also copied Fā’iẓi’s anthology of poetry Zübdetü’l-Eş‘ār (c. 1622[?]), which he admired for Fā’iẓi’s careful scrutiny of numerous dīvāns.30 Fā’iẓi was equally full of praises for ‘Aṭā’ī’s poetry, which he introduced in his anthology as “pure poetry from his eloquent dīvān.”31 But it was probably because of Fā’iẓi’s role as a patron of literature that ‘Aṭā’ī singled him out as a major motivation for the ‘Ᾱlemnümā. In the Ḥadā’iḳ, which he wrote eighteen years later, ‘Aṭā’ī would praise Fā’iẓi’s patronage of poetry. According to him, Fā’iẓi’s gatherings were inspirational settings for trying new compositions. Each corner of a gathering at his house was “the exercise ground for arrows of thought. Like a luminous garden, it gave pleasure to the nightingale of fine poetry and prose. It was a school of mystical knowledge for experts in spiritual mysteries.”32 Through Fā’iẓi’s encouragement, many speechless buds in the garden of talent opened up to talk. Colorful perfumes of their poetry filled the gatherings and charming new compositions were heard. These lines in the Ḥadā’iḳ suggest Fā’iẓi provided the young poets with an encouraging setting for experimentation and growth at his literary gatherings. In fact, Nergisī (d. 1635), a kadı and a renowned practitioner of the novel developments in seventeenth-century prose, was among his protégés.33 For ‘Aṭā’ī, too, he might have appeared as a potential patron at the time of the ‘Ᾱlemnümā’s completion. ‘Aṭā’ī, a middle-ranking judge in Tırhala (Trikala in Greece), might have looked forward to the support of Fā’iẓi, who at the time held the prestigious position of the judgeship of Salonika, a first step towards the highest ranking echelons of the ‘ilmiyye. The cultivation of patronage ties through literary pursuits seems to have been crucial for the career of an early seventeenth-century scholar like ‘Aṭā’ī. In his study of Florentine patronage ties, Paul D. McLean discusses how making social connections had become something of an art form during the Italian Renaissance.34 This was a time when the Medicis expanded the pool of those eligible for political office and devised formal rules and informal strategies for limiting the majority of positions. In a world of limited resources, Florentines sought each other out to find access to jobs, marriages, religious benefices or tax relief. Words, according to McLean, played crucial roles in the establishment of these relationships. Through promises, oaths and undertakings, petitioners communicated their intentions, commented on existing network ties, and identified where they were and where they wanted to go.35 The seventeenth-century Ottoman ulema also drew on words, especially poetry, for similar purposes. This was a period when competition for available positions was high and the lower-

ranking ulema asked the support of the high-ranking ulema to attain desired posts. Here, many used poetry. Like the Mamluk ulema, for whom “poetry became a pre-eminent medium of exchange,”36 the Ottoman ulema sought each other through literature. We still know very little about how social ties were established and sustained, but numerous ḳaṣīdes (odes) and introductory sections of books ending with requests for positions suggest the close relationship between books and posts.37 ‘Aṭā’ī himself was one of the many middle-ranking ulema who tried to obtain support for appointments by presenting their works to potential patrons. Although he was the son of a highranking ‘ālim, he did not rise to a high-ranking position in Istanbul but became a middleranking provincial kadi instead. This was probably due to loss of connections after his father’s death, followed by the deaths of his teachers, at the beginning of his career.38 Only through the help of a student of his father, Yahya Efendi (d. 1643), the kadi of Istanbul at the time, was ‘Aṭā’ī able to secure his first position in teaching at a 20 akçe medrese, the lowest in the hierarchy. When this promotion was not followed by others during the next five years, ‘Aṭā’ī abandoned the teaching career, which could have led him to high-ranking judicial positions if he had continued to higher ranking teaching positions, and accepted a provincial kadiship instead.39 Yet, while in the provinces, he continued to cultivate his ties with the ruling circles in Istanbul. By writing ḳaṣīdes to sultans, viziers, admirals, chief muftis and chief judges to congratulate them on a new appointment or a military victory, he tried to secure desired positions.40 In his search for patrons, ‘Aṭā’ī especially targeted a particular group of high-ranking ulema poets who shared literary interests and a common social background. These were Yahya Efendi, Ganīzāde Nādirī and ‘Azmizāde Ḥāletī (d. 1630), as well as Fā’iẓi.41 Modern scholars have noted their relationship through their correspondence in letters and poetry. But we have not yet questioned whether the complex web of literary ties among them indicates the existence of a group.42 Recently Ekin Tuşalp has examined the dynamic relationship between professional communities and literary production in early modern Ottoman history. Following Sheldon Pollock’s work on early modern Indian literary cultures, she has shown how the late seventeenth-century Ottoman scribal community emerged as a “socio textual community” of self-proclaimed intellectual credentials including linguistic mastery. A similar process could be observed for the early seventeenth-century ulema. Literary pursuits seem to have played an important role in the development of their group solidarity.43 I believe the ulema patrons of ‘Aṭā’ī might be considered members of a poetic circle united by social position and literary production. For the former two, they were all the sons of high-ranking ulema who themselves held the top ‘ilmiyye positions; for the latter, they composed in the same genres, including sāḳīnāmes, and wrote responses to each other’s poetry, suggesting poetry contests among peers.44 A number of gifted lower-ranking ulema poets and prose writers of the period including Veysī (d. 1627), Riyāẓi (d. 1644) and Nergisī seem to have joined this group and contributed to their literary production. As for ‘Aṭā’ī, his upbringing among the ruling circles of Istanbul and his literary production must have played an important role in his relationship with this group. Both Nādirī and Yahya Efendi, for example, were his father’s students. Fā’iẓi’s father

and Ḥāletī were his teachers, and ‘Aṭā’ī also shared their literary preferences. Moreover, we have already seen how he emphasized Fā’iẓi’s suggestion for writing a sāḳīnāme in his first mesnevī ‘Ᾱlemnümā. His next two mesnevīs, the Nefḥa and the Ṣoḥbet, which took the Maḫzen as their model, might have been produced because of Nādirī’s influence. As ‘Aṭā’ī noted in his Ḥadā’iḳ entry, Nādirī had an unfinished mesnevī following the Maḫ zen tradition.45 His interest in this work might have motivated ‘Aṭā’ī to compose his two mesnevīs. It might not have been a mere coincidence that he wrote them during the kadiships which he had received with Nādirī’s support.46 And finally, it was Yahya Efendi, the chief mufti of the time, who was also an esteemed poet, to whom ‘Aṭā’ī dedicated the Nefḫa and the Ṣoḥbet along with his dīvān.47 Thus, ‘Aṭā’ī’s literary production seems to have been developed in relation to the literary preferences of this group of high-ranking ulema of Istanbul.48 ‘Aṭā’ī’s possible ties to this group might also be observed in the pivotal position of Anadolu Hisarı in his writing. While Ottoman poets rarely named the gardens mentioned in the reasonfor-composition passages, ‘Aṭā’ī highlighted Anadolu Hisarı and included a lengthy praise of the area in a separate chapter. This emphasis is interesting because ‘Aṭā’ī was not living in Istanbul when he completed this book. Apart from short stays at his house in Anadolu Hisarı during unemployment, he had been a kadı in Rumelian towns for the last ten years.49 These towns were also famous for their pleasure grounds. Silistre, where ‘Aṭā’ī completed the Sāḳīnāme, for instance, was a city to enjoy winter according to the traveler Evliya Çelebi (d. sometime after 1683). There one could go to the pleasure grounds around the Danube River to watch the numerous tricks of the ice-skaters and the fish, which could be seen in the frozen river. Evliya Çelebi is full of praise for the natural attractions and festivities of the other cities where ‘Aṭā’ī served as a kadi. Tırhala was famous for its winter feasts and its friendly residents who adored singers. The lush forests of Manastır hosted twenty-seven pleasure grounds, including the garden praised by the poet Le’ālī where one could sit under magnificent trees, watch revolving water mills and enjoy eating kebabs.50 Yet when ‘Aṭā’ī took up his pen, he chose not to write about these gatherings. Rather than these towns where he spent most of his adult life, he placed his stories in his birthplace Anadolu Hisarı. As discussed by James Amelung for the sixteenth-century artisan writers of Barcelona, “the sense of belonging to a small, specific place within a large city played a crucial role in shaping the wider circles of friends, contacts and in particular fellow workers.”51 It was here, at his house surrounded by birds that he had the dream of his father which we will discuss later. It was also here that he set his first mesnevī ‘Ᾱlemnümā, perhaps to remind his readers that his social ties included connections to Istanbul and were not restricted to his Rumelian kadiships. He wrote about Fā’iẓi’s request to begin his work with a description of Anadolu Hisarı. Fā’iẓi, like many of ‘Aṭā’ī’s patrons, lived in the old city, but he must have been among the visitors of Anadolu Hisarı, which was becoming a popular excursion spot of the early seventeenth-century Istanbulites.52 It also became a place of retirement for the dismissed chief muftis and chief provincial judges.53 Thus, ‘Aṭā’ī might have wanted to begin his work with this growing neighborhood to address a new audience interest among his prospective patrons. The story about the recognition of his literary skills at Anadolu Hisarı must have also provided an opportunity to display his ties to the seventeenth-century

elite who gathered at its fashionable gardens. How did ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporaries receive his claims to belonging to this group of highranking ulema poets? What did they think about him and his social circles? An interesting source to address these questions is Nef‘ī ’s renowned invective poetry collection of the time.54 In these poems, Nef‘ī presents an interesting portrait of ‘Aṭā’ī and his peers. He reveals doubts about their achievement as scholars, office holders and poets, which were probably shared by their other opponents. He mocks Fā’iẓi and Veysī for claiming to be poets while only being chatter boxes; Nādirī for claiming to work, but not publishing anything; Yahya Efendi for stealing from Etmekcizade, the finance director; and Ḥāletī for taking a bathhouse attendant as a lover with him to Damascus and trying to hide it.55 Nef‘ī also included a quatrain addressing the “all” where he writes, God knows that we are servants to the people of ‘ilm ready for sacrifice O catamites, first prove your ‘ilm Full of nonsense you set out on the path of verse but you went astray You fell into the old shit hole of speech and ate shit.56 ‘Aṭā’ī, whom Nef‘ī considers as a member of this group, receives his share of criticism as a mediocre poet, irresponsible kadi, and a man guided by his sexual passions. Most likely Nef‘ī wrote the following lines in response to at least a dozen invectives with which ‘Ata’i targeted him:57 He calls himself a man well versed in ‘ilm, so what? Are other learned men ignorant of ink? He calls himself a kadi Is a wine-drinking beauty and a shared glass what a court needs? He calls himself a poet Is it a complete divan written with calligraphy of ta’līḳ which shows one’s skill?58 Nef‘ī returns to ‘Aṭā’ī’s incompetency in kadiship in other poems, criticizing ‘Aṭā’ī’s pursuit of authority through his father: Nev‘īzāde your inheritance is foolish talk Father spent his life with foolish talk Compare how much nonsense the deceased ate In this place he defecated such a boorish whore like you.59 In this quatrain, Nef‘ī targets the self-image ‘Aṭā’ī tries to promote as being the “poet son of a poet” and turns it upside down. According to these couplets, father and son were both bad poets and what ‘Aṭā’ī inherited from his father was only babbling. Rather than respectful men of knowledge producing high levels of scholarship and good poetry, in these couplets we find ignorant scholars, bad poets, boy chasers and thieves. Significantly, Nef‘ī’s invective poetry also reveals the close relationship between ‘Aṭā’ī

and Fā’iẓi, who were often mocked together in the same poems. Here Nef‘ī follows a strategy other Ottoman writers used to reveal particular bonds when they presented friends together in the same lines or passages.60 Like the close companions who are always together in daily life, ‘Aṭā’ī and Fā’iẓi often appear together in Nef‘ī’s poems and share the same couplets as a couple of foolish catamite whores.61 While Nef‘ī’s arrows of criticism bind ‘Aṭā’ī with Fā’iẓi, Yahya Efendi, Nādirī, Ḥāletī and Veysī, they also give voice to the criticism targeting their scholarly status, literary skill and morals. They present an interesting portrait of these men: not what they promoted in their own poetry, but an adversary’s view. Nef‘ī’s poetry shows how even some of the most powerful high-ranking ulema were not immune to criticism among the early seventeenth-century circles. This was a period of intense factional strife, which presented ‘Aṭā’ī’s patrons with opportunities for power as well as possibilities of dismissal and even execution. For example, Yahya Efendi, “the sultan of the ulema of the east and the west” and “the pinnacle of the chief muftiship” as praised by his contemporaries, became one of the most powerful figures in the palace circles after taking the post of chief muftiship in 1622. According to the contemporaneous historian Hasanbeyzade (d. 1636/37), for instance, his power in the palace was accepted to such a degree that when a grand vizier was deposed, the seal of the grand vizierate was first brought to him. He was also presented as one of the major actors who deposed Sultan Mustafa and enthroned Murad IV in 1623.62 Yet in 1632, during a revolt, the rebels demanded his execution along with three other high-ranking officials. While Yahya Efendi saved his life by hiding, the other three were executed. A couple of years after this event, he returned to political life again as a chief mufti, endured another revolt, and again saved his life by hiding. Aḫizāde Efendi, who took over Yahya Efendi’s position in this revolt, was not however as fortunate in surviving political unrest. As discussed before, he was executed in 1634 after a conflict with Sultan Murad IV.63 According to Mario Biagoli, disruptions produced by the termination of patronage relationships, usually as a result of the patron’s death, were a recurrent feature of clients’ lives in early modern Europe. They were often perceived as major patronage crises where careers could be destroyed.64 The studies of Ottoman literary patronage often overlook this fragility of patronage ties and the anxiety it produces. ‘Aṭā’ī must have also followed the news of the dismissal of his patrons such as Yahya Efendi or the execution of Aḫizāde with great worry. Yet, in the Ḥadā’iḳ entries, it was especially the sudden death of Fā’iẓi that ‘Aṭā’ī mourned at length. As well as such dismissals and executions, death from natural causes also brought promising beginnings of patronage relations to an end. ‘Aṭā’ī wrote, Alas, this life-exhausting news pierced our heart What if we cry like the flute day and night. Like Jesus he had reached up in the skies with his might O the wile fortune! You put him under the ground.65 Fā’iẓi died during the kul uprising against Sultan Osmān in 1622. He was at the palace during the revolt as a member of the high-ranking ulema who acted as messengers between the sultan and the soldiers. ‘Aṭā’ī described that day as terrifying as the Day of Resurrection.

“Since flowers split into two through fear and dread,” ‘Aṭā’ī wrote, “under the intense cold wind of grief Fā’iẓi dropped his heart like a bud.”66 Everybody longed for Fā’iẓi, but ‘Aṭā’ī’s pain was far greater: a wrinkle in the forehead of the others had turned into a mortal sign in his forehead. Since Fā’iẓi had risen as high as the kadi of Istanbul at this time, he might have helped ‘Aṭā’ī to receive the appointments he desired. With this death, ‘Aṭā’ī must have suffered from the loss of a patron as well as a source of inspiration for his poetry. Significantly, after Fā’iẓi’s death, ‘Aṭā’ī did not mention any support from his contemporaries in the introductory sections of his mesnevīs. Although he dedicated these works to Sultan Murad and chief muftis Yahya Efendi and Aḫizāde Efendi, he preferred to emphasize the otherworldly support he received from his deceased father and a deceased Sufi sheikh rather than this-worldly connections. When seeking patronage from the early seventeenth-century ulema, ‘Aṭā’ī navigated on a slippery ground where death, dismissal and even execution of a patron were not uncommon. “Where do I stand?” “Who can support me here?” These seem to have been two important questions that occupied ‘Aṭā’ī in the competitive world of the seventeenth-century ulema poets. After the death of Fā’iẓi, ‘Aṭā’ī presented his milieu as a world of uncertainty where appearances may be misleading. Like many of his contemporaries who sought the sixteenth-century Ottomans as models for administrative reform, he turned to the past generation. In his case, rather than legal systems or bureaucratic institutions, he looked for exemplary lives among deceased learned men. He sought their guidance through dreams and narrated their help in the sebeb-i te’līfs of his following two mesnevīs.

Sufi sheikhs and the very special dead ‘Aṭā’ī’s reason-for-composition passage of the Nefḫa begins with a dark and lonely night where he sits alone: The scattered heart gathered together that night Only me, the shadow, and the candle it was.67 In the company of his shadow, he tries to converse with the candle, but the candle firmly remains silent because it is too slim and too weak to endure his burning sighs. The night ends in silence, the poet falls asleep, and the candle burns out. Thus begins ‘Aṭā’ī’s search for a companion, while time passes by quickly and seasons follow each other. It is a time of hypocritical preachers, disloyal beloveds and miserly patrons, a time which treats poor poets disgracefully and expels them from society. In 1625, ‘Aṭā’ī was a kadi at Ruscuk (Ruse in Bulgaria), and two problems especially troubled him day and night. First, he wanted to continue his position as a kadi but some difficulties compelled him to leave it. And second, he wanted to write a work of wisdom but found himself unable to proceed. To solve these problems, he sought the help of the sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede by visiting his grave. On the night of the visit, ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede appeared to ‘Aṭā’ī in a dream. He gave ‘Aṭā’ī a pen and good tidings; this was a portent that ‘Aṭā’ī would continue his career as a kadi and compose poetry. Waking up in joy, ‘Aṭā’ī

immediately set out writing his mesnevī. ‘Aṭā’ī’s dream of ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede shows an intriguing similarity to the dream account of a contemporaneous poet in Safavid Herat. Like ‘Aṭā’ī, ‘Abd Allāh Bihishtī Haravī (b. 1597, d. sometime after 1657) presents a dream as the major reason for writing a mesnevī. At a time when Bihishtī could not proceed with a much desired writing project, a dream rescues him. He writes, For a while, I was at war with myself. I fell asleep near dawn. I saw in my dream (dīdam dar khvāb) a certain gathering and a place like the garden of paradise. All those present were beautiful like the sun: the light from their cheeks were glittering, clad in white from head to toe, sun-like, the cloak upon their shoulders.68 These heavenly beings advise Bihishtī to compose poetry and with their encouragement, he succeeds in composing his mesnevī Nûr al-Mashriqayn (The Light of the Two Easts, c. sometime before 1657). In his study of this dream account, Derek J. Mancini-Lander points to the role of dreams in Persianate vocational training and presents them as a key instrument of knowledge transmission in the training of an early seventeenth-century poet. According to Mancini-Lander, poets were like novices from all other discipline and trades, and came to acquire training through dreams. As being a medium of communication between this world and the hereafter, dreams allowed a new kind of experience of knowing and thus prepared the poet for the mastery of his profession. Moreover, their public narration attests to the fact that such acquisition had occurred.69 Such initiation dreams were also circulated by Ottoman folk poets. Many narrated how they became poets after a dream, which was often about receiving the cup of divine love from a holy man.70 ‘Aṭā’ī partook in these rich literary traditions. Yet unlike the unidentified heavenly figures in Bihishti’s dream or unspecified holy men who give folk poets their inspiration, he highlighted the role of a certain holy man and chose to present a particular figure from the late sixteenthcentury Ottoman literary tradition. This choice was not accidental. In fact, he wanted his readers to know why he sought ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede’s help. Before he reported his dream, he wrote how he learned about the sheikh from the prominent poet Yahya Bey (d. 1582) and thus claimed a special place for himself vis-à-vis a renowned poet and his sheikh. It was from Yahya Bey’s Gülşen-i Envār (Rose Garden of Lights) that ‘Aṭā’ī had learned about ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede and how he was a major motivation for Yahya Bey’s mesnevīs. Yahya Bey, for ‘Aṭā’ī, was a nightingale who sang the praises of the sheikh/rose in the rose garden of this mesnevī: A nightingale, recalling his qualities (Yahya Bey) wrote this in the Rose Garden of Lights “Travel companion to the followers of the divinely attracted

Bareheaded and barefoot Ruined and afflicted in outer appearance Flourishing in inward qualities.” Since this unfulfilled one have heard his qualities A firm believer of his spirit I have become.71 This passage introduces us to ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede as an antinomian dervish who traveled almost naked, as his name “‘uryānī” (naked) suggests. Our knowledge about his life and teachings is little. We only know that his travels took him from his hometown Yer Gögi, today’s Giurgiu in Romania, to Cairo where he joined the Gülşeni order and back to his hometown to serve as a Gülşeni sheikh until his death in 1590.72 In his reason-for-composition passage, Yahya Bey also narrated a curious incident during their meeting in Albania. When they met on the road one day, the sheikh greeted the poet by reciting five couplets which the poet had dreamed reciting the other night but forgotten. He then put his hand on the poet’s chest. The recollection of these five couplets along with the touch of the five fingers turned out to be the good tidings for the five mesnevīs of a ḫamse.73 When ‘Aṭā’ī read or listened to this passage, he must have been interested. He not only admired Yahya Bey as a poet and took his poetry as an example, but also at the time of the Nefḫa’s composition he aspired to compose a ḫamse. As a second step to completing five mesnevīs, he decided to write a response to Maḫzen just as Yahya Bey had in Gülşen. ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede’s death did not prevent ‘Aṭā’ī from seeking the help he had provided Yahya Bey for Gülşen. When he was a kadı in the region, he visited the sheikh’s grave and received his help through a dream, which was presented as a major motivation for his Nefḫa. Interestingly, ‘Aṭā’ī’s account of the meeting with ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede in his dream is almost the same as Yahya Bey’s account. In Yahya Bey’s case, the sheikh recalls couplets from the poet’s dream and presents his blessing by putting his hand on the poet’s chest. In ‘Aṭā’ī’s case, the sheikh also recalls a previous dream of the poet and presents his blessing by giving a pen. Thus, both poets remember their dreams and receive blessing for their book projects: Yahya Bey with a touch and ‘Aṭā’ī with a pen. ‘Aṭā’ī is keen on presenting the same help he received as a motivation for his mesnevī as Yahya Bey had with Gülşen. Here ‘Aṭā’ī follows Yahya Bey closely as his model both through his work and his life. ‘Aṭā’ī is certainly not the only poet throughout history who sought deceased guides. Yet, like the previous introductory section we have discussed, here too ‘Aṭā’ī’s choice to highlight ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede’s help should not be overlooked as mere topoi. William A. Graham argues that although the need or the desire for personal ‘connection’ (‘ittiṣāl) across generations has been a persistent value in Muslim thought and institutions, each case has differed from others by the models they chose to follow and the ways in which they sought their guidance.74 Also in this case, it was not any dead, but the dead from the previous generation whom ‘Aṭā’ī sought for guidance. ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede and Yahya Bey, as well as ‘Aṭā’ī’s father Nev‘ī Efendi, who also appeared in a dream to motivate his poetry as we will see in the next section, all died between the years 1582 and 1594. They belonged to the generation of the late sixteenth-century Ottoman literati. Like some of his contemporaries, who sought models from the sixteenth-century Ottoman institutions, ‘Aṭā’ī connected himself to the literary

traditions of the previous generation. While he followed their literary traditions through his own work, he also turned to their creators for inspiration and support. This choice is important because ‘Aṭā’ī lived in a literary milieu in which Sufi sheikhs were active patrons of literary pursuits. While ‘Aṭā’ī did not mention the help he received from contemporary sheikhs in his reason-for-composition passages, other Ottoman writers were keen to show this support. For instance, in the reason-for-composition passage of one his mesnevīs, which was also a response to the Maḫzen like the Nefḫa, Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī (d. 1600) wrote about a Halveti sheikh’s motivation as a drive behind his project.75 We do not know the details of this support. But we know that poets like Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī sought the Sufi sheikhs for material as well as spiritual benefits. Halveti sheikh Nureddinzade (d. 1574), for instance, helped Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī to present one of his works to the grand vizier Sokollı Mehmed Pasha (d. 1579) and secured a position for him through the display of his talent.76 Nureddinzade’s sheikh Sofyalı Bālī Efendi was another Halveti sheikh engaged in supporting poets, as we find his name among the officials who nominated poets as recipients of the palace payroll.77 Like contemporary Florentine patrons, who brokered “links to others through extended chains, either by linking their own clients to particular office holding or otherwise empowered third parties,” these two sheikhs helped their followers by using their position within elite networks.78 Ottoman poets like Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī, in response, showed their respect by mentioning their support in their works. Another well-known author who presented the help he received from a sheikh was Evliya Çelebi. In an often overlooked passage, Evliya Çelebi presents Mevlevi sheikh ‘Abdullah Dede (d. 1632) as a major motivation for his Book of Travels.79 This is the sheikh who interprets a dream of Evliya Çelebi as good tidings for his travels and suggests writing a travelogue beginning with Istanbul. He prompts Evliya Çelebi further by lending him seven books on the history of Istanbul. We cannot know whether such an encounter actually took place, but it is important to note that Evliya Çelebi chose to present a Mevlevi sheikh’s interest in history and his book collection as well as his dream interpretation as a major motivation for his writing. Did ‘Aṭā’ī also seek similar support from contemporaneous Sufi sheikhs for his literary pursuits? Answering this question is difficult because ‘Aṭā’ī is not a biographer who chose to reveal too many details of his personal relationships with contemporary Sufi sheikhs. Although he briefly mentioned his father’s relations with the Halveti sheikhs and his meeting with some as a child, among the hundreds of sheikhs whose lives he related in the Ḥadā’iḳ, he recorded his own relationship during his adulthood with only two.80 Not only is this number significantly small but also the information is very brief. Here is all we have: When I was a kadi in that region [Babadag in Romania] in 1610, I received his blessing.”81 (For the Bayrami sheikh Mahmud Babadaġī) His kind attention caused my residence in that region (Trikala in Greece). The fountain of his love refreshed my thirsty heart. For three years, I lived under his luminous kindness and was engulfed in his boundless blessing.”82 (For the Halveti sheikh Sinan Efendi)

These brief statements do supply us with crucial information about ‘Aṭā’ī’s relation to Bayramis and Halvetis. Perhaps like his father and his grandfather, he was particularly interested in the Halveti order, as his comments about Sheikh Sinan suggest. However, not much can be learned from such short remarks about the nature of these relationships. In the case of Mahmud Babadaġī, we do not know whether ‘Aṭā’ī visited him briefly or participated in his circles for a longer period. In the case of Sinan Efendi, ‘Aṭā’ī provides us with a slightly longer passage. His note tells us that he received the help of the sheikh to find a position in Tırhala and perhaps decided to move to the town to be closer to him. He also recorded his participation at the sheikh’s gatherings for three years. Yet he does not give us detailed information about their relationship, especially about his literary pursuits. The sheikh himself was also a poet who was accomplished enough to be included in Rıẓā’s biographical dictionary of poets.83 Did he not play any role in the composition of his mesnevī Ṣoḥbet, which ‘Aṭā’ī completed while he was in Tırhala? ‘Aṭā’ī is silent. This silence is interesting because it was customary among the Ottoman biographers to note their personal encounters with the sheikhs. When ‘Aṭā’ī took the translation of Taşköprizade’s Shaqā’iq as his model, he must have observed how Taşköprizade occasionally referred to the Sufi sheikhs from whom he sought help: Halveti ʿAbdülkerim Ḳadiri (d. 1544 or 1545) who cured his forgetfulness and improved his memory; Nakşıbendi Mahmud Çelebi (d. 1531 or 1532) who taught him the Mesnevī; and Bayrami Bahaeddinzade (d. 1545 or 1546), who interpreted one of his dreams and advised him to become a kadi.84 Also, when ‘Aṭā’ī used Ali b. Bālī’s al-ʿIqd al-manẓūm, a continuation of the Shaqā’iq, as a major source for the Ḥadā’iḳ, he read Ali b. Bālī’s conversations with his Bayrami sheikh Cerrahzade. ‘Aṭā’ī must have been interested in this relationship since he translated and included them in his work.85 While these two biographers whom he followed noted their personal relations with their sheikhs, sometimes in detail, ‘Aṭā’ī remained mostly reserved about his own relationships. It is particularly interesting that we do not find any personal notice about his visits to Hüdā’ī (d. 1628), one of the most prominent sheikhs of the time, while many other writers such as the biographer Ḥulvī (d. 1654), historian Peçevi and the traveler Evliya Çelebi chose to record their meetings.86 ‘Aṭā’ī’s reluctance to note his visits here is noteworthy because he did reveal his respect to the sheikh by including a chronogram he composed for his death.87 Based on this chronogram, the biographer Müstakimzade (d. 1787) claimed ‘Aṭā’ī to be a follower (mürīd) of Hüdā’ī.88 Although a chronogram is not conclusive evidence for affiliation, this claim shows how ‘Aṭā’ī’s reluctance to reveal his Sufi affiliation, especially to Hüdā’ī, was puzzling for a later biographer. But why this silence? ‘Aṭā’ī’s possible ties to the persecuted Bayrami-Melamis may be part of the reason for his reluctance to reveal his Sufi affiliations. Although Bayrami-Melamis began to gather supporters among the Ottoman ruling elite and literary circles in the early seventeenth century, many hid their affiliation to avoid persecution.89 ‘Aṭā’ī might have been one of them. As we will discuss in the next chapter, according to the biographer Naẓmī, ‘Aṭā’ī was a follower of the Bayrami-Melami sheikh İdris-i Muḫtefī (the Hidden) (d. 1615).90 The sheikh was known as “the Hidden” because he went underground to avoid persecution for his unorthodox beliefs and practices. Naẓmī, a disciple of the sheikh’s major adversary, claimed

that ‘Aṭā’ī was among the İdris-i Muḫtefī’s followers and altered his biography to hide this fact.91 It is easy to understand Naẓmī’s resentment when one reads ‘Aṭā’ī’s rather detailed account of the debate between İdris-i Muḫtefī and his opponents. ‘Aṭā’ī clearly positions himself among the supporters of the sheikh and concludes his entry on the sheikh by reminding his readers to be careful about uninformed judgments. “Without knowledge,” he warns, “it is possible to err.”92 In this defensive portrayal, ‘Aṭā’ī presents himself as a distant observer. Was he a disciple of the sheikh and deliberately concealed his affiliation, or did he only want to present a favorable portrait? Finding an answer to these questions is difficult without more evidence, and the Melami practice of concealing affiliation further complicates the picture. Yet we can observe ‘Aṭā’ī’s sympathies for the Bayrami-Melamis in other parts of the Ḥadā’iḳ. Not only does he include a large number of Bayrami-Melami sheikhs in his collection, but he also often presents defensive portraits of controversial sheikhs such as Gazanfer Dede (d. 1566 or 1567) or İsmail Ma‘şūkī (d. 1539); he endorses the former with a supportive letter by the chief mufti Ebussuud and defends the latter by claiming his submissiveness to the Ottoman authorities.93 ‘Aṭā’ī’s interest in the Melamis can also be seen in a Nefḫa story about the help he received from a Melami dervish, a man who was “lying in a tavern corner like spilled wine.”94 Here ‘Aṭā’ī refers to a practitioner of “melāmet” (seeking blame) rather than a Bayrami-Melami sheikh.95 Still the story is important because it shows his possible Melami sympathies. ‘Aṭā’ī argues that holy men should not be condemned based on their appearance, as was often done to Bayrami-Melami sheikhs. To illustrate this point, he narrates a story about his own experiences. This is a story about a man looking like a mere drunk. But after listening to the “people of the heart,” ‘Aṭā’ī became aware of the dervish’s spiritual state and decided to ask for help against two enemies. The dervish answered his requests. He cut two straws from his mat and the two adversaries died in three days. “Do not think those in terrible clothes are lowly,” ‘Aṭā’ī warns his readers. Holy men can have many different guises; someone seen as a wretched drunk might in fact be a source of divine help.96 ‘Aṭā’ī’s recollections remind us how his literary world embraced a variety of Sufi experiences. It was populated with holy men, some naked like ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede and some resembling drunks like this Melāmī dervish. When writing his own personal experiences, ‘Aṭā’ī chose to present his relation with two such holy men and not more renowned contemporaneous sheikhs. He presented a world of “hidden sheikhs,” where he sought guides inside books and in tavern corners.

Father and son The other deceased guide whom ‘Aṭā’ī presents as a lifelong source for his poetry was his father Nev‘ī Efendi. ‘Aṭā’ī begins his last mesnevī Heft Ḫvan with a story about their lasting bond. He narrates how his deceased father, whom he lost twenty-eight years earlier, helped him when he was struggling with severe writer’s block. This was a time when ‘Aṭā’ī struggled with the beginnings of a new project. He wanted to start writing a mesnevī, but failed in all attempts. Then, one night, when he had fallen asleep crying, his deceased father appeared in a dream. “O young bud of the garden of my heart,” Nev‘ī addressed ‘Aṭā’ī. “I built a fountain of

pure milk in this house. Strive so that it continues to flow. Do not bring it to a halt.”97 Waking up in joy, ‘Aṭā’ī set out to work. He interpreted the milk as the bounteous gift of knowledge and the fountain as a sign of the flow of poetry.98 Like the legendary hero Ferhad, who carved mountains to bring water to his beloved, he began digging numerous canals to water the garden of illumination. Here ‘Aṭā’ī employed the imagery of the garden to portray a thriving bond between father and son. The son as the “bud” of his father is a common image ‘Aṭā’ī uses in the Ḥadā’iḳ for renowned fathers and sons.99 In this passage, he employs it for himself. When the deceased father talks in the dream, he reminds ‘Aṭā’ī of this bond; ‘Aṭā’ī is the shoot from the garden of Nev‘ī’s heart. In the dream, Nev‘ī Efendi also guides ‘Aṭā’ī to establish his own garden. He tells him about the fountain he had established at their house and thus provides ‘Aṭā’ī with a second source of life. ‘Aṭā’ī’s role as a son, like the supervisor of a pious endowment, is to run the fountain, spread its wisdom and channel it for his own garden. The deceased father gives life to his son’s poetry and the son reciprocates his help by keeping his father’s poetry alive. ‘Aṭā’ī also noted that he also took a book by his father as a model: Nev‘ī’s mesnevī Ḥasb-i Ḥal. Thus, through reading a book by his father and dreaming about him, ‘Aṭā’ī found his inspiration. “I followed that wise old man,” he wrote. “It is good for a man to resemble his father.”100 But what did it mean for a son to resemble his father in the early seventeenth-century Ottoman literary circles? In an inspirational study of the nineteenth-century novelists’ representation of fathers in fiction, Jale Parla has shown how much we can learn about a milieu from the representation of the crucial bond between fathers and sons.101 The little explored history of Ottoman fathers and sons is rich in sources. Like many other sons throughout history, seventeenth-century Ottoman writers present us with interesting portraits of their fathers. For some, fathers were major obstacles to goals in life. Evliya Çelebi presents himself as a young man who wanted to set himself free from the demands of his father by seeing the world.102 Similarly, the Halveti sheikh Ḥulvī writes about his desire to devote himself to Sufism and leave his post in bureaucracy against the wishes of his father.103 For other sons, especially those who continued their father’s careers, the recollections of fathers could be used as a means to claim status. Among them were sixteenth-century ulema biographers, whose works ‘Aṭā’ī used as his sources. ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi (d. 1571), for instance, devotes the majority of the entry of his father to discuss his family’s ties to the Prophet. The entry allows him to boast of being a sayyid, a position especially prestigious in his milieu.104 The biographer Kınalızade Hasan Çelebi (d. 1604) also presents a praiseworthy portrait of his own father. He organizes the entry around detailed anecdotal stories about the competition between his father and the finest scholars of his time to show his father’s mastery in Arabic and Persian as well as Ottoman Turkish, a mastery which he also sought in his works.105 Like ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi and Kınalızade, ‘Aṭā’ī presented his father with great pride. This decision is perhaps not surprising. Yahya bin Pir Ali, known by his pen name Nev‘ī, was a respected scholar and poet who held the prestigious post of tutorship of the princes.106 He secured the admiration of his peers from the beginning of his career. As a young müderris, he was praised by ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi for his perfect knowledge and skill in numerous fields, and

shortly after his death, Kınalızade reported how his constant striving for knowledge received the great admiration of all.107 He was such an acknowledged poet of his time that ‘Aṭā’ī’s biographers often introduced ‘Aṭā’ī as “the poet, son of a poet.”108 This description was likely to have been derived from one of ‘Aṭā’ī’s elegiac couplets, That poet I, that poet’s son, before whose verse today The cultured of the world have bowed the head low.109 In many other odes addressed to prospective patrons, ‘Aṭā’ī repeated such verses, which emphasized his distinction through the accomplishments of his father, probably to remind readers about his connection to the ruling circles of Istanbul and their literary world. Although we have seen that not all the contemporaries, for example the poet Nef‘ī, thought as highly as this filial connection, being the son of a tutor for princes must have given ‘Aṭā’ī a number of privileges. The sons of the chief mufti, chief judges, and the tutor for the princes received highranking appointments as soon as they finished their education. Although ‘Aṭā’ī did not benefit from this exception, probably because Nev‘i Efendi had already retired when he began his studies, in a payroll register from 1604, we find his name recorded among the recipients of salaries for their poetry described as “veled-i Nev‘ī” (son of Nev‘ī).110 The early seventeenth century was a time of “fathers and sons” for the high-ranking ulema. A number of modern historians have noted how paternal ties played a greater role in this time in obtaining positions in the ‘ilmiyye. The sons of high-ranking ulema, including the sons of the tutors of princes, could secure themselves privileges early in one’s career as seen in the unusually high grades of their first appointments. A number of these sons also rose swiftly in their careers and succeeded their fathers in the highest ranking ‘ilmiyye positions.111 A wellknown example is the chief mufti Saadeddin Efendi (d. 1599) and his sons Mehmed (d. 1625) and Esad (d. 1625), who held the chief muftiship for thirteen years from the late sixteenth to the early seventeenth century.112 Although he could not secure a high-ranking position like the brothers Mehmed and Esad, ‘Aṭā’ī also connected himself to the high-ranking ulema of Istanbul through his father. Compared to some of his high-ranking colleagues, Nev‘ī Efendi came from rather humble origins. He was not the son of a high-ranking ‘ālīm of the capital, but the son of a prayer leader in the small provincial town of Malgara in Thrace. Yet his contemporary Bāḳī, who was also the son of an imam, rose to one of the prestigious positions as a tutor for the princes after graduating from one of the prominent medreses of the time. Nev‘ī seems to have confirmed his position further by marrying the daughter of a high-ranking bureaucrat, Nişāncı Mehmed Bey (d. 1566).113 In 1583, their son Ataullah, who later took the pen name ‘Aṭā’ī, was born. Our knowledge of this family is scant. We know almost nothing about ‘Aṭā’ī’s mother or his brothers, mentioned only briefly in Nev‘ī’s poetry.114 But we do know ‘Aṭā’ī spent his childhood among the ruling circles of Istanbul as the son of a high-ranking ‘ālīm, a tutor of princes. Splendid parties attended by the ruling elite seem to have been occasional events of this childhood. From a poem composed for the circumcision of a brother in 1592, when ‘Aṭā’ī was

nine years old, we learn that Nev‘i Efendi held a great ceremony and invited prominent Istanbulites, even the sultan himself.115 In the Ḥadā’iḳ, ‘Aṭā’ī often recorded how his father was keen to take him to such events and literary gatherings of the elite. He recorded his meetings with the Halveti sheikhs close to the sultan who were among the frequent visitors of their house and noted his attendance at the literary gatherings of famous poets where he went with his father as a young boy. By choosing to include these recollections, ‘Aṭā’ī showed how he embraced the ties his father cultivated for him. He presented himself as a part of his father’s circles among the late sixteenth-century Istanbul’s learned elite.116 The court’s splendor should not obstruct us from seeing the anxieties of its members. Like the way he commented on the fragility of ties of patronage or unreliability of spiritual support, ‘Aṭā’ī was keen to portray a darker portrait of his ties to the ruling elite. He wanted to write about their fears of death and oblivion. These fears are often overlooked in the modern studies of the Ottoman learned elite. When modern scholars write biographies of Nev‘ī based on his detailed biography in the Ḥadā’iḳ, they often focus only on his powerful position at Murad III’s court and overlook the passages about fears and anxieties. ‘Aṭā’ī did present his father’s power, especially in the appointments of grand viziers and high-ranking ulema, but he was also eager to record Nev‘ī’s detachment from worldliness. He marks this characteristic by inserting himself into the biography and narrates two stories about gardens, death and remembrance shared between father and son. One of them, as we have already seen at the beginning of this chapter, is the story of a death of a friend under a great tree and the destruction of his garden narrated in the Ḥadā’iḳ entry of Fuzayl Efendi. The other garden where the father and son contemplated death was the pleasure grounds of Akbaba. This story takes us back to ‘Aṭā’ī’s first mesnevī, ‘Ᾱlemnümā. After depicting Fā’iẓi’s encouragement to write about the beauties of Anadolu Hisarı, ‘Aṭā’ī began with a depiction of nearby Akbaba and recalled a visit with his father on a fall day. The chestnut season was, as it is today, a time to celebrate the beautiful forests of Akbaba. According to Evliya Çelebi, it was the time when numerous carriages carried the pleasureseekers of seventeenth-century Istanbul to its pleasure grounds.117 In the late sixteenth century, these visitors included Nev‘ī’s palace circles. In 1580, for instance, Canfeda Kadın, the boon companion of Sultan Murad III, built a mosque and a bathhouse near a shrine there.118 It must have been around this time when Nev‘ī Efendi took his son ‘Aṭā’ī for strolls among the merrymaking Ottomans enjoying picnics with their families and friends. During their visit, ‘Aṭā’ī narrated that Nev‘ī was immersed in thought. He composed a poem about the trembling aspen leaves and how they reminded him of sickness and death. But, at the same time, the shrine they visited guided his thoughts towards the hereafter. Nev‘ī inscribed this poem on the shrine’s wall. “It was a poem I inscribed on my heart,” wrote ‘Aṭā’ī, citing it in his mesnevī when narrating his day with his father at Akbaba gardens.119 Nev‘ī Efendi’s writing on the wall of a shrine at a popular excursion site brings to mind the Chinese tradition of inscribing poetry on the walls of public places where large numbers of people congregated and passed through, such as scenic sites, inns, monasteries and temples.120 In an inspiring study of the circulation of poetry in Tang China, Christopher Nugent examines this practice as a means of the poet’s aim to contemplate death and create a connection with the

future visitors of the site, many of whom would arrive much after his death.121 ‘Aṭā’ī’s story about his father and his poem probably had a similar aim. On the one hand, it depicts a father’s contemplation of the transitory nature of life shared with a son. On the other hand, written on the wall of a shrine, memorized by a son, recorded in a mesnevī, and now included in these pages being read, the story and the couplets ensure remembrance against oblivion.122 Similarly, by sharing the stories about Fuzayl Efendi’s garden, ‘Aṭā’ī and his father sought remembrance in a transitory world. Nev‘ī Efendi’s story about Fuzayl Efendi recounts the death of a friend and the destruction of his garden. Yet it is also the endurance of their memory through a story shared between the father and a son. Here ‘Aṭā’ī inserts a rare comment to emphasize the significance of remembrance. He notes how Fuzayl Efendi gave writing desks (piştaḫta) to friends as memorabilia (yādigār). Fuzayl Efendi wanted to be remembered through a gift related to writing. He produced his writing desks from wood, which would perhaps remind the recipients of the great tree and the setting of their literary gatherings under its shadow. A comparable role of stories, poetry and writing as a means for remembrance can be seen in a couplet, which ‘Aṭā’ī cited from his childhood. This is a couplet by the nine-year old Prince Mustafa (d. 1595), son of Sultan Murad III, who was the same age as ‘Aṭā’ī when Nev‘ī initiated a poetry exchange between them. Before his execution when his older brother Mehmed came to the throne, he sent ‘Aṭā’ī a couplet in his own hand. The prince wrote, Do not know what the Mighty Scribe wrote for my fate Alas! I was never able to laugh in this rose garden.123 Here we have the prince as a rosebud of the dynastic garden who did not have a chance to open. ‘Aṭā’ī recorded this couplet in the Ḥadā’iḳ among the events of Murad III’s reign and noted how he kept it as a cherished memorabilia. Like his father’s couplets at Akbaba inscribed on a wall, or Fuzayl Efendi’s gifts of writing desks at his Ortaköy, this couplet in the prince’s handwriting was a reminder of death at a beautiful garden as well as a custodian of memory against oblivion. Similarly, while Nev‘ī is the provider of the fountain of life and knowledge which would water ‘Aṭā’ī’s garden of Heft-Ḫvan, he appears as a reminder of transience and death in the fall gardens of the ‘Ᾱlemnümā and the Ḥadā’iḳ. ‘Aṭā’ī’s reminiscences of his father present ‘Aṭā’ī as a biographer between two worlds. They show how he strove to unite the worlds of the dead and living through his writing.

Notes Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 275-278, 661-662; see also Tunca Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si (İzmir, 1997), p. 109. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 540, 438. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661. Tolga Ocak, ‘Ölümünün 350. Yılında Nef‘î’, Hacettepe Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Dergisi, 3/2 (1985): 6. For Nef‘ī ’s advice to the sultan about the ulema, see Yaşar Yücel, ‘XVI–XVII. Yüzyıl Edebi Metinlerinde Rastlanan Osmanlı Devlet yapısı ve Toplumu Üzerine Bazı Görüşler ve Bilgiler’, Belleten, 57 (1987): 917–21. “Hasan’ın azli hasen, Katli dahi müstahsen / Düşse târihini n’ola katl-i Yemişçi ahsen” wrote the historian Na‘īmā, who was keen on recording the chronograms circulating among enemies. See Na‘īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, ed. Mehmet İpşirli (Ankara, 2007), vol. 1, p. 237.

Peçevi, Tārīḫ-i Peçevī, pp. 424–25. Nefḫatü’l-Ezhār, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2872, fols 64b–65a. See also Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 62–63, 125–29, 347–48. For the study courses in Ottoman chronicles and poetry, see Necdet Öztürk, ‘Oruç Bey Tarihi’nde Lanet Kayıtları’, and Ali Yıldırım, ‘Mesihî Divanında Rakibe Yönelik Sövgü ve Beddua’ both in Emine GürsoyNaskalı (ed.), Lanet Kitabı (İstanbul, 2009), pp. 61–69 and 375–91. Kafadar, ‘Self and the Others’. Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus, p. 51. Niẓāmī, The Treasury of Mysteries, trans. Gholām Hosein Dārāb (London, 1945), pp. 25–115. Jāmī, Masnavī-i Haft Awrang, eds. Jābilqā Dād ‘Alīshāh et al. (Tehran, 1997–99), vol. 1, pp. 568–70; Ali Şir Nevaî, ed. Agah Sırrı Levend (Ankara, 1965–68), pp. 297–306. Cinānī, Riyāẓü’l-Cinān, published as Riyâzü’l-cinân Mesnevisinin Edition Critique ve Transcription’u, ed. Nezahat Tunga, Senior thesis, Istanbul University, 1949–50, pp. 25–34. İbrahim Ᾱzerī, Naḳş- ı Ḫayāl, published as İbrahim Azeri Çelebi, Hayatı ve Nakş- ı Hayal Mesnevi, ed. Muammer Temizer, Senior thesis, Istanbul University, 1948–49, pp. 12–21. Yahya Bey, Gülşen-i Envār, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Lala İsmail Efendi 568/1, fols 5a–26b. Although we do not know when ‘Aṭā’ī began his drafts, we have the completion dates of his chapters: the first in January 1633 in Tırhala and the last on 24 November 1634 in Üsküb. See the chronograms on the first pages of the autograph copies, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2341, 2343, 2344 and Şakaik-i Nu’maniye, Özcan, pp. v–vi. Na‘īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, vol. 2, p. 756: Menkūldür ki Sultan Murad gece ile şehr-i İstanbul’u gezip yatsıdan sonra fenersiz taşrada bir adam buldukta bilâ emân katl edip gündüzlerde duhân yaprağı yâhud tütün râhiyası ihsâs olunan mevzi‘i basıp birşeyi bulursa sâhibi katl olunduğundan gayri gecelerde dahi kemâl-i dikkat üzre tecessüs edip mazınnaı şurb-ı duhân olan büyûtün ocağına çıkıp istişmâm ettikleri mervîdir. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 756. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 757. See for instance Katip Çelebi, Fezleke (2 vols, Istanbul, 1286–7/1869–70), vol. 1, p. 161 and Na‘īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, vol. 2, pp. 768–770. Na‘īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, vol. 2, pp. 770–774. On Aḫizāde Hüseyin’s execution, see İsmail Katgı, Maktûl Şeyhülislâmlar (Istanbul, 2013), pp. 125–201. See for instance, David B. Honey, The Southern Garden Poetry Society: Literary Culture and Social Memory in Guangdong (Hong Kong, 2013); Craig Clunas, Fruitful Sites, Garden Culture in Ming Dynasty China (London: 1996); Kenneth Hammond, ‘Urban Gardens in Ming Jiangnan: Insights from the Essays of Wang Shizhen’, in Michel Conan and Chen Wangheng (eds) Gardens, City Life and Culture: A World Tour (Washington: 2009), pp. 41–55. Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus, pp. 28–29, 52–53, 64–66. ‘Ᾱlemnümā, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2872, fols 38a–b. See also Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 162–64. For Fā’iẓi’s life and works, see Sabahattin Küçük, ‘Kafzâde Fâizî’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi (44 vols, Istanbul, 1988–2013), vol. 24, pp. 162–163. Hasan Kavruk, Türkçe Mesnevilerde Sebeb-i Te’lif (Eser Yazma Sebebi) (Malatya, 2003), pp. 64–124. Rıfat Kütük and Lokman Turan, ‘Mesnevîlerin Sebeb-i Te’lif ve Hâtime Bölümlerini Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi Kaynağı Olarak Okumak’, in Hatice Aynur et al. (eds), Mesnevî: Hikâyenin Şiiri, Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları VI (Istanbul, 2011), p. 240. For the examination of ‘Aṭā’ī’s reason for composition in the context of Ottoman mesnevī tradition, see Nuran Tezcan, ‘Sebeb-i Teliflere Göre Mesnevi Edebiyatının Tarihsel Dönüşümü’, Doğu-Batı Dergisi Osmanlılar Özel Sayısı II-2010, 49–74. İsmail Erünsal ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihine Kaynak Olarak Arşivlerin Değeri’, in Türk Edebiyatı Tarihinin Arşiv Kaynakları / The Archival Sources of Turkish Literary History (Cambridge, MA, 2008), pp. 35–36. Erünsal, ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihine Kaynak Olarak Arşivlerin Değeri’ p. 36: Gıbbe-zā eş‘âr-ı şerîfeye müştâkuz. Evvela didüñüz, niçün göndermezsüz. Erünsal, ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihine Kaynak Olarak Arşivlerin Değeri’, ibid.: Veliyyün-ni’am kâdı-yı asker efendi hazretlerinüñ ahvâli ma’lûm-ı sa‘adetünüzdür. Harçlığa muzâyakaları mukarrerdür. Sâkî-nâme itmâm buyruldu ise defter-ı müfredât-ı kısmet bile irsâl buyrula. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661: “ṭarz-ı maṭbū‘ ve nāzik üzere.” See also Ali Osman Çoşkun, ‘Sakînameler ve Kafzâde Faîzinin Sakînamesi’, 19 Mayıs Üniversitesi Eğitim Fakültesi Dergisi, 9 (1994): 52–64; Hüsrev Akın, ‘Müellifinin Ölümüyle Yarım Kalmış Bir Mesnevî: Leylâ vü Mecnûn’, Turkish Studies, 4/7 (2009): 28–96. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661. Bekir Kayabaşı, Kāfzāde Fā’iẓi’nin Zübdetü’l Eş’ārı, PhD dissertation, İnönü University, 1997, p. 405: bu eş‘ār-ı pākīze dīvān-i belāġat-‘unvānından ketb olundu. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661: Her köşesi ta’līmḫāne-yi nāvek-i efkār olup gülşen-i rūşen gibi şevkengīz-i bülbül-i ḫōş-lehçe-i şi’ir ü inşā ve mekteb-i ‘irfān-ı ‘urefā idi. Nergisī mourned Fā’iẓi’s death in an elegy; Mustafa İsen, Acıyı Bal Eylemek: Türk Edebiyatında Mersiye (Ankara, 1993), pp. 234–44.

Paul D. McLean, Art of the Network: Strategic Interaction and Patronage in Renaissance Florence (Durham and London, 2007), p. 40. McLean, Art of the Network, pp. 33-34. Thomas Bauer, ‘Mamluk Literature: Misunderstanding and New Approaches’, Mamlūk Studies Review, 9/2 (2005): 108–112. See for instance the contributions to the edited volume, Hatice Aynur et al. (eds), Eski Türk Edebiyatı çalışmaları VIII: Kasîdeye medhiye: biçime, işleve ve muhtevaya dair tespitler (Istanbul, 2013). It must have been Nev‘ī who guided ‘Aṭā’ī to choose a career in the ‘ilmiyye, since he probably anticipated the possible benefits of his connections and experience as a high-ranking ‘ālim for ‘Aṭā’ī’s future. His connections seem to have allowed his son to study with teachers in esteemed positions, such as Feyzullah Efendi, Karaca Ahmed (d. 1615) and ‘Azmīzāde Mustafa Efendi (d. 1630). ‘Aṭā’ī was able to proceed to study in the highest rank medrese Süleymaniye and received his working permit from Abdülhalim Efendi (d. 1604), the chief judge of Rumelia; Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 539–541, 573–574, 739–741, 494–497. İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, Osmanlı Devletinin İlmiye Teşkilatı (Ankara, 1965), p. 92. According to an appointment register used by Uzunçarşılı, most of the towns where ‘Aṭā’ī served as a kadi were in the sixth rank. These were higher than most of the middle ranking kadiships but not among the highest ranking positions. Süheyl Şemseddin’s biography of ‘Aṭā’ī provides a comprensive survey of his ḳaṣīdes and his career, see Nev’î-zâde ‘Atâyi, PhD dissertation, Istanbul University, 1933–34, pp. 50–90. A critical edition and transcription of these ḳaṣīdes can be found in his Dīvān, published as Saadet Karaköse, Nev’i-zade ‘Atayi Divanı, PhD thesis, İnönü University, 1994, pp. 242–745. ‘Aṭā’ī recorded how he received the kadiships of Tırnova, Sahra, and Silistre through the grace and favor (“ināyet”) of Nādirī when presenting the chief judge’s career in the Ḥadā’iḳ. See p. 703. His appointment to the post of the Canbaziye medrese is possibly through Yahya Efendi’s support since he included a chronogram requesting this post from Yahya Efendi to his dīvān. See Şemseddin, Nev’î-zâde ‘Atâyi, p. 55. See for example, Christine Woodhead, ‘The Gift of Letters: Correspondence between Nergisi (d. 1634) and Veysi (d. 1627)’ in Kitaplara Vakfedilen Bir Ömre Tuhfe: İsmail E. Erünsal’a Armağan, Hatice Aynur, Bilgin Aydın, Mustafa Birol Ülker (eds), (Istanbul, 2014), vol. 2, pp. 617–988; Hasan Kavruk, ‘Şeyhülislam Yahya-Nergisi Münasebeti’, Hasıbe Mazıoğlu Armağanı, Journal of Turkish Studies, III (1999): 135–44; Bayram Kaya, Azmizade Haleti: Hayatı, Edebi Kişiliği ve Divanının Karşılaştırmalı Metni, PhD dissertation, Trakya University, 1996; İbrahim H. Okutan, Kafzade Faizi Divanı, PhD dissertation, Ege University, 1994; Lütfü Bayraktutan, Şeyhülislam Yahya: Hayatı, Edebi kişiliği, Sanatı, Eserleri ve Divanından Seçmeler (Istanbul, 1990); Nuran Külekçi, Ganizade Nādirī, Hayatı, Eserleri, Edebi Kişiliği, Eserleri, Divanı ve Şehnamesinin Tenkitli Metni, PhD dissertation, Atatürk University, 1985; Zehra Toska, Veysî Divanı, Hayatı, Edebi Kişiliği, PhD dissertation, Istanbul University, 1985. Ekin Emine Tuşalp Atiyas, Political Literacy and the Politics of Eloquence: Ottoman Scribal Community in the Seventeenth Century, PhD dissertation, Harvard, 2013. In their entries, ‘Aṭā’ī specifically noted how Nādirī and Ḥāletī composed responses to each other’s poems, which establishes a link between these two entries like the way poetry forms bonds among friends; Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 704. Ibid. Ibid., p. 704: Zamān-ı devletlerinde bu ḥaḳīre ‘ināyet eyledikleri Ṭırnovā ve Ṣaḥrā ḳażāları ‘ilāve-yi esbāb-ı ḥaşmet olmuşidi and Sene-yi mezbūre Receb’inde bu ḥaḳīr üzerinde Silistre manṣıbı żamīme-yi revātıb ḳılındı. Such remarks are rare in the Ḥadā’iḳ and show ‘Aṭā’ī’s appreciation of the support. See his dedications to Yahya Efendi, in the Soḥbet, published as Nev’îzâde Atâyî, Sohbetü’l-Ebkâr, ed. Muhammet Yelten (Istanbul, 1999), pp. 33–37 and Nefḥa, fol. 86a; Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 178 and 202. Kavruk, ‘Şeyhülislam Yahya-Nergisi Münasebeti’. These towns are in today’s Bulgaria, Greece and Romania. Throughout his life, he served in Lofca (Lovech in Bulgaria) (1610), Baba (in Romania) (1610–1021/1612), Varna (in Bulgaria) (1613), a second time in Lofca (1616), Silistre (Silistra in Bulgaria) (1618), Ruscuk (Ruse in Bulgaria), Hezargrad (Razgrad in Bulgaria) (1623), Manastır (Bitola in the Republic of Macedonia) (1623), Tırnavo (Veliko in Bulgaria) (1624), Tırhala (Trikala in Greece) (1625–1627), Mezestre (Mystras in Greece) (1627– 1630), for a second time in Tırhala (1630) and in Üsküb (Skopje in the Republic of Macedonia) (1631–1635). For ‘Aṭā’ī’s views on these appointments, see Donuk, Nev’î-zâde ‘Atâyi, 95–100. For an in-depth analysis of kadiship in the Rumelian provinces in this period, see Rossita Gradeva, ‘On the Kadıs of Sofia, 16th–17th Centuries’, Journal of Turkish Studies, 26/I (2002): 225292. Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi (Istanbul, 1996–99), vol. 3, p. 190; vol. 5, p. 309; vol 8, p. 92. James Amelung, The Flight of Icarus: Artisan Autobiography in Early Modern Europe (Stanford, 1998), p. 107. The learned elite were among the new inhabitants of these towns, as well as the many scholars, poets and Sufis who visited the pleasure grounds along the shores. See Shirine Hamadeh, City’s Pleasures: Istanbul in the Eighteenth Century (Seattle, 2008). Tülay Artan, Architecture as a Theatre of Life: Profile of the Eighteenth Century Bosphorus, PhD dissertation, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1989, vol. 2, p. 439. Nef‘ī, Sihām-ı Ḳażā, ms Millet, Ali Emiri Manzum, 1028. These poems were published in Turkish with omission of the swear

words by Metin Akkuş as Hicvin Ankâları, Nef ’î ve Sihâm-ı Kazâ. İnceleme, Karşılaştırmalı Seçme Metinler (Ankara, 1998). This publication contains only half of Nef‘ī’s extant invectives and omits many lines from selected poetry. Nef‘ī, Sihām-ı Ḳażā, 20, 40–45, See also Hicvin Ankâları, pp. 186–187, 228–229, 226 and 224. Nef‘ī, Sihām-ı Ḳażā, 40: Ehli ilmüñ ḳulı ḳurbānıyuz Allāh bilür / Kekezler hele siz ‘ilmiñüz isbāt ediñüz / Herze-gird-i reh-i naẓm oldıñuz ammā yol azup / Düşdiñüz köhne ḫelā-yı suḫane bok yediñüz. For the manuscript copies of his invective poems, see Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 136–137. Ibid., 29: Ehl-i ‘ilmim der ise başına çalsun ‘ilmiñ / Sā‘ir erbāb-ı suḫen cehl-i mürekkeb degül a / Ḳāḍīyim derse eger maḥkemeye lāzım olan / Dilber-i bāde-keş ü cām-ı lebāleb degül a / Şā‘irim derse eger şā‘ire isbat-ı hüner / Ḫatt-ı ta‘līkile dīvān-ı müretteb degül a. Ibid., 46: Nev‘īzāde saña mīrās-ı pederdür yāve / ‘Ömri zīrā pederüñ yāve demekle geçmiş / Var ḳıyās et ne ḳadar herze yemiş kim merḥūm / Yerine sencileyin bir ḳaba puştı ṣıçmış. See, for example, the sixteenth-century poet Deli Birader’s letter in verse and other letters composed in response to it. Günay Kut, ‘Gâzalî’nin Mekke’den İstanbul’a Yolladığı Mektup ve Ona Yazılan Cevaplar’, Belleten Türk Dili Araştırmaları Yıllığı (1973): 223–49. Nef‘ī, ibid., 44. Hasanbeyzade, vol. 3, pp. 975. See also, Katip Çelebi, Fezleke, vol. 2, p. 231. İsmail Katgı, Maktûl Şeyhülislâmlar, pp. 125–201. For a detailed discussion of the fragility of patronage ties in Renaissance Italy for ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporary Galileo, see Mario Biagoli, Galileo the Courtier: The Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism (Chicago and London, 1994), pp. 11– 103. Divān, vol. 2, p. 711: Baġrımız deldi meded bu ḫaber-i cān-fersā / Rūz u şeb nāle dersek nola mānend-i ney / Ḳadr ile ermiş iken göklere mānend-i Mesīḫ / Zīr ḫâk ittiñ anı hey felek ẓālim hey. See also Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 661. Nefḫa, fol. 40b: Ḳalb-i perīşān o gice cem‘ idi/Bir ben idüm sāye idü şem‘ idü. Derek J. Mancini-Lander, ‘Dreaming the Elixir of Knowledge: How a Seventeenth-Century Poet from Herat Got his Name and Fame’, in Özgen Felek and Alexander Kynsh (eds), Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, pp. 86. Ibid. See for instance, Umay Günay, Aşık Tarzı Şiir Geleneği ve Rüya Motifi(Ankara: 1986). Nefḫa, fol. 31a: Bülbül olup vaṣfını tezkārda / Böyle yazar Gülşen-i Envārda / Sālik-i meczublarıñ yoldaşı / Başı ḳabā yalın ayaḳlar başı / Ẓāhiri vīrāne vü mihnetzede / Bāṭını ma‘mūr Meḥemmed Dede / Gūş ideli vaṣfını ben nā-murād / Olmuş idüm rūḥına pāk-i‘tiḳād. Apart from these two mesnevīs, see the Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 336–338; the Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 3, p.181. For antinomian dervishes, their nakedness and travels, see Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1500 (Salt Lake City, 1994). Yaḥyā Beg, Gülşen-i Envār. William A. Graham, ‘Traditionalism in Islam: An Essay in Interpretation’, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 33 (1993): 50. Muṣṭafā ‘Ᾱlī, Tuhfetü’l-‘Uşşāḳ, published as Gelibolulu Mustafa Âlî Tuhfetü’l-Uşşâk, ed. İ. Hakkı Aksoyak (Istanbul, 2003), pp. 56–61. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the Ottoman Empire, p. 58. Erünsal, ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihine Kaynak Olarak Arşivlerin Değeri’, p. 21. McLean, Art of the Network, p. 61. Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 1, p.13. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 111–113, 208–212, 423, 597, 600. The rich collections of lodge libraries also remind us of the significant but little explored role of the Sufi orders in Ottoman writerly culture. See, for example, Suraiya Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan: Culture and Daily Life in the Ottoman Empire (London and New York, 2000), pp. 184–205. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 606: Bu ḥaḳīr biñ on ṭokuz tārīḫinde ol diyāra ḳāḍī olup ḫayır du‘āların aldum. Ibid., p. 862: Bu ḥaḳīrüñ ol diyārda ferş-i kilim-i iḳāmet itmesine bunlaruñ iltifātı bādī ve serçeşme-yi muḥabbetleri ḳalb-i i ābiş-ḫvor-ı ṣādī olup üç sene miḳdārı taḥtü’ş-şu‘ā‘-yı luṭf u iḥsānları ve ġarḳ-ı envār-ı feyż-i bīkerānları olmuşidim. Rızā, Tezkire-i Rızā, published as Rıza Tezkiresi (İnceleme-Metin), ed. Gencay Zavotçu (Istanbul, 2009), pp. 175–176. See also Selami Şimşek, Osmanlının İkinci Başkenti Edirne’de Tasavvuf Kültürü (İstanbul, 2008). Taşköprizade, Al-Shaqā’iq al-nu‘māniyya fī ‘ulamā’ al-dawla al-‘Uthmāniyya, published as eş-Şeḳāʾiḳu n-nuʿmānīye fī ʿulemāʾi d-Devleti lʿOṣmānīye, ed. Ahmed Subhi Furat (Istanbul, 1985), pp. 533, 534–5, 435, 432–3. Ali b. Bālī, al-ʿIqd al-manẓūm fī dhikr afāḍil al-Rūm (Beirut, 1395/1975), p. 473. Mahmud Cemaleddin Ḥulvī, Lemazāt-ı Ḥulviyye ez-Lemezāt-ı ‘Ulviyye, ms. Fatih Millet Library, Şeriyye 1100, fol. 187a; Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 1, p. 479; Peçevi, Tārīḫ-i Peçevī, p. 357. ‘Aṭā’ī wrote a few chronograms in commemoration of deaths, some for people close to him, like his father Nev‘ī Efendi, but

also for others who were prominent men of this period. For examples of chronograms in the Ḥadā’iḳ, see pp. 434, 543, 661. For a study of chronograms in other biographical dictionaries, see Günay Kut, ‘Aşık Çelebi’ nin Meşairü’ş-Şu‘ara’da Söylediği Tarihler’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 76 (1986): 103–09; Kılıç, XVII. Yüzyıl Tezkirelerinde Şair ve Eser, 142–58. For a general examination of this practice, see İsmail Yakıt, Türk-İslam Kültüründe Ebced Hesabı ile Tarih Düşürme (Istanbul, 1992). Müstakimzade, Risāle-i Melāmiyye-yi Şuttariyye, transliterated by Abdurrezzak Tek in his Melâmet Risaleleri, Bayrami Melâmiliğine Dair (Bursa, 2007), p. 218. Derin Terzioğlu, Sufi and Dissident in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 241–42 and Betül Yavuz, The Making of a Sufi Order Between Hersey and Legitimacy: Bayrami-Malāmis in the Ottoman Empire, PhD dissertation, Rice University, 2013, pp. 131–34. Although we need to be careful in accepting all the names in the eighteenth-century list of Müstakimzade as MelāmīBayramī followers, the alliance between Melāmī-Bayramīs and the ruling elite could be examined in a number of works by the ulema and bureaucrats. “Nev‘ī-zāde ‘Aṭāyī İdrīsīlerden olmaġın”; Naẓmī, Hediyyetü’l-İḫvān, published as Osmanlılarda Tasavvufi Hayat, Halvetilik Örneği, ed. Osman Türer (Istanbul, 2005), p. 174. For İdris-i Muḥtefī, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Zındıklar ve Mülhidler, pp. 310–313; Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Melâmilik ve Melâmiler, reprint (Istanbul, 2013), pp. 123–126. Naẓmī, Hediyyetü’l-İḫvān, Türer, p. 174. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 602–603. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 70. Still, we have to note that he was highly critical of Hamza Bali, who was executed for heresy in 969/1561. His portrait of Hamza Bali and followers differ considerably from the defensive biographies by other biographers such as Münīr-i Belġradī. See, for instance, Münīr-i Belġradī, Silsiletü’l-Muḳarrebīn ve Menāḳıbü’l-Müttakīn, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Şehid Ali Paşa 2819, fols 113b–114a, 140a–b. Nefḫa, fol. 64b: Ḥum gibi pā-der-gil ü sāġar-be-ser / Künc-ü ḫarābātda genc-i güher. Terzioğlu, Sufi and Dissident, pp. 236–244. Nefḫa, fols 64b–65a. Heft-Hvān, p. 151: Ey nihāl-i nev-i ḥadīḳa-ı bāl / Eylemişdüm binā bu ḫānede ben / Bir aḳar çeşme şīr-i ṣāfīden / Anı icrāya eyle sa‘y-i cemīl / İtme ol ḫayrı sen sen ol ta‘ṭīl. Here ‘Aṭā’ī interprets his dream on his own, probably according to extant meanings attributed to dreaming of milk and fountains. I have not come across “fountain” in dream interpretation books, but following well-known hadiths, milk is often interpreted as ‘ilm. See, for instance, ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporary İsmail Ankaravi, who writes “‘ilmiñ misāli misāl ‘āleminde süt olur” in his Maḳāṣıd-ı ‘Ᾱliyye, published as Osmanlı-Tasavvuf Düşüncesi, Mehmet Demirci (ed.) (Istanbul: Vefa Yayınları, 2007), p. 36 and Annemarie Schimmel, Halifenin Rüyaları, İslam’da Rüya ve Rüya Tabiri (Istanbul, 2005), p. 87. For other examples of the use of the image of a “bud” in father-and-son relationships, see entries on Müeyyedzade, Mimarzade and Nişancı Mehmed Bey, Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 31, 42, 58. Heft-Hvān, p. 152: Pey-rev oldum o pīr-i dānāya / Beñzemek ḫōşdur ādem ataya. Jale Parla, Babalar ve Oğullar: Tanzimat Romanının Epistemolojik Temelleri (Istanbul, 1990). Aslı Niyazioğlu, ‘Babalar ve Oğullar: Evliya Çelebi Babasını Neden Sözlü Kaynak Olarak Kullandı?’ in Evliya Çelebi ve Sözlü Kaynakları (Ankara, 2012), pp. 107-114. See also Robert Dankoff, An Ottoman Mentality: the World of Evliya Çelebi (Leiden and Boston, 2004), pp. 21–25. Ḥulvī, Lemezāt, fol. 215b. Aynur Hatice, ‘Autobiographical Elements in Aşık Çelebi’s Dictionary of Poets’, pp. 18–19. Kınalızade Ḥasan Çelebi, Teẕkiretü’ş-Şu‘ārā’, ed. İbrahim Kutluk (Ankara, 1989), vol. 2, pp. 652–691. In addition to numerous treatises, Nev‘ī also had a poetry collection, a hadith collection in verse, a treatise on mystical love in verse, an encyclopedia of sciences, and a translation of the Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam, a prominent mystical treatise from the thirteenth century, which was popular among learned Ottoman circles of the period. For his biography, see Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 418–27; Nejat Sefercioğlu, ‘Nev‘ī’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 33, pp. 52–54. Nev‘ī seems to have established himself as an acknowledged man among his peers; he was praised by ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi and Kınalızade very early in his career. See ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘ir, p. 3, 903; Kınalızade, Teẕkire, vol. 2, pp. 1008–11. See, for example, Riyāżī, Riyāẓü’ş-Şu‘āra, ms. Nuruosmaniye Library, 3724, fol. 150b; Rızā, Teẕkire, p. 63. “Benim ol şā‘ir oġlı şā‘ir kim / Baş eğdi naẓmıma dünyā” from a kaṣīde to the grand vezir Nasuh Pasha (d. 1614); Dīvān, p. 269. The couplet is also cited by modern scholars in their entries on ‘Aṭā’ī, see for example E. J. W. Gibb, A History of Ottoman Poetry, ed. Edward G. Browne (3 vols, London, 1965), vol. 3, p. 232. Erünsal, ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihine Kaynak Olarak Arşivlerin Değeri’, p. 23. For the exceptional appointments reserved for highranking ulema, see Madeline C. Zilfi, Politics of Piety, pp. 50–66; Hasan Akgündüz, Klasik Dönem Osmanlı Medrese Sistemi, Amaç, Yapı, İşleyiş (Istanbul, 1997), pp. 467–71. Baki Tezcan, ‘The Ottoman Mevali as `Lords of the Law`’, Journal of Islamic Studies, 20/3 (2009): 383–407; Suraiya Faroqhi ‘Social Mobility among the Ottoman ‘Ulemâ in the Late Sixteenth Century’, IJMES, 4 (1973): 204–18. Tezcan, ‘The Ottoman Mevali’, pp. 397–407.

Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 59. ‘Aṭā’ī mentioned his maternal grandfather with pride in the Ḥadā’iḳ. However, there is no indication in his works that the maternal side of his family played an important role in his life. Although Nev‘ī did receive a post at his father-inlaw’s medrese during his retirement, the early death of his mother might have curtailed relations between Nev‘ī and the family of Nişāncı Meḥmed Efendi, who died before his daughter’s marriage with Nev‘ī. Nev‘ī asks for a position for another son, probably older than ‘Aṭā’ī, in a poem recorded in his divān. See his divan, published as Nev‘î Divânı Tenkidli Basım, ed. Mertol Tulum and Ali Tanyeri (Istanbul, 1977), p. 131. Cinānī celebrated this event with a chronogram presented to Nev‘ī and later included in his divān, see the critical edition by Cihan Okuyucu, Cinânî: Hayatı, Eserleri, Divânının Tenkidli Metni (Ankara, 1994), pp. 443–44. Another poem about the celebrations is an invitation from Nev‘ī to Sultan Murād III, see his dīvān, p. 131. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 111–113, 208–212, 423. For instance, the Halveti sheikh Mehmed Dā‘ī (d. 1611) who visited Nev‘i Efendi often and conversed with ‘Aṭā’ī, had come to Istanbul with the invitation of the sultan; Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 600–601. ‘Aṭā’ī also recalled a visit to Bāḳī, the famous sixteenth-century poet and chief judge of Rumelia, see Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 437; Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, p. 108. These men and women must have passed through the “prosperous” village, which had a hundred houses, twenty shops, a bathhouse with a pool, and a mosque with a jewel-like prayer-niche. Then, they must have stopped by the “flourishing” Akbaba shrine, where some stayed over in tents. See Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 1, pp. 209. For Cānfedā Kadın and her building activities, see Necdet Sakaoğlu, ‘Canfeda Kadın’, in Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansikopedisi, vol. 2, p. 383. For the shrine, see Baha Tanman, ‘Akbaba Tekkesi’, in Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansikopedisi, vol. 1, pp. 153–54. ‘Ᾱlemnümā, 26a, Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, p.109; Nev‘ī, Dīvān, pp. 512–13. For an example of Ottoman practice of writing on walls, see Mehmet Tütüncü, ‘Evliya Çelebi’nin Bilinmeyen El Yazısı,’ Yedikıta 15 (2011): 15–20. Christopher N.B. Nugent, Manifest in Words Written on Paper: Producing and Circulating Poetry in Tang Dynasty China (Cambridge, MA, 2011), pp. 199–212. Sāḳīnāme, 26a, Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, p. 109. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 385; Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, p. 110: Nāsīyemde kātib-i ḳudret ne yazdı bilmedüm. /Ah kim bu gülşen-i ‘ālemde hergiz gülmedüm.

2 Collection of lives as a well-ordered garden

When holding an Ottoman biographical work, a reader prepares to enter a garden. In the long tradition of classical Islamic literature, Ottoman biographers gave their books names of gardens: Gardens of Sweet Basil, Gardens of Peonies, Rose Gardens of Poets, Garden of the Friends of God, and Orchard of Spiritual Knowledge are some of the titles which invite us, the readers, into the gardens of the biographers. We are yet to understand, though, the significance of these titles for the Ottoman biographers and their readers. For many, the naming of books after gardens is seen as a rhetorical device without any connection to Ottoman realities. As demonstrated by the historians of early modern literary traditions, however, rhetoric, style and form were essential parts of what the biographers wanted to share with their readers.1 Following Taşköprizade’s Crimson Peonies and Mecdī’s Gardens of Peonies, ‘Aṭā’ī gave his work the title Gardens of Truths. By examining the Ḥadā’iḳ as a garden, this chapter seeks to explore ‘Aṭā’ī’s ways of presenting Ottoman Sufi lives. I argue that ‘Aṭā’ī employed the garden metaphor in his book to present the relationship between his deceased subjects and contemporaneous readers as a living bond cultivated at a carefully arranged textual realm. After a brief discussion of the significance of the bond between the living and the dead for the Ottoman practitioners of Sufism, this chapter presents an overview of the writing of Ottoman Sufi lives and then discusses the Ḥadā’iḳ’s place in this tradition. Through an examination of ‘Aṭā’ī’s choices in the arrangement, selection, and sources of his work, I show how he partook in a debate about the place of Sufi sheikhs in Ottoman history. The Ḥadā’iḳ, I argue, is not an objective and comprehensive reference source as often assumed but a hierarchic and exclusive gathering at a meticulously demarcated imperial garden. What do we find in the Ḥadā’iḳ when we approach it as a garden? Following the common use of garden metaphors in Arabic and Persian literary traditions, ‘Aṭā’ī employed the garden metaphor throughout the Ḥadā’iḳ. He presented his book as a garden to imply growth and cultivation.2 His garden is a gathering place for and setting for the growth of the learned men, presented like plants. Subjects of the biographies come to the world by springing forth like sprouts and buds. A student, for example, is often a rosebud, which grows into a beautiful flower through study and hard work. This young rosebud opens up with education and turns into the perfect red rose with the fire of striving.3 Later he may find himself shaken with the fear of God and tremble like an autumn leaf.4 Thus, he may leave his career and devote himself

to God by choosing the Sufi path. He becomes the rose at the garden of Gnosticism who cares for the nightingale.5 And what happens when he dies? Significantly, these plant people do not perish. Flowers invoke the image of freshness and vitality, but not decay. When they die, they transfer from the transitory dust of this world to the gardens of Paradise. Thus, the Ḥadā’iḳ, like the Garden of Eden, is a garden of beautiful plants, which resist the destruction of time.6 An important characteristic of the biographical dictionary as garden is the living bond between its subjects and readers. These everlasting plants stand against forgetfulness and reach us through their scents. For example, Jāmī presented his renowned Persian biographical work Nafaḥāt al-uns (c. 1482) as a collection of nefḥa (breath/breeze/perfume) coming from the Friends of God in Paradise. Nafaḥāt’s Ottoman Turkish translator, Lāmi‘ī (d. 1532), asked his readers to be attentive to the breezes blowing through our lives and thus to be receptive to divine messages. It is a common image in Persian and Ottoman poetry to depict spring breeze as a messenger from the beloved that carries news through scent. Here also, the beloved dead of this biographical work reach the living through their gentle and sweet scents. The image of the breath also invokes thriving remembrance as opposed to the void of forgetfulness. The titles remind the readers of the delicate but perpetual bond between them and the subjects of the biographies. Thus, biographers invited readers to their gardens of the deceased learned men. It is important to note that for Ottoman biographers and their audience, these special dead, especially the Sufi sheikhs, were not just distant names but part of daily life. Followers and sympathizers visited them regularly to seek help and offer respect at their tombs. For the practitioners of Sufism, these places were gardens of paradise on earth, a meeting point between this world and hereafter. They often placed the tombs inside or next to main ceremonial spaces of the lodges to seek the company of the deceased sheikhs during the rituals that often began and ended by greeting them.7 The Sufi community also felt the presence of their special dead during the reading and writing of their life stories. Many biographers presented their works as offerings to the sheikhs and began by praying for help in the completion of their tasks. Some recorded how they began the composition only after receiving the approval or the request of their subject. And finally, when the book was completed and read aloud, biographers noted how the deceased sheikhs continued their interest in the projects by being present at the readings and thus getting closer with the listeners of their life stories in intimate gatherings of the brethren.8 These readings take us to the complex web of relations between the biographer, his subjects and his audience. Biographers’ remarks about their audience are important, because they remind us that these biographical works were compiled for a close-knit community who wanted to cherish the memory of their prominent predecessors. In his work on biographies of medieval European saints, Thomas J. Heffernan points out that biography writing was an intracommunal activity and these works were produced for close-knit groups.9 A similar practice can be observed in medieval Arabic biography writing. As argued by Michael Cooperson, increased professionalism among Muslim learned circles by the end of the eighth century resulted in biographical dictionaries of Hadith-transmitters, musicians, poets and grammarians, which emerged as works pronouncing group solidarity.10 As for the Sufis, their life stories

were also included in the growing body of this literature after the eleventh century at the time of their emergence as separate communities. From that time onwards, in Pellat’s words “there is scarcely a single famous ascetic, venerated saint, or an eminent Sufi who did not earn his own monograph, or at the very least, an article in general works.”11 The Ottoman practitioners of Sufism inherited this rich biographical tradition by reading, copying and translating earlier works such as the Risāle of Qushayrī (d. 1072), Tazkirat alawliyā’ of ‘Aṭṭār (d. 1221) as well as the Nafaḥāt al-uns of Jāmī. In addition to collective portraits, individual lives of the founders of Sufi orders, including the popular hagiographies of Rūmī (d. 1273) and Khawaja Ubaidullah (d. 1404), also circulated among their followers.12 Although the numbers of surviving manuscript copies in libraries and titles of books mentioned in probate inventories suggest that biographies were not as popular as poetry, history and religious manuals, they were passed down from generation to generation and circulated in new copies throughout the empire.13 Early modern Ottomans were also interested in producing new biographies of the sheikhs of their own times. “All Sufi sheikhs, except our deceased Şaban Veli Efendi, have had their biographies written,” complained a group of Sufi brethren to their sheikh Ömer Fu‘ādī (d. 1636). They encouraged him to write a biography about the founding sheikh of their subbranch.14 John Curry discusses how this request from the Halveti community emerged at a time of important developments in the institutional structure of the order where Ömer Fu‘ādī was engaged in building a shrine for his sheikh as well as writing down the latter’s life.15 As shown in Zeynep Yürekli’s seminal work on the Bektaşi order, shrines and life stories often developed together. While the new shrine provided the community with a ritual and social center, the inscribed memory of their founder helped the community to establish itself more securely around the shrine.16 Thus, it must not be surprising to find biographers like Ömer Fu‘ādī involved in raising money and supervising the building of his sheikh’s shrine along with their biography projects. Both stone and paper must have been essential tools for the communities to set up permanent ties around them. But which dead did these Ottoman biographers and their communities want to remember? And how did they bring back them to life in their eternal gardens?

Ottoman biographers and Sufi lives: an overview When ‘Aṭā’ī sat down to his writing desk and gathered his written sources, he must have found himself amongst a chorus of different voices and listened to what each had to say about the late sixteenth-century Ottoman Sufi sheikhs. Their different accounts existed side-by-side, sometimes in competition with each other, in various biographical compilations such as chronicles, biographical dictionaries of poets and the Shaqā’iq continuations as well as biographical compilations devoted only to the sheikhs. Each biographer presented his own portrait of the holy life according to his community of readers and listeners. Life stories of sheikhs must have been told at lodges, homes and mosques among friends and foes in many different occasions and through many different accounts. Perhaps it was this multiplicity of oral reports which induced the communities to seek the authoritative voice that a written text could

provide. When reported orally, anecdotal stories or factual information could be altered according to the interests of the narrator and the audience. Writing, however, allowed the biographer to choose and promote a certain stance among various different versions of a life story. Thus, paper not only provided the biographer a powerful tool against forgetting, but also gave him a relatively immutable voice with which to present his own view of the biography.17 An early seventeenth-century Ottoman biographer had reasons to try to establish such canonical accounts of the lives of his subjects because many of the sheikhs led controversial lives vis-à-vis other sheikhs and Ottoman authorities. To defend their position and legitimize their orders, biographers chose to present what they perceived as the most appropriate versions of controversial positions. Still the other accounts, some of which they might have wanted to be forgotten, were also transmitted because Ottomans were avid writers of biographies and there was often more than one biographer who narrated the life of a certain sheikh. In his study of Ottoman history writing, Rhoads Murphy argues how dissonant voices and undercurrents of conflicting opinion became increasingly perceptible in the seventeenth century.18 Like these early seventeenth-century chroniclers, the different accounts of the biographers existed side-by-side, sometimes in competition with each other. First, we have the Sufi communities themselves who compiled the biographies of their sheikhs.19 Among them the Halveti order is notable for its biography writing. From the early sixteenth century onwards, the Halvetis established themselves throughout the empire by securing endowments, founding lodges and developing a network of their branches. It was also during this period that biographies of these sub-branches were written.20 The biographers were often sheikhs themselves, usually serving at the central lodge, and related to previous sheikh through family ties. As leaders of their communities, they tried to promote their founders to an audience of followers, sympathizers and patrons, as well as adversaries. Consequently, especially controversial passages of their subjects’ lives are presented in carefully crafted passages. For instance, one of the earliest biographers from this period was the HalvetiSünbüli sheikh, Yusuf Sinan Efendi (d. 1579), a sheikh at Kocamustafapaşa Lodge in Istanbul, who wrote down the lives of the four previous sheikhs of his sub-branch. In his work, Yusuf Sinan Efendi mainly focused on the problems of the order, especially its struggles with the Ottoman authorities, the controversial practice of vocal litany, and debates about the succession of the sheikhs.21 In the early seventeenth century, we see the emergence of biographical dictionaries of sheikhs that are broader in scope. A prominent example, also a major source for ‘Aṭā’ī, is the Lemazāt-ı Ḥulviyye (Morsels of Sweets) (c. 1631) of the Halveti Gülşeni and Sünbüli sheikh Ḥulvī (d. 1654).22 It contains 140 brief biographical entries covering the extensive geographical reach and history of the Halveti order as well as the sheikhs from various other orders whom the biographer had personally met. The Silsiletü’l-Muḳarrebīn (Genealogy of Heirs) (c. sometime after 1620) by Münir-i Belgradi (d. 1617[?]), a müderris with a Halveti and Bayrami-Melami affiliation, is another example of the extended scope of the Halveti biographical writing.23 Belgradi was an ‘ālim, who was motivated to write sheikh lives probably because of the Halveti influence among the ulema circles in his hometown in the Balkans. Like Ḥulvī, he conceived his work as a comprehensive collection beginning from the

earliest founders of the Halveti order to his contemporaries. These two biographical dictionaries share a similar concern with the individual works of the sub-branches. They are also actively engaged in the debates of their period and aim to promote authoritative portraits of controversial lives. Second, we have biographers who included the life stories of the Sufi poets in their biographical collections of poets. These biographers were among the bureaucrats and the ulema; their Sufi affiliations, if any, are often unknown to us. Thus, these passages are rich sources for the representation of the lives of the sheikhs by writers who were not sheikhs. The five prominent biographers from this period are Sehī Bey, Lāṭīfī, ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Kınalızade Hasan Çelebi and Riyāẓī (d. 1644).24 Their entries usually consist of brief career information and a few short examples from poetry. Some also include the biographer’s comments on Sufi beliefs and practices. Among them, as Selim Sırrı Kuru’s study shows, Lāṭīfī gave a special place to the Sufi sheikhs in his work. He devoted a separate section to the sheikhs preceding the section on the sultans and the main body of his work. For him, entries on the sheikhs should precede other entries in a biographical dictionary just as sheikhs precede others in life. Yet, Lāṭīfī could also be openly critical of some sheikhs whom he considered as heretics.25 Similarly, his contemporary ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi’s presentations varied from high praise to harsh criticism. As examined by Helga Anetshofer, while he presented a sympathetic portrait of many antinomian dervishes, he condemned the Melamis and Hurufis.26 Thus, studies by Kuru and Anetshofer have shown the significance of the biographical dictionaries as sources for contemporaneous perceptions of Sufi lives and the need for more systematic examinations. And thirdly, another little-examined source for the Sufi lives is the Ottoman histories. Since the first chroniclers such as Aşıkpaşazade (d. after 1484), a number of Ottoman historians included biographical sections and presented the lives of the bureaucrats, ulema and Sufi sheikhs in separate sections.27 Like the biographers of poets, the Ottoman historians presented a variety of attitudes towards the Sufi sheikhs. One the one hand, historians like Katip Çelebi presented only brief information about careers and death dates of the sheikhs. On the other hand, historians like Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī were much more normative in their accounts and even condemned some for immoral behavior. For instance, Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī presented the Halveti sheikh Şücā‘ (d. 1584), a favorite of Sultan Murād III, as in possession of the whole world. His gardens, farms, and boathouses outnumbered those of all other notables even the viziers. He began to lead such a life of luxury that he would only offer sweets and strong drugs in his feasts. Then, he began to enjoy wine. Yasef, among the Jewish notables, became his special butler and provided him with European wine. The most beautiful girls and boys of Istanbul started to gather in his banquets.28 Such a mocking account is rare in Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī’s chronicle. Yet similar critical remarks can be found in a few other cases. In this aspect, biographical sections of a chronicle, like biographical dictionaries of poets, differ from biographies written by the sheikhs, which almost never raise doubts about the piety and accomplishment of their subjects. And finally, we have the Shaqā’iq tradition in which ‘Aṭā’ī partook. With the Shaqā’iq, a new representation of the lives of Ottoman learned circles had begun, bringing the ulema and

sheikhs together as a part of Ottoman dynastic history. Following a popular sub-genre of Arabic and Persian biography writing, Taşköprizade organized the Shaqā’iq in “classes” (ṭabakā). Yet, as Guy Burak has shown in detail, he devoted each ṭabakā to the reign of a sultan and not to “rank” or “generation” as used in earlier works. Thus, his book presented the Sufi sheikhs along with the ulema in the context of imperial history.29 Although neither Taşköprizade nor the biographers who wrote supplements to his work revealed their views on this presentation, the popularity of the Shaqā’iq from the sixteenth century onwards suggests the acceptance of Sufi sheikhs into Ottoman learned history.30 ‘Aṭā’ī also partook in this trend. By making choices among his models and sources, he gave the distinct shape of his collection. But what about the readers of Ottoman Sufi lives? What interested the Ḥadā’iḳ readers, for instance, in a biographical collection and its portrayal of Sufi sheikhs? It is difficult to answer these questions. Ownership notices and marginal notes to the Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts offer us some insights, but do not reveal how Ottoman readers responded to ‘Aṭā’ī’s versions of the life stories of the sheikhs. The few marginal notes mostly suggest that in addition to corrections in spelling and grammar mistakes of copyists, readers were concerned with factual accuracy.31 These records also show that the eighteenth-century owners of the Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts came from high echelons of the Ottoman society, not only among the ulema and sheikhs, but also from other professions, such as the governors and bureaucrats. In these notices, we encounter readers such as a certain Mehmed known as Süleyman Agazade, a müderris called ‘Abdülaziz, as well as two high-ranking military officials, Silahdar ‘Ali Pasha, governor of Erzurum, and Silahdar Hüseyin Pasha, who ordered two copies in the same year, 1708.32 Other members of the ruling elite were also interested in the book. Sultans including Mahmud I (1730–1754), Osman III (r. 1754–1757) and Abdülhamid I (r. 1774–1789) as well as renowned patrons of libraries such as the chief eunuch Beşir Agha (d. 1745) and the grand vizier Halet Efendi (d. 1822) endowed copies for their collections.33 These records do not reveal how the Ḥadā’iḳ readers responded to ‘Aṭā’ī’s particular portrait of Sufi sheikhs but show the continuous interest in the work though out the centuries. ‘Aṭā’ī’s accounts of Sufi lives which he shaped in a dialogue with other biographers did survive time and reached today. The Ḥadā’iḳ presents its readers, now us, with ‘Aṭā’ī’s particular portrait of Sufi sheikhs and how he, as an ‘ālim, wanted to remember these lives.

A well-ordered garden: empire, decorum and exclusivity When we look at ‘Aṭā’ī’s organization of his work, his employment of style and selection of his entries, we find ourselves at a carefully demarcated textual garden. His collection is an exclusive and hierarchic imperial ordering. The particular design of the Ḥadā’iḳ is important because it shows the ways ‘Aṭā’ī wanted to present the place of the Sufi sheikhs in his world. Bauman, in his discussion on the role of the literati, writes, [Every garden] needs the constant attention of the gardener, as a moment of neglect or mere absent-mindedness would return it to the state from which it emerged (and which it had to destroy, evict or put under control to emerge). However well established, the garden design can never be relied upon to reproduce itself, and never can it be relied upon to

reproduce itself by its open resources. The weeds – the uninvited, unplanned, selfcontrolled plants – are there to underline the fragility of the imposed order; they alert the gardener to the never-ending demand for supervision and surveillance.34 In the case of ‘Aṭā’ī’s biography project, the imperial order and the place of the Sufi sheikhs in the empire play an important role. The Ḥadā’iḳ is no exception. From the beginning of the genre, the lives of many Ottoman biographers as well as the lives they wrote were closely related to the Ottoman empire-building project of the sixteenth century. In his introduction, Sehī Bey (d. 1548 or 1549), a bureaucrat who wrote the first biographical dictionary of Ottoman poets, presented himself as a tree that flowered under the protection of Sultan Süleyman (r. 1522–60). He portrayed his imperial service as a river and wrote how it cherished his life as a garden.35 In his study of the Ottoman bureaucratic apparatus, Cornell Fleischer writes: “the creation of a new professional path, composed of officials who were in some measure ‘new men,’ considerably altered the career expectations and prospects of the elite Ottomans.”36 Although they came from diverse backgrounds, a number of the Ottoman biographers like Sehī Bey were among these “new men” and participated in the imperial administration as kadis, müderrisses and scribes. Their biography projects, like the lives of their biographers, were connected to the imperial history.37 The career aspirations of the biographers often had a role in the production of these biographical dictionaries. The close link between promotion and literary production, which we discussed briefly in the previous chapter, seems to have motivated the aspiring biographers. They presented their works to the ruling elite and requested desired appointments. And when a work was rewarded with an exceptional appointment, other biographers carefully recorded the promotion. ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, for instance, sought patronage for desired appointments in the introductions to his biographical works. He received life tenure of Üsküp kadiship when he presented his Shaqā’iq continuation to Sultan Selim, a promotion ‘Aṭā’ī recorded in his work.38 Similarly, Lāṭīfī was awarded with the trusteeship of a pious endowment in Eyüp for his biographical dictionaries of poets, an appointment recorded by his biographers.39 As in these examples, the biographers often sought, and celebrated, connection to the imperial elite. This is not to say that these two projects were conceived solely as praises for imperial patrons. On the contrary, the Ottoman biographers like Taşköprizade and ‘Aṭā’ī were concerned with the place of the learned societies in the imperial order and used their works as a medium to reflect on this relationship. They recorded not only a praiseworthy account of empire building but also their doubts and questions. In his thought-provoking study of the Shaqā’iq, Ali Anooshor, for instance, demonstrates the ways in which Taşköprizade was engaged in the late fifteenth-century controversies regarding the nature of the Ottoman state and its past. According to Anooshor, he wrote the Shaqā’iq to warn his readers and show how the mutually beneficial relationship between the Ottoman state and learned circles had been severely compromised, if not completely severed, with the full incorporation of the ulema as a body of employees.40 Not surprisingly, the writing of biographical dictionaries was a constant process of negotiation and each project took a different position vis-à-vis state authorities. In her study of

the illustration program of the Shaqā’iq, undertaken about fifty years after the completion of the work itself in 1618–20, Tülün Değirmenci shows ruling circles’ attempt to establish connections between the learned circles and the court circles. Değirmenci studies the iconography of the sultanic portraits within the tradition of sultanic portraits and argues that the focus of the illustrations of this Shaqā’iq copy is not on the sultans but the mutually respectful relationship between the sultans and the learned circles. The depiction of Mehmed II’s (r. 1451–81) reception of the ulema is an interesting example. Although the norm in such reception scenes is to depict kissing the sultan’s ropes as a form of ultimate proximity, in this case the learned men could sit on the same carpet along with the sultan, and even touched him.41 In the case of the Ḥadā’iḳ, composed about fifteen years after the illustrated copy, ‘Aṭā’ī followed a textual strategy similar to that of the Shaqā’iq’s illustration program and emphasized the close relationship between the learned circles and the state authorities. This choice is important because it shows his interest in tending Ottoman learned lives including the Sufi sheikhs inside an imperial garden. The imperial realm and organization In a world of uprisings, clashes and persecutions, ‘Aṭā’ī chose to assemble his subjects in a well-ordered imperial garden. Before discussing the particular political context in which ‘Aṭā’ī wrote his work, let us first look at the organization of the Ḥadā’iḳ and how it invites its readers to see Sufi sheikhs not as a group of their own but as members of the Ottoman dynastic history in harmony with the ulema and the sultans. Following the model of the Shaqā’iq, ‘Aṭā’ī arranged his entries according to the reigns of the sultans starting with Süleyman and ending with Murad IV. Each chapter had a section on the ulema followed by the Sufi sheikhs who were presented chronologically according to death dates. A sheikh who died during the reign of Sultan Süleyman, for example, is placed according to his death date among the other sheikhs who also died during that reign. Subjects with unknown death dates came at the end of their group. ‘Aṭā’ī followed this general organization of his work carefully with only a few exceptions.42 Given the scope of the work, his careful and precise arrangement is impressive. In the Ḥadā’iḳ, ‘Aṭā’ī further developed this organizational structure of the Shaqā’iq that supports the union between the learned circles and the dynastic history. At the end of each chapter, he included a brief overview of each reign where he summarized major events and listed the office holders among the high-ranking bureaucrats. With these sections, the Ḥadā’iḳ looks like an “overturned” Ottoman chronicle. Whereas a chronicle would have been mainly devoted to political events and the deeds of the statesmen with a brief section for ulema and sheikh biographies, the Ḥadā’iḳ relates the former in a few lines and devotes itself mainly to the latter. The focus of the Ḥadā’iḳ is on the ulema and Sufi sheikhs rather than the sultans and the bureaucrats, yet it is still the dynastic structure that defines the place of the learned circles. This particular arrangement is noteworthy because an Ottoman biographer could choose different kinds of organizing principles. In the first biographical dictionary of poets, for instance, Sehī Bey presented poets in a two-part structure grouped according to the state posts and generational relationship to the biographer.43 Although he ascribed the Ottoman state structure a significant role in the first part, his own life is the defining organizing unit in the

second part. The biographers of poets who followed him also acknowledged the significance of the Ottoman state but did not emphasize it as the main organizational structure. After beginning their works with a chapter on sultan poets, they followed an alphabetical arrangement in the main body of their works. Thus, although these biographers of poets emphasized the role of sultans and statesmen in the world of the poetry, they did not choose to present their subjects within the chapters of Ottoman dynastic history.44 The dynastic arrangement also distinguishes Taşköprizade and ‘Aṭā’ī’s organization from that of the sheikh biographers whom they used as sources. In one of the first collections written in Ottoman Turkish, Nakşibendi dervish Lāmi‘ī ordered his biographies according to spiritual lineages. He presented the Sufi sheikhs in clusters where the disciples follow the founding sheikhs of their orders.45 Taşköprizade used Lāmi‘ī’s work as his main source for the lives of the Sufi sheikhs, but he departed from this arrangement. He preferred a dynastic ordering of historical time that purposely cut across the lines of spiritual succession in each of the Sufi orders to fit the imperial reigns. Similarly, when ‘Aṭā’ī used Ḥulvī’s biographical dictionary of Sufi sheikhs, he departed from his source’s organization. Whereas Ḥulvī arranged his work according to the sub-branches of the Sufi orders and presented the sheikhs and their disciples together, ‘Aṭā’ī separated them from their spiritual genealogies to follow his imperial chronology. This restructuring did violence to the biographies of the Sufi sheikhs. They partly lost their place within their own group arrangement in order to take their place in the imperial gathering.46 Interestingly, writing the Ḥadā’iḳ in 1630s, ‘Aṭā’ī had reasons to question the harmonious relationship between the Sufis, ulema and the Ottoman dynasty. As discussed in the previous chapter, just a year before he completed his project, he witnessed the sultan’s execution of his patron Ahizade Efendi. This execution of a chief mufti, the first instance in Ottoman history, was not the only clash between the ulema and state authorities that ‘Aṭā’ī witnessed. In the Fatih mosque uprising of 1623, the discontented ulema, descendants of the Prophet and Sufi sheikhs, gathered against the grand vizier to protest their mistreatment.47 The event which sparked the uprising was the beating of a high-ranking kadi at the order of the grand vizier Mere Hüseyin Pasha (d. 1624). The injured kadi secured the support of the ulema who gathered at Fatih mosque in protest. The uprising quickly grew in scope, and perceiving it as a great threat, the grand vizier ordered a surprise attack to the mosque injuring many and killing at least two high-ranking ulema.48 In his entry on one of the leaders of the opposition, Baḥsī Efendi (d. 1623), ‘Aṭā’ī criticized the grand vizier, complained about the unjust exile of the leaders of the uprising, and portrayed his subject as an outstanding scholar who had fallen victim of Mere Hüseyin Pasha.49 Although there is no information about his participation in the uprising, ‘Aṭā’ī might be considered among the discontented ulema of the time, since he was unemployed and his various attempts to receive a position had gone unanswered.50 Still, we cannot see ‘Aṭā’ī’s clear support of the protestors in the Ḥadā’iḳ. His defensive portrait does not does not present Baḥsī Efendi as a leader of the opposition nor narrate the uprising. Thus, when he composed the Ḥadā’iḳ, about ten years after the uprising and its suppression, he seems to have taken a more state-centric position towards the event.

A similar position can be observed about ‘Aṭā’ī’s views about the Sufi sheikhs persecuted by the state authorities. When the Ottoman state took a more orthodox Sunni stance against the challenge of the Shiite Safavids from 1538 to 1561, a number of the sheikhs whose lives were covered in the Ḥadā’iḳ were interrogated, persecuted and even executed for heresy. Yet, when ‘Aṭā’ī completed his Ḥadā’iḳ nearly one hundred years after the first interrogations, hostility had decreased and the high-ranking ulema, including some of ‘Aṭā’ī’s patrons, supported the sheikhs in their controversies. At the same time, many sheikhs, especially those from the persecuted orders, embraced a more friendly relationship with the Ottoman authorities.51 As a new kind of alliance emerged between the sheikhs, the ulema and the ruling circles, biographers adapted the past conflicts by means of omissions and euphemisms. Those who sympathized with Sufi orders reflected a contemporaneous concern to establish good relations with the state, by downplaying confrontations between the sixteenth-century sheikhs and the authorities. Biographers like the Halveti sheikhs Yusuf Sinan, Ḥulvī and Muḥyī as well as the Halveti follower and Melami sympathizer müderris Münir-i Belgradi presented the persecutions often as a result of false claims advanced by the adversaries. ‘Aṭā’ī was not oblivious to the strife between the ulema and Sufi sheikhs. But when describing the sixteenthcentury persecutions of the Sufi sheikhs, he often took the side of the ulema and state authorities. While he defended the sheikhs who were found not guilty after the interrogations, he often condemned those who were executed for heresy. For ‘Aṭā’ī, like the organizational principal of the Ḥadā’iḳ, conformity with the imperial order seems to have a defining role in his acceptance of the Sufi sheikhs. In short, ‘Aṭā’ī presented his disapproval of the overly rough pruning of the learned circles, but as a whole his work presented the ulema and Sufi sheikhs through their place in imperial hierarchy rather than in opposition to it. Codes of decorum, hierarchy and style Like the arrangement of the Ḥadā’iḳ, ‘Aṭā’ī’s use of style also reflects the bureaucratic structure of his work. A place in the Ottoman dynastic history meant a place in the hierarchic world of the rank-conscious ruling elite. This was a society, as shown by Gülru Necipoğlu, where the relative position of each member of the ruling circle vis-à-vis another was constantly and visibly pronounced through what one wore as headgear, what kinds of trappings one had on his horse, where one sat at dinner, or where one stood in a gathering. Architectural production followed this hierarchical order and complexes built by Sinan in the sixteenth century formulated and manipulated the codes of decorum reflecting the ranks of his patrons. Size, length, number of minarets and topographical situation all served to place the patrons visà-vis each other in the social topography of sixteenth-century Istanbul.52 Biographies also followed similar codes of decorum. Even a very quick glance at the Ḥadā’iḳ reveals that this was not a realm of equals but a strictly hierarchical garden. First and foremost, lengths of the entries separate the sheikhs whom the biographer held in a higher esteem from the less influential ones. Whereas the life of a little known sheikh is related in only a few lines, the life of renowned sheikhs is treated in an entry as long as two and a half pages. These more prominent sheikhs also have the privilege of making space in their entries for anecdotal stories which we do not see in the entries of others, their probably less

influential and known colleagues. The inclusion of anecdotal stories is important because length must have been an important concern for projects like the Ḥadā’iḳ, which contains about one thousand entries. Biographers were often selective in their inclusion of stories. Necai Gamm notes how Riyāẓī, for instance, often saved the precious space for stories for his higherranking subjects in his biographical dictionary of poets.53 We also see these hierarchic choices in the case of ‘Aṭā’ī who abided to it even for the subjects whom he personally and closely knew. For example, he did not include any stories about the sheikh Sinan Efendi with whom he spent three years in Tırhala, most probably because Sinan Efendi was not a founder of an order or a powerful sheikh of the capital.54 Another mark of higher position is ‘Aṭā’ī’s use of rich vocabulary, imagery and internal rhyme.55 With the notable exception of Suat Donuk’s study, the taxing style of the Ḥadā’iḳ has often been seen as mere embellishment and hence an obstacle and an inexplicable compilation of words. In a recent collection of studies on Ottoman prose, Hakan Karatake points to the much-needed examination of Ottoman perceptions of style and uses of prose in their specific historical contexts. All the other contributors to this volume, however, evaluate Ottoman prose according to modern standards and condemn Ottoman authors relying on Persian and Arabic vocabulary and thus constructing almost incompressible sentences. Seventeenth-century Ottoman prose is especially a victim of these evaluations. For instance, Mertol Tulum cites a passage from Nergisī where Turkish words are presented as “do not they look like the slaves who secretly join and serve the rulers, pashas, and infantry of the occupation armies?”56 Losensky’s inspiring study of Attar, however, has shown us how much we can learn from an author’s choices in vocabulary and uses of internal rhyme about the ways he builds his portraits.57 In the case of the Ḥadā’iḳ, we can observe that ‘Aṭā’ī created a hierarchy through his selection of vocabulary and use of iẓāfes, nominal compounds.58 Whereas he presented a sheikh whom he placed in a lower ranking position with a simple vocabulary and short iẓāfes, he used a wider choice of vocabulary, longer iẓāfes and more complex internal rhyme for a sheikh whom he placed in a higher-ranking position. For example, while ‘Aṭā’ī presents a lesser-known sheikh like Mahmud Efendi only as “the nurturer of the pious worshipers,” he describes how a sheikh nourishes his disciples by using images of a fountain of sun in the entry on another sheikh like Sinan Efendi, whom he personally knew.59 In the case of other sheikhs influential in Istanbul politics and whom he also held in higher esteem like Hüdā’ī, he enhances his imagery by presenting the sheikh with numerous and lengthy iẓāfes which focus on numerous life-giving qualities of the sheikh and his guidance to his disciples in their spiritual quests.60 This use of style indicates that while aimed at literary enjoyment, choices in vocabulary, internal rhyme and iẓāfes also function as honorific titles to set more prominent subjects from apart those in lower ranks. Like any other imperial gathering of the seventeenth-century Istanbul, the codes of decorum shaped the hierarchic structure of ‘Aṭā’ī’s textual garden. An exclusive gathering: selection and entries This bureaucratic and hierarchic realm is also highly selective. As gardeners, Ottoman

biographers carefully tended their gardens by eliminating the weeds, highlighting the beauties of their unique plants, and sometimes exposing the nettles and straw which were mixed in their flowerbeds. For example, in his introduction, Riyāẓī explains why he named his work the garden of the poets, Riyāẓü’-ş-Şu‘arā, rather than a rose garden. He gathered the biographies of the poets whose poetry stood out as exquisite roses with their rare perfume and color. Yet, there were also those poets resembling the straw in a garden because of the poor color and scent of their poetry.61 His task, as a gardener/biographer of poets, was to guide his visitors to the garden of Ottoman poets distinguishing the precious from the worthless. Like all cultivated spaces, this garden can only be sustained by literary and specialized personnel such as him. Thus, biographers like Riyāẓī claimed a crucial role for themselves in the Ottoman cultural life. Without their design and supervision, these gardens would be overwhelmed by wilderness. In his introduction, ‘Aṭā’ī presented his intended audience as a select group invited to his special garden. He wrote how he cultivated his garden with trees full of fruits of meaning for the learned and enclosed it with four walls from lines around pages (cedvel) to protect it from ignorant trespassers.62 A close look at this garden reveals that ‘Aṭā’ī has been very particular in his inclusions as well as his intended readership. Although the Ḥadā’iḳ appears as a comprehensive collection to modern readers at first glance, it does not cover all prominent Sufi orders of the Ottoman Empire. There are only three entries for sheikhs from the Mevlevi order and no entry for Bektaşis. ‘Aṭā’ī preferred sheikhs from the Halveti (62 entries out of 114 entries), Nakşibendi (25), Bayrami (16), Zeyni (6) and Kadiri (2) orders to include in his work.63 He also seems to have been especially interested in the lives of Gülşeni (13) and Sünbüli (6) sheikhs among the sub-branches of the Halveti order and Bayrami-Melami sheikhs (5) among the sub-branches of the Bayrami order. The Halveti, Nakşibendi and Bayrami orders, which occupy the greater part of the Ḥadā’iḳ, especially when compared to neglected orders such as the Mevlevis and Bektaşis, were known for their close relations with the ruling establishment of the period.64 Perhaps it was the close ties of these sheikhs to the ruling circles, including family, friends and patrons of ‘Aṭā’ī, that induced the biographer to prefer them in his collection. Another factor that seems to have played an important role in ‘Aṭā’ī’s selection process was the residence of the sheikhs. Like other biographers who chose their subjects mostly from their hometowns, such as Murādī (d. 1791) for Damascus or Baldırızade (d.1650) for Bursa, ‘Aṭā’ī was interested in the sheikhs of Istanbul.65 The majority of the sheikhs whose lives were narrated in the Ḥadā’iḳ were Istanbul residents (75 out of 137).66 This Istanbul-centric view of the Ḥadā’iḳ is especially evident when we compare the sheikhs who were residents of Istanbul with the residents of other prominent cities of the empire with vibrant Sufi communities such as Edirne (4), Bursa (7), Damascus (3) and Cairo (6). After Istanbul, provincial towns and cities had a certain hierarchal order among themselves in contributing entries to the Ḥadā’iḳ. Anatolian towns and cities (31) preceded Balkan ones (19), which in turn preceded those in the Arabic provinces (12). This selection shows a similarity to sixteenth-century Ottoman ṭabakāt writers. As Guy Burak argues they preferred to include jurists from western Anatolia and Balkans rather than Arab lands and thus stressed their unique position within the empire.67

Thus, although the Ḥadā’iḳ appears to be a comprehensive, objective and distanced view of the Ottoman learned circles, it is a highly selective work shaped by the preferences of its author, especially his focus upon portraying the sheikhs from the Halveti, Nakşibendi and Bayrami orders with an Istanbul-centric focus. But being a prominent Istanbul-based Halveti, Nakşibendi or Bayrami sheikh did not grant an automatic entry into the Ḥadā’iḳ. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the Halveti-Sivasi biographer Naẓmī, for example, pointed out in anger that ‘Aṭā’ī did not include an entry on a prominent sheikh of his order, Şemseddin Efendi (d. 1597), who was the uncle of the biographer’s sheikh Abdülmecid Sivāsī. Naẓmī writes, Şems Efendi was famous among the common and the elite. Sivāsī Efendi was a preacher at Sultan Ahmed Mosque and sheikh at Yāvsī lodge when (the Ḥadā’iḳ) was written. (‘Aṭā’ī) had visited him and kissed his holy hand many times and the ulema elite were present at his sermons during mevlūd celebrations. Despite all this, (‘Aṭā’ī) wrote, “Due to lack of knowledge on the details of the biographies of Şems Efendi and Sivāsī Efendi, I did not give their spiritual chain.” Yet, he did write about all the Sufis, the famous and the obscure.68 From Naẓmī’s irritated remarks we can see that what ‘Aṭā’ī considered insignificant – or a weed in his garden – could be a precious figure in the garden of another biographer. In the case of ‘Abdülmecid Sivāsī, contrary to Naẓmī’s criticism, one cannot expect ‘Aṭā’ī to include his entry, because the Ḥadā’iḳ consisted only of entries about the deceased, and yet ‘Abdülmecid Sivāsī was still alive when the work was completed.69 However, it is indeed interesting that ‘Aṭā’ī explained his exclusion of Şemseddin Sivāsī by his inability to find enough information.70 Since Şemseddin Sivāsī was among the popular figures of late sixteenth-century Istanbul, it is difficult to imagine why ‘Aṭā’ī could not find enough information for an entry. This exclusion seems to have been a deliberate decision. As ‘Aṭā’ī often presented a sympathetic portrait of Bayrami-Melamis, opponents of sheikh ‘Abdülmecid Sivāsī, he might have wanted to downplay the significant position of the Sivasis in Ottoman history by keeping them away from his work. Who else did ‘Aṭā’ī choose to exclude from his garden? When we look at the people that appear in the pages of the Ḥadā’iḳ as friends, family, neighbors, acquaintances and enemies of the Sufi sheikhs, we observe striking absences. The world of the Sufi sheikhs as represented in the Ḥadā’iḳ is a world consisting almost only of the Muslim males, mainly the sheikhs, the ulema, the sultans and the high-ranking officials. We rarely see the women, non-Muslims, peasants or craftsmen. It is as if the sheikhs lived in a society without them. This absence is significant since we know that they, especially women, played crucial roles in the development of the Sufi orders. As patrons, wealthy women, including those from the royal family, provided crucial endowments for many the lodges. As daughters and wives, women partook in the establishment of family networks between the sheikhs and their successors. And as disciples, women were active participants in the daily life of a lodge where they were among the supporters of the sheikhs, observers of their miracles and participants in mystical rituals.71 ‘Aṭā’ī’s silence about the women can be seen especially when we compare the Ḥadā’iḳ with

other biographical works that recorded the significant role women played in the establishment of the medieval Anatolian Sufi networks.72 The rare instances where ‘Aṭā’ī mentions women is when he presents them as a source of trouble: a wife who was so mean towards their visitors that her husband’s patience was considered as a sign of his sanctity; another wife was so stupid that she threw their child out the window out of joy upon seeing her husband coming with gifts from the sultan – thanks to the sheikh’s spiritual power the child did not die.73 It is also interesting not to come across non-Muslims in the stories of the Sufi sheikhs. It is difficult to imagine that there were no non-Muslim neighbors or colleagues involved in the lives of the Sufi sheikhs. Many Ottoman cities and towns were religiously mixed with multiconfessional neighborhoods, workplaces, and even shared sacred sites. The presence of such non-Muslim acquaintances was noted in earlier compilations often in conversion miracles where the Christian peasants are often presented as awed witnesses of the sheikhs’ power. Yet, we do not read about them in the Ḥadā’iḳ entries of the sheikhs. They are not even present in the life stories of the sheikhs from the cities where the majority of the population was Christian.74 The only non-Muslim mentioned in the Ḥadā’iḳ entries of the sheikhs is a Jewish doctor. Similar to the few cases where ‘Aṭā’ī mentioned women, here too he is depicted as source of danger. Whereas the wives of the above-mentioned cases put the sheikhs’ social relations and their children at risk, the Jewish doctor, who competed with a sheikh, put life at the palace in danger.75 Here we see similarities between the textual strategies of ‘Aṭā’ī and the eighteenth-century Damascane writer Ibn Budayr. As argued by Dana Sajdi, wives, daughters, sisters, Christian and Jewish acquaintances, colleagues or neighbors rarely figure in Ibn Budayr’s text. And when they do, it is often when they trespass into the author’s realm. For Ibn Budayr, going on picnics, eating, drinking and smoking in public were activities reserved exclusively for men. He considered these public activities by women as improper and noted them as signs of the general decay of the age. These notices are the rare instances through which he gives us a glimpse of the women of his world. Like the women, non-Muslims appear in the pages of his work when they transgress the bounds that have been set for them. For example, in his report of the arrival of a Jewish music troupe, Ibn Budayr is upset that the Jewish musicians were seated on high chairs while the Muslim audience was seated below them. For him, this seating plan is a transgression of the social order: Jews should sit where they are located in society – at a lower level than Muslims. As Sajdi argues, Ibn Budayr probably saw the transgressive behavior of women and non-Muslims as threatening his source of social privilege: the fact of his being Muslim and male. He thus wanted these groups kept in their proper place vis-a-vis him.76 ‘Aṭā’ī seems to have shared Ibn Budary’s concern. For him, the Ḥadā’iḳ was a garden only for a certain social group with a restricted entry. By excluding women, craftsmen, merchants and non-Muslims, he marked his text as a realm of Muslim males almost only from the ruling elite. Thus, ‘Aṭā’ī invited the Ḥadā’iḳ readers to a carefully demarcated garden guarded by the textual strategies of its biographer. Among the flowers: portrait of the holy life

The content of each entry also reflects the force of this imperial, hierarchic and exclusive realm. Career lines and the social ties that support them form the focal point of these life stories. The entry of the Halveti sheikh Sinan Efendi in whose gatherings ‘Aṭā’ī had participated at Tırhala is a good example as it is typical in its organization and length. Like many other entries, it consists of six main parts: birth and education, career, personality traits, literary and scholarly pursuits, an anecdotal story, and an example from the literary works (Appendix). The first, and the longest, part of the entry focuses on Sinan Efendi’s career. In the beginning of the entry, ‘Aṭā’ī writes, He was born in a town called Ergeneköprisi near Edirne. With hard work, he perfected his talent for learning, and he entered the blessed path. He progressed successfully along the stations of study and investigation. He became the assistant of Rāzī Efendi in 1602, a müderris at Üç Şerefeli during that time, and received his working permit. [He became a possessor of the working permit in the month of Şa‘ban.] He became a müderris and led the study circles at Varna with a salary of 20 aḳçe. While he was teaching there, he began to think of death and the afterlife. The cold wind of the fear of God made him tremble like a leaf in fall. He [left his path], renounced the world, and entered the Sufi path under the guidance of revered Şeyh Mehmed Ḳırīmī, a ḫalīfe of Nureddinzade, who was a sheikh in this town. (6) With the death of Şeyh Mehmed Ḳırīmī in 1609, he succeeded his sheikh. When Cossack brigands attacked that area, he decided to emigrate. He settled in Hamza Beg lodge of the town of Fener, under the jurisdiction of Yenişehir. At the end of 1620, he moved to Tırhala and revitalized the Hacı Efendi lodge. While distributing perpetual blessing, he leaded the gatherings of litany and transmitted Quran commentaries. In the October of 1629, the spring of his life ended. He was honored with the travel to the spring of the realm of lights.77 (The emphasis is mine. A.N.) Dense with factual information, this paragraph presents Sinan Efendi’s life as a series of positions and appointments. After an introduction to his hometown and education in the ‘ilmiyye, we learn when and from whom he received his teaching permit, the name of his first appointment and why he left it, the name and spiritual lineage of his first sheikh, the place of his first post as a sheikh, why he left this post, the names of the two lodges he served, and finally the date of his death and the place of his tomb. Information about career lines shapes this biographical entry. An important aspect of this section is how it unites Sinan Efendi’s life in the ‘ilmiyye and on the Sufi path with a focus on appointments. If ‘Aṭā’ī wanted to present Sinan Efendi only as a sheikh, he would have started his entry after Sinan Efendi’s initiation. For many medieval European hagiographers, for instance, conversion was the year zero from which they began their life stories.78 For ‘Aṭā’ī, however, Sinan Efendi’s reception of an assistantship, teaching permit and professorship were as important as the period after his initiation to the Sufi path.79 As will be discussed in greater detail in the coming chapter, Sinan Efendi’s fear for his salvation points the readers to a new period his life as a sheikh and shows us that careers in the ‘ilmiyye and Sufism were not seen as interchangeable. Yet, interestingly, here too ‘Aṭā’ī’s focus is on the appointments. The entry

does not present a withdrawal from these worldly engagements. On the contrary, it continues with a record of Sinan Efendi’s curriculum vitae as a sheikh. It offers a detailed list of the lodges Sinan Efendi served giving the names, location and dates until his death which ‘Aṭā’ī carefully recorded as he did for Sinan Efendi’s appointments in the ‘ilmiyye. But why such a meticulous curriculum vitae? Probably because this was what an early seventeenth-century Ottoman reader expected from a work like the Ḥadā’iḳ. Manuscript copies of the Shaqā’iq are full of marginal notices of the late sixteenth-century readers adding or correcting information about appointments. These readers seem to have been very much interested in minute details about their deceased colleagues’ careers and troubled with missing and incorrect information about their appointments.80 Such reader expectation, of which ‘Aṭā’ī was probably aware, must have been influential in the composition of the Ḥadā’iḳ. Moreover, he was not the only biographer of his period committed to satisfiying the demand for such precise information. Compared to their earlier colleagues, late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century biographers took greater care to note dates and names of positions. While biographers like Taşköprüzade, ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi and Lāṭīfī would be content to mention a certain poet was a teacher, Ali b. Bālī, Kınalızade and Riyāẓī were more likely to provide the dates and names of each appointment.81 This interest in factual specification when writing about careers may be a result of the growth of bureaucratization. By the mid-sixteenth century, career lines in the ‘ilmiyye seem to have been more clearly marked with hierarchically ordered positions from that of the earlier period. In response to an increased number of positions and systems of appointments, new record-keeping practices were developed such as the records of teaching permit holders.82 Biographers followed the interest in appointments closely. When composing their works, they also provided precise factual information by using these registers. ‘Aṭā’ī was one of them. As discussed by Suat Donuk, he must have used appointment registrars of the ‘ilmiyye.83 A similar kind of concern for career lines seems to have taken place for the Sufi sheikhs as well. For example, the Halveti sheikh biographer Yusuf Sinan devoted his work almost entirely to explaining appointments of the sheikhs of his sub-branch and included very little information on the spiritual experiences, miraculous deeds or teachings about controversial issues of his sheikhs.84 Such a curriculum vitae also occupied the major part of Ḥadā’iḳ entries with little or no discussion of the sheikhs’ spiritual experiences and their relationships with followers. Sinan Efendi’s entry is not an exception. The chronological discussion of his career constitutes the longest and most detailed part of the entry. The following parts are brief. ‘Aṭā’ī praises Sinan Efendi’s devotion to the practice of litany and seclusion, two major spiritual practices of the Halveti path, with a few words and ends the entry by noting how he joined the company of the sheikh in Tırhala for three years with a couple of sentences discussed in the previous chapter. Despite their time together, ‘Aṭā’ī does not share any stories about the sheikh’s spiritual pursuits nor give detailed information about their relationship. Perhaps ‘Aṭā’ī found it inappropriate to devote a long and detailed section on Sinan Efendi since he was not a founder of a branch or among the well-known sheikhs of his period. He might have wanted to abide the codes of decorum of his hierarchic compilation by not including anecdotal stories in this entry.

Or perhaps ‘Aṭā’ī’s stories about Sinan Efendi were not among the kinds of stories he wanted to include in the Ḥadā’iḳ. The majority of the stories and notices ‘Aṭā’ī chose to include about the Sufi sheikhs endorse his book’s emphasis on imperial order. They present a Sufi life as a life entangled in the lives of the sultans, bureaucrats, military and the ulema. These are brief notes on the social ties that united the sheikhs with the sultans (29), the ulema (27), viziers (15) and other members of military elite (8). Notes on these relations (79) occur in stark contrast to the scarcity of notes about relations with other sheikhs (3) and with disciples from the common people (3). In these notices, ‘Aṭā’ī related how the Sufi sheikhs received patronage from the sultans, viziers and the other members of the military elite who gave them monetary gifts and built shrines or lodges.85 He also mentioned how the Sufi sheikhs were admired by ulema for their ‘ilm and were visited by them often, which showed the mutual respect between these two groups.86 His notices are usually very short, comprising only one or two sentences. We read that (Sheikh Mehmed Daġī) was invited to Istanbul during the age of Murad Han. He entered the sultan’s audience and was honored with much favor by his visits... The noble chief office holder Kemal Efendi used to treat (Sheikh Emrullah Çelebi) in favor and honored him greatly by visiting his dervish cell.87 The brevity of these notices is significant. Unlike many other biographers of sacred lives, ‘Aṭā’ī did not portray the miraculous deeds of the sheikhs and how they astonished sultans, viziers or the ulema with their extraordinary powers. There must have been a number of occasions for a sheikh to show his power to the sultan or the ulema. For example, we know from contemporaneous historians that sheikhs were often invited by the sultan to participate in communal prayers against plague.88 However, among the three hundred entries in only three do we have a brief mention of a sheikh’s role in bringing a much-awaited rain.89 We also know from previous histories how sheikhs joined military campaigns, but in the Ḥadā’iḳ there are only a few short notices about the wondrous military deeds of the sheikhs.90 Other kinds of miraculous deeds of the sheikhs, such as providing food or curing the sick, which we often find in sacred lives by Jāmī or ‘Aṭṭār, which were popular at this time, are also rare in the Ḥadā’iḳ. Did not ‘Aṭā’ī expect the sheikhs to provide help in a precarious world of famine, plague and other maladies? Did he not want to display the otherworldly powers of the sheikhs in the lives of the ruling circles? ‘Aṭā’ī preferred to emphasize the support the sheikhs received from the ruling circles rather than portraying the support the sheikhs bestowed upon them. Moreover, rather than the otherworldly feasts, he wanted to narrate the this-worldly ties between the sheikhs and the ruling circles as well as the positions the sheikhs took. This is not to say that there was no place for otherworldly experiences in the Ḥadā’iḳ. Although this-worldly engagements of the sheikhs constituted the focal point of his work, ‘Aṭā’ī gave significant roles to the otherworldly experiences, especially dreams and meetings with the dead. These stories do not appear in the Ḥadā’iḳ entries often (29) compared to the frequent notices about sheikhs’ relationships with sultans and the ulema, but when they do, they

force us to look beyond the career-oriented socially tied lives in the Ḥadā’iḳ. Visits from the dead, for instance, make us see how the dead relatives, friends, lovers and acquaintances share the world of the living. These special dead knock on doors, wait at the gates, welcome travelers on the roads and send letters. Sheikhs, who were able to contact them since they had severed their ties with this world through ascetic practices, show us what ordinary people could not see. With their stories, we can have a different view of this-worldly concerns about appointments and patronage networks. ‘Aṭā’ī appoints a more radical role to the dream stories. These stories turn the orderly, thisworldliness of the Ḥadā’iḳ, upside down. They also reveal the significance of social ties that bind the sheikhs to the ulema and sultans, but the ulema and sultans portrayed here are not patrons of a superior position. They are discontented and remorseful men who do not know whether they can reach salvation. Dreams shake the ulema and motivate them to leave their careers for the Sufi paths. Dreams also function as a medium to criticize the ruling elite and orient them towards the guidance of the sheikhs. For example, the Bayrami sheikh Yāvsī dreams of the Prophet, who criticizes the chief mufti and the finance director for their policies.91 In another dream, the Halveti sheikh Nureddinzade sees the Prophet scolding Sultan Süleyman for neglecting a campaign.92 Thus, like the visits from the dead, the dreams show us a world which is very different from the orderly career-oriented world that shapes the main body of the Ḥadā’iḳ.

Gardener at work: ‘Aṭā’ī and his sources Before we turn to a closer examination of these otherworldly encounters in the following chapters, I would like to discuss how ‘Aṭā’ī used his sources to present a particular portrait of Sufi lives in a medium of debate. First of all, we could ask whether he had time and energy to shape each of his one thousand entries with special care. Although periods of unemployment between his appointments must have given him an opportunity to focus on the manuscript, he must have had limited time for writing during his kadiships at Tırhala and Skopje. The availability of a number of earlier biographical works must have aided him greatly for his immense compilation.93 Here is an example of how much ‘Aṭā’ī relied on Ali b. Bālī’s work for his entry of the Halveti sheikh Bālī Efendi, whose life will be discussed in greater detail in the last chapter: Among the great sheikhs of his time, Sheikh Muslihiddin known as Nureddinzade, the guide of the keen followers, slandered and blamed (Bālī Efendi) saying “Bringing out innovations which the ancestors did not practice causes mischief.”94 (‘Aṭā’ī) The ulema and sheikhs of his time, especially Sheikh Muslihiddin, famous as Nureddinzade slandered (Bālī Efendi). There was a great conflict between them. (Nureddinzade) blamed him for this behavior and told that this was an innovation and none among the great sheikhs or virtuous great men has done it before.95 (Ali b. Bālī) Such a precise transmission of a previous source may raise doubts about the “originality” of the Ḥadā’iḳ as a work reflecting ‘Aṭā’ī’s views. However, when we look at the Ḥadā’iḳ closer

and examine how ‘Aṭā’ī used his sources, we see a discerning author. First, he chose written sources over oral informants. Although ‘Aṭā’ī had many possible oral informants among his circles, and cited the high-ranking ulema, like his father Nev‘ī and his teacher Ahizade, as his sources, he mostly preferred to use written accounts.96 Rather than introducing novel and different stories about his subjects, he seems to have preferred the transmission of the life stories as presented by his earlier colleagues. This is not to say he gathered his material indiscriminately. On the contrary, by using earlier sources, ‘Aṭā’ī partook in debates about controversial lives and presented his position vis-à-vis earlier biographers. The controversial life of Sheikh Bālī Efendi, to which we will turn in the last chapter, is an interesting example to examine ‘Aṭā’ī’s choices in a medium of debate. Until the Ḥadā’iḳ, Bālī Efendi’s life had been treated in biographical dictionaries of ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Ali b. Bālī, Kınalızade, Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī and Münir-i Belgradi.97 From these works, we learn that Bālī Efendi was born in Tire in Western Anatolia, received medrese education but left the ‘ilmiyye and became a Halveti sheikh. He served at Kurşunlu Türbe in İstanbul until his death in 1572. This factual narrative is illustrated with anecdotal stories about two main controversial aspects in the sheikh’s life: his love affairs and wealth.98 At first glance, different accounts of Bālī Efendi’s life seem exactly the same as his biographers share the same factual information and follow each other closely in their selections of anecdotal stories. A closer look, however, reveals how each held a distinct position and present different portraits in response to each other. The first biographer, ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, for instance, introduced his readers to a wanton young man who was dedicated to chasing beloveds at taverns before his initiation.99 The following biographers seem to have found this presentation problematic and revised it by telling different but related stories. While Ali b. Bālī omitted that part of the sheikh’s life and emphasized his relationship with his own sheikh, Kınalızade portrayed love affairs and drinking as a divine experience and Münir-i Belgradi presented a sheikh in great remorse about his youth. Similarly, these biographers related different accounts of Bālī Efendi’s controversial wealth: an immense amount of gold hidden at his place was discovered after his death. For some like Münir-i Belgradi the source of this wealth was divine. Münir-i Belgradi wrote that Bālī Efendi had kept his hands pure from material possessions and did not distribute money to his followers to prevent their condemnation from it.100 For others, like the historian Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī, the sheikh was an imposter. In his entry, Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī wrote against biographers who defended the sheikh. He narrated how he was close to Bālī Efendi and sought his financial support when in need. However, the sheikh failed him and told him about his poverty. Thus, the great wealth discovered after Bālī Efendi’s death upset and surprised Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī greatly. Did his sheikh lie? Or was this a wealth divinely received after his death? Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī claimed to have received an answer through a dream; he dreamed of the room of the sheikh in his lodge and found only yellowish sands of a desert. This dream convinced him that the sheikh’s heart was not a garden flourishing with miraculous deeds. The gold of the sheikh was in fact dust.101 Was he a wanton young man? A disciple who found his sheikh through a dream? A repentant who cried for his mistakes in youth? A receiver of divine gifts? A sheikh who tried to protect his disciples from material contamination? A miserly hypocrite? Biographers of Bālī Efendi

raised and addressed these questions with their stories. By narrating accounts about the same topic from different viewpoints, they engaged in a debate with each other. ‘Aṭā’ī also partook in this debate through his use of sources. His occasional remarks in the Ḥadā’iḳ show us that he had a number of different biographers to consult, but he preferred to use mainly Ali b. Bālī’s al-ʿIqd al-manẓūm and Kınalızade’s Tezkire as his main sources.102 Among the biographical dictionaries of poets, his preference for Kınalızade over ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi is especially interesting, because he did own a copy of the Meşā‘ir and used it in some other cases in the Ḥadā’iḳ.103 As discussed by Gamm, Kınalızade’s biography was more popular than ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi’s work among the early seventeenth-century Ottomans. For example, the biographer Riyāẓī (d. 1644) also preferred Kınalızade’s work for his main source. Gamm explains this preference as a result of stylistic preferences, which might have also played a role in ‘Aṭā’ī’s choice. Yet, as we have seen, the difference between ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi and the following biographers was not only about style. Kınalızade’s revisions of a wanton life might have made it more attractive as a source for a biographer like ‘Aṭā’ī who could not have been happy with the image of drunken young man and his love affairs.104 When using his sources, ‘Aṭā’ī also made a subtle addition, which showed his personal position in the debate about Bālī Efendi’s controversial wealth. Kınalızade did not relate anything about this wealth and Ali b. Bālī presented the debate without taking a side. ‘Aṭā’ī, however, wanted to legitimize the sheikh against his opponents on this issue. He wrote how the posthumously discovered wealth had a divine origin. Thus, he defended the sheikh vis-à-vis writers who condemned him like Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī as well as those who did not take a side like Ali b. Bālī and Kınalızade. To conclude, since subtle differences in a past literary tradition are difficult to identify, it is easy to overlook ‘Aṭā’ī’s position in the debates about controversial lives. Today, Ottoman biographical works like the Ḥadā’iḳ seem like passive repetitions of earlier work. Yet, a closer look reveals how ‘Aṭā’ī shaped his entries like that of Bālī Efendi. ‘Aṭā’ī presented his subjects in a carefully demarcated textual garden through his choices in the arrangement, style and content. The Sufi sheiks in his work are members of a dynastic, hierarchic and exclusive realm. To understand their place in the Ḥadā’iḳ further, we now turn to a close reading of the Ḥadā’iḳ stories and explore what the dreams and the dead tell us about this well-ordered garden.

Notes See for instance, Marjorie Dryburgh and Sarah Dauncey, ‘Chinese Life Writing: Themes and Variations’, in Marjorie Dryburg and Sarah Dauncey (eds), Writing Lives in China, 1600–2010, pp. 21–56 and the contributions to the edited volume Thomas F. Mayer and D.R. Woolf (eds), The Rhetorics of Life-Writing in Early Modern Europe. We need more in-depth research on the various uses of the rich imagery of gardens in Islamicate literary traditions. For pioneering examples, see for instance Julie Scott Meisami, ‘Allegorical Gardens in the Persian Poetic Tradition: Nezami, Rumi, Hafez’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 17.2 (May, 1985): 229–260 and Wheeler Thackston, ‘Mughal Gardens in Persian Poetry’ in James L. Wescoat, Joachim Wolschke-Bulmah (eds) Mughal Gardens: Sources, Places, Representations, and Prospects, (Washington, 1996); pp. 233–259. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 760: Mānend-i gülberg-i ṭarī-yi gonce-yi serbeste ḳullesinden ‘āşıkār olup ḳadeḥ-i zinād-ı ictihād ile çerāġ-ı fikrini īḳād. Ibid., p. 198: Gülzār-ı dil-zārına ṣārsār-ı fenā vezān. Ibid., p. 67: Gül-i bülbül-nevāz-ı gülşen-i ‘irfān.

Ibid., p. 201: dāmençīn-i ḫākdān-ı fenā ve müteveccih-i gülşen-serāy-ı beḳā olmış idi. Baha Tanman discusses the architectural and ceremonial relations between the tomb and the lodge in his ‘Settings for the Veneration of Saints’, trans. M.E. Quiley-Pinar, in Raymond Lifchez (ed.), The Dervish Lodge, Architecture, Art, and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey, (Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford, 1992), pp. 130–71. For late sixteenth-century examples from introductory sections, see Şerif b. Şerif, Menāḳıb-ı Evliyā Risālesi, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Hacı Mahmud Efendi 4552, fols 3b–4a; Mehmed Vifak, Menāḳīb-ı Seyyid Aḥmed el-Bedevī Tercümesi, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Hacı Mahmud Efendi 4520, fols 4a; and Musa Sadri, Raġā’ib al-Manāqīb, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Hacı Mahmud Efendi 4618, fols 2b. Thomas J. Heffernan, Sacred Biography: Saints and Their Biographers in the Middle Ages (New York and London, 1988), pp. 18–22. Cooperson, Classical Arabic Biography, pp. 1–22. Pellat, Charles, ‘Manāḳib’, in P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W.P. Heinrichs (eds), Encyclopedia of Islam, Second Edition, Brill Online, 2015, http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-ofislam-2/manakib-COM_0660. For numerous translations and copies of the works of ‘Aṭṭār and Jāmī, see İstanbul Kütüphaneleri Tarih Coğrafya Yazmaları Kataloğu (Istanbul, 1943), no. 368–73, 303 and 378. Qushayrī’s compilation was also among the popular works in late sixteenth-century circles that Murad III ordered translation of by his tutor. See Tahsin Yazıcı, Tasavvuf ’un İlkeleri: Risale-i Kuşeyrî (Istanbul, 1966), p. XV. For the biographical works on Rūmī and Khawaja Ubaidullah, see İstanbul Kütüphaneleri Tarih Coğrafya Yazmaları Kataloğu, no. 82, 280, 281, 300 and 308. So far I have only been able to find a few references to biographical works in probate inventories, mostly the works of ‘Aṭṭār and Jāmī. My search was limited to a published inventories, such as İsmail Erünsal, ‘Türk Edebiyatı Tarihinin Arşiv Kaynakları IV: Lami‘i Çelebi’nin Terekesi’, Journal of Turkish Studies Fahir İz Armağanı I, 14 (1990): 180–87; Ömer Lütfi Barkan, ‘Edirne Askeri Kassamına Ait Tereke Defterleri (1545–1659)’, Türk Tarih Kurumu Belgeler, 3/5–6 (1968): 1–479; A. İhsan Karataş, ‘XVI. Yüzyılda Bursa’da Tedavüldeki Kitaplar’, in Hasan Basri Öcalan (ed.), Geçmişten Günümüze Osmanlı Kültüründe Bursa (Istanbul, 2003), pp. 83–102; Said Öztürk, Askeri Kassama Ait Onyedinci Asır İstanbul Tereke Defterleri (Sosyo-Ekonomik Tahlil) (Istanbul, 1995), pp. 178–84. A systematic analysis of probate inventories for Ottoman reading habits is a much needed area of research for Ottoman cultural studies. Fu‘ādī, Ömer b. Mehmed, Halvetiliğin Şa’baniyye Kolu Menakıb-ı Şa’ban-ı Veli ve Türbename, ed. Nihal L. Yazar (Ankara, 1985), pp. 109. John J. Curry, The Transformation of Muslim Mystical Thought in the Ottoman Empire, 197–292. See also John J. Curry, ‘Defending the Cult of Saints in Seventeenth-Century Kastamonu: ‘Ömer El-Fu’adi’s Contribution to Religious Debate in Ottoman Society’, in Colin Imber and Keiko Kiyotaki (eds), Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West (London and New York, 2005), vol. 2, pp. 139–48. Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire. Here I do not want to suggest a monolithic opposition between the written and the oral sources of the sheikhs’ lives. They must have enhanced each other greatly. For an account of this relationship, see Adam Fox, Oral and Literate Culture in England, 1500–1700 (Oxford and New York, 2000). Rhoads Murphey, ‘Ottoman Historical Writing in the Seventeenth-Century’, p. 99. During this period, followers of the Mevlevi, Bektaşi, Nakşıbendi and Bayrami orders were mostly engaged in circulating hagiographies about their founders written in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. See Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Kültür Tarihi Kaynağı Olarak Menakıbnameler (Metodolojik bir Yaklaşım) (Ankara, 1992), pp. 45–61; İstanbul Kütüphaneleri Tarih Coğrafya Yazmaları Kataloğu, no. 281, 300 and 349. John J. Curry, ‘The Growth of Turkish Hagiographical Literature within the Halveti Order in the 16th and 17th Centuries’, in Hasan Celal Güzel, Cem Oğuz and Osman Karatay (eds), The Turks (Ankara, 2002), vol. 3, pp. 912–15. Yusuf Sinan, Tezkiretüʾl-Halvetiyye, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 1372. See also, Aslı Niyazioğlu, ‘Dreams, Ottoman Biography Writing, and the Halveti-Sünbüli Sheikhs of Sixteenth Century Istanbul’, in Ralph Elger and Yavuz Erköse (eds.), Many Ways of Speaking About the Self: Middle Eastern Ego-Documents in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish: 14th – 20th Century (Wiesbaden, 2010), pp. 171–185. Ḥulvī, Lemazāt- ı Ḥulviyye. Münir-i Belgradi, Silsiletü’l-Muḳarrebīn ve Menāḳıbi’l-Müttaḥīn, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Şehit Ali Paşa 2819; Taxhidin Biti, Münīri-i Belgrâdî ve Silsiletü’l-Mukarrebîn Adlı Eseri, MA thesis, Marmara University, 2001. Lāṭīfī, Tezkiretü’ş-Şu’arā, published as Latîfî, Tezkiretü’ş-Şu’arâ ve Tabsıtatü’n-Nuzamâ, ed. Rıdvan Canım (Ankara, 2000); ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Meşâ‘irü’ş- Şu‘arâ’ İnceleme, Metin, ed. Filiz Kılıç (İstanbul, 2010); Kınalızade Hasan Çelebi, Tezkiretü’şŞu‘arā’, ed. İbrahim Kutluk (2 vols, Ankara, 1989); Riyāẓī, Riyāẓü’-ş-Şu‘arā, ms. Nuruosmaniye Library, 3724. For a selected bibliography of the scholarship on these works and lists of manuscript copies, see İpekten, Türk Edebiyatının Kaynaklarından Türkçe Şu’ara Tezkireleri, pp. 40–81. Lāṭīfī, pp. 36–59. See also Selim Sırrı Kuru, ‘Latifî Tezkiresinde Mutasavvıflar’, Ramis Dara (ed.), Bursa’da Dünden Bugüne

Tasavvuf Kültürü (Bursa, 2004), vol. 3, pp. 197–202. Helga Anetshofer, ‘Meşâ‘irü’ş- Şuarâ‘da Toplum-Tanımaz Sapkın Dervişler’, in Hatice Aynur and Aslı Niyazioğlu (eds), Âşık Çelebi ve Şairler Tezkiresi Üzerine Yazılar (Istanbul, 2011), p. 145. See for instance, Feridun M. Emecen, ‘Osmanlı Kronikleri ve Biyografi’, İslâm Araştırmaları Dergisi, 3 (1999): 83–90 and Schmidt, The Joys of Philology. Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī, Kühnü’l-Aḥbār, selections published as Gelibolulu Mustafa Ali ve Kühnü’l-Ahbâr’ında II. Selim, III. Murat ve III. Mehmet Devirleri, ed. Faris Çerçi (Kayseri, 2000), vol. 2, pp. 247–48. For Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī’s relationship with his contemporaneous sheikhs, see Fleisher, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, pp. 57–58. Guy Burak, The Second Formation of Islamic Law, pp. 94–99; see also Donuk, Nev ‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 31–38. As ‘Aṭā’ī recorded, the Shaqā’iq became a highly sought-after book soon after its completion. There was such great demand that a copier was able to earn his livelihood only by producing Shaqā’iq manuscripts. The relatively large number of surviving Shaqā’iq copies from the late sixteenth century reveals this interest. For instance, Behcet Gönül has identified 62 in Istanbul libraries. For the popularity of the work and the surviving copies, see Donuk, Nev ‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 14–21 and Necatigil, Şaḳāiḳ al-Nuʿmāniyye, pp. 137–46. See, for instance, the Ḥadā’iḳ copy in Topkapı Sarayı Library Revan 1442. Ḥadā’iḳ, ms. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Library, Revan 1442; ms. Süleymaniye Library, Beşir Ağa 475 and 478. Ḥadā’iḳ, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Bayezit 5000; See also, Güvemli, Hâdaik-al- Hakaik, pp. 128–129. Zygmunt Bauman, Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post-Modernity, Intellectuals (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1987), p. 51. Sehī Bey, Heşt Bihişt: The Teẕkire: An Analysis of the First Biographical Work on Ottoman Poets with a Critical Edition based on Süleymaniye Library, Ayasofya, O. 3544, ed. Günay Kut (Cambridge, MA, 1978), p. 315. Cornell Fleischer, ‘Preliminaries to the Study of the Ottoman Bureaucracy’, Journal of Turkish Studies, 10-12 (1986–88), p. 141. For an interesting discussion of how the expension of an increasingly specialized bure-ocracy gave birth to and shaped bureocrat-historians in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Piterberg, An Ottoman Tragedy: History and Historiography at Play, pp. 43–49. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 163. Ahmet Sevgi, ‘Latîfî’, Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 27, p. 111. Ali Anooshar, ‘Writing, Speech, and History for an Ottoman Biographer’, pp. 53, 60–62. See Tülün Değirmenci, ‘Osmanlı Sarayının Geçmişe Özlemi.’ Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, 56–58. Sehī Bey, Heşt Bihişt, pp. 6–7. When organizing this work, Sehī Bey followed and re-arranged the work by Nevāī composed in 1491. See Mustafa İsen, ‘XVI. Yüzyıl Sonuna Kadar Osmanlılarda Biyografi Geleneği’, re-published in his Ötelerden Bir Ses, Divan Edebiyatı ve Balkanlarda Türk Edebiyatı Üzerine Makaleler (Ankara, 1997), pp. 1–28. İsen, ‘XVI. Yüzyıl Sonuna Kadar Osmanlılarda Biyografi Geleneği’, pp. 19–27. Johan G.J. ter Haar, ‘“Wonderous caravan leaders who take the caravan to the sanctuary through a hidden path,” The Naqshbandi Order according to Abd al-Rahman Jami’, Journal of Turkish Studies, 26/1 (2002): 311–22. For a study of this work as Taşköprizade’s source, see Barbara Flemming, ‘Glimpses of Turkish Saints: Another Look at Lāmi‘ī and Ottoman Biographers’, in M.E. Subtelny (ed.), Essays Presented to Annemarie Schimmel on the Occasion of her Retirement from Harvard University, Journal of Turkish Studies, 18 (1994): 59–73. Jawid A. Mojaddedi, The Biographical Dictionary Tradition in Sufism: The ṭabaqāt Genre from al-Sulāmī to Jāmī (Richmond and Surrey, 2001), p. 155. Topçular Katibi, pp. 621–23; Hasanbeyzade, Hasan Bey-zâde Tarihi, vol. 3, p. 345–46; Na’īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, vol. 2, p. 255 Na’īmā, Târih-i Na’îmâ, vol. 2, pp. 509–11. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 687. Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 121–25. Terzioğlu, Sufi Dissident in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 220–34. Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, pp. 115–125. Necai Gamm, Riyāżī’s Riyāżü’-ş-Şu’arā, PhD thesis, University of Chicago, 1976, p. 86. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 699. Studies on Ottoman prose are rare. For pioneering scholarship, see Christine Woodhead, ‘Estetik Nesir’, in Talat Sait Halman et al. (eds), Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi (Istanbul, 2006), vol. 2, pp. 317–325; Andreas Tietze, ‘Mustafa Ali’s Prose Style’, Archivum Ottomanicum, 5 (1973): 297–321; Barbara Flemming, ‘Bemerkungen zur türkischen Prosa vor der Tanzimat- Zeit’, Der Islam, 50 (1973): 157–67. Mertol Tulum, ‘Osmanlı Nesrinin Dili’, in Hatice Aynur et al. (eds), Nesrin İnşâsı: Düzyazıda Dil, Üslûp ve Türler, Eski Türk Edebiyatı Çalışmaları V (İstanbul, 2010), p. 34: Tam anlamıyla işgal güçlerinin beyleri, paşaları, erleri, birlikleri arasına sinmiş onlara hizmet sunan kullara benzemiyor mu? Paul Losensky, ‘The Creative Compiler: The Art of Rewriting in ‘Aṭṭār’s Tazkirat al-awliyā’ in Franklin Lewis and Sunil

Sharma (eds), The Necklace of Pleidaes: Studies in Persian Literature Presented to Heshmat Moayyad on his 80 th Birthday (Amsterdam and West Lafayette, 2007), p. 107–119. See also Donuk’s meticiolous evaluation of the Ḥadā’iḳ’s style in his Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 113–20. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 606, 863. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 762. Gamm, Riyāżī’s Riyāżü’-ş-Şu’arā, p. 64. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 6. Out of 162 entries of the sheikhs in the Ḥadā’iḳ, I was able to identify the affiliations of 114 sheikhs. Although the Mevlevi order is generally known as having good relations with the Ottoman ruling circles, instances of problems in this relationship, especially those involving the Şems branch in this period, have been noted by modern scholars. See for example, Reşat Öngören, Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf, pp. 205–218. Tamari, Teaching and Learning in 18th-Century Damascus, pp. 90–94 and Abdülkerim Abdülkadiroğlu, ‘Baldırzade Mehmed Efendi’ Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi (44 vols, Istanbul, 1988-2013), vol. 5, pp. 9–10. Out of 162 entries of the sheikhs in the Ḥadā’iḳ, I was able to identify the residence of 137 sheikhs. By Istanbul residents, I do not imply only those who spent all their lives in Istanbul, but those who received their education and posts in Istanbul. Guy Burak, The Second Formation of Islamic Law, pp. 94–95. Naẓmī, Hediyyetü’l-İḫvān, published as Osmanlılarda Tasavvufi Hayat, Halvetilik Örneği, ed. Osman Türer (Istanbul, 2005), p. 453: Şems Efendi ‘inde‘l-ḫavāṣṣ ve‘l-‘avāmm meşhūr ve be-nām ve Sīvāsī Efendi Zeyl yazılduḳda Sulṭān Aḥmed cāmi‘-i şerīfinde vā‘iẓ ve nāṣiḥ ve Yavṣī tekyesinde şeyḫ iken ve bi‘d defe‘āt ziyāretlerine varub, mübārek desti şerīflerin būs idüb ve mevlid günleri ‘ulemā-yı ‘iẓām ile va‘ẓlarına ḥażır olub, istimā‘ itmişken, ‘Şems Efendi’nüñ ve Sīvāsī Efendi’nüñ tefāsīl-i aḥvālleri ma‘lūmuz olmamaġın silsileleri yazılmadı’ deyu taḥrīr itmişdür. Ma‘a hāzā, cemī-‘i ṭuruḳuñ ma‘lūm ve mechūl olanlarını yazmışdur. Ibid., pp. 62–63. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 378. For women scholars, hadith transmitters and mystics recorded in earlier Islamic biographical compilations, see Ruth Roded, Women in Islamic Biographical Collections from Ibn Sa‘d to Who’s Who (Colarado and London, 1994), pp. 15–18, 63–89, 91–113. For the women patrons of the Nakşibendi order in the early modern Ottoman Empire, see Dina LeGall, A Culture of Sufism, pp. 49, 60–62. For a study of a seventeenth-century Ottoman Halveti woman mystic, see Kafadar, ‘Mütereddit Bir Mutasavvıf’. Bruno de Nicola, ‘The Ladies of Rūm: A Hagiographic View of Women in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century Anatolia’, Journal of Sufi Studies, 2/3 (2014): 132–56. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 2, 19. For a discussion on these motifs, see Zeynep Sabuncu, Mevlevi, Bektaşi, Bayrami Tarikatlerine Bağlı Dört Evliya Menakıpnamesi Üzerine Bir İnceleme, PhD thesis, Boğaziçi University, 1989. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 196–97. Sajdi, The Barber of Damascus, pp. 30–31. Ḥadā’iḳ, Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2344, 135b. Please see the Appendix for the transliteration of Ottoman Turkish and notes on manuscript variations. For an example of the record of conversion as year zero in seventeenth-century biography writing, see Alan Pritchard, English Biography in the Seventeenth Century: A Critical Survey (Toronto, Buffalo and London, 2005), p. 57. This might have been partly due to the significance of the ‘ilm education for a sheikh. Many sheikhs like Sinan Efendi were employed at mosques to teach Quran commentaries, give religious opinions, and to provide guidance for ‘ilm related questions after their sermons. Thus, background in ‘ilm could be a required skill in a sheikh’s profession and biographers like ‘Aṭā’ī often noted this background carefully among the qualifications of their subjects. See, for example, the Ḥadā’iḳ copy in İstanbul University library Ty02404, fols 52b and 87b. Gamm, Riyāżī’s Riyāżü’-ş-Şu’arā, pp. 93–94, 96–106. For these institutional developments, see Yasemin Bayezıd, Osmanlı İlmiyye Mesleğinde İstihdam (XVI. Yüzyıl) (Ankara, 2014); Richard C. Repp, ‘Some Observations on the Development of the Ottoman Learned Hierarchy’, in N. R. Keddie (ed.), Scholars, Saints, and Sufis (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1972), pp. 17–32. Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 144–145. Niyazioğlu, ‘Dreams, Ottoman Biography Writing, and the Halveti-Sünbüli Sheikhs of Sixteenth Century Istanbul’. See for example, Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 72, 73, 74, 76, 190, 193, 362, 370, 371, 599. See, for example, Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 76, 86, 212, 340, 467, 597, 622. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 601: ‘Aṣr-ı Murād Ḫānī’de İstānbūl’a da’vet olunup ḥużūr-ı pādişāhīye dāḫil ve mahżar-ı teşrīf-i lüṭf-i şāmil olmuşlar idi and Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 622: Ṣadr-ı ‘ālīḳadr Kemāl Efendi ḥażretleri iltifāt idüp hücre-yi dervīşānesine teşrīfi erzānī buyururlar idi. See, for instance, Selānikī, Tarih-i Selânikî, p. 759.

Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 77, 204 and 652. See, for instance, Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 464 and 769. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 344. Ibid., p. 212. The rūznāmçes, registrars of ‘ilmiyye appointments, must have also helped him to ensure the factual accuracy and detail of his work. See Donuk, Nevî-zâde Atâyî, pp. 138–45. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 209: Hem ‘aṣırları olan meşāyīḫ-i kibārdan mürşid-i erbāb-irāde eş-Şeyḫ Muslihiddin eş-şehīr biNureddinzade “Eslāfından görülmeyen bid‘atı iḥdas bā‘is-i fitne-yi aḥdāsdur” diyü merḥūma ṭa‘ān ve teşnī‘ eyledikde… Ali b. Bālī, al-ʿIqd al-manẓūm, p. 429: Wa min dhalika ṭa‘nuhu ‘alā ‘ulamā’ awānihi wa mashāyikh zamānihi khuṣūṣan al-shaykh Muṣliḥ al-dīn al-musliḥ al dīn al-mushta-hir bi-Nūr al-dīnzāde. Fa-innahu ḥaṣala baynahumā waḥsha ‘aẓīma. Fa-innahu kāna yaṭ‘an fīhi ‘alā al-fi‘l al-mazbūr wa yaqūl annahu bid‘a ibtada‘aha wa lam yasbaq ilayha aḥad min al-mashāyikh al-‘iẓām wa al-āfāḍil al-kirām. Wa huwayujīb bi-anna sāḥat al-karāmāt muttasi‘a wa rutbat al-awliyā’ mutafāwita. Wa la yaḍurruna ‘adam al-sıbq fihī. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 345, 360, 423, 597, 600. The earliest entry is in ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi’s biographical dictionary of poets completed in 1568 while Bālī Efendi was still alive. The next entry appeared in 1574 in Ali b. Bālī’s al-ʿIqd al-manẓūm, five years after his death of the sheikh and fifteen years after the completion of the Meşā‘irü’ş- Şu‘arā’. Kınalızade’s biographical dictionary of poets completed in 1585–86, Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī’s chronicle completed in 1600, and Münir-i Belgradi’s biographical dictionary of Sufi sheikhs completed in the early seventeenth century followed these earlier records. Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Meşâ‘irü’ş- Şu‘arâ’, pp. 498–503; Ali b. Bālī, al- Iqd, pp. 427–29; Kınalızade, Tezkiretü’ş-Şu‘arā’, vol. 1, pp. 271–74; Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī, Kühnü’l-Ahbâr’ın Tezkire Kısmı, pp. 144–46; Münir-i Belgradi, Silsiletü’l-Muḳarrebīn, fols 115a– 117a. ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Meşâ‘irü’ş- Şu‘arâ’, pp. 498–499: Evā’il-i ḥālinde mey-perest ve ‘ışḳ-ı şāhid ile mest idi. Her ḳanda ḫum-ı mey görse küp düşerdi ve her kūy-ı ḫarābātda eski ḥaṣır döşerdi. Maḥbūb izin görse kebkebi naḳşın noḳta-i ḫāki idüp seyr-i noḳta ile ḫānesin bilürdi, dil-ber ṣaydına ḫod yatıya varurdı. Münir-i Belgradi, Silsiletü’l-Muḳarrebīn, fols 115b–116b. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, pp. 57–58, 101. For ‘Aṭā’ī’s notice of Ali b. Bālī as a main source for his work, see Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 280 and 352; for Kınalızade, p. 76 and 192; and for Ḥulvī, p. 601. ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi, Meşā‘irü’ş- Şu‘arā’, ms. Hacı Selim Ağa Library, Hüdayi Efendi 1157. A note tells that “In 1033/1623–24, this copy was bought by ‘Aṭā’ī.” The entry on Bālī Efendi does not contain any marginalia by ‘Aṭā’ī, which he left occassionaly in other parts of the work. For references to the Meşā‘ir, see Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 76 and 192. Gamm, Riyāżī’s Riyāżü’-ş-Şu’arā, pp. 109–116. The dated manuscript copies of these two works given by İpekten also support the popularity of the work of Kınalızade over ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi among seventeenth-century readers. Among the 31 dated copies of Kınalızade’s work listed here, 23 were copied between the years 1004/1595–1043/1633. Among the 15 dated copies of ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi’s work only two were dated from this period. The majority of the copies (10) were dated from 971/1563 to 988/1580. These numbers suggest that even if seventeenth century readers had read ‘Ᾱşıḳ Çelebi’s work from earlier copies, they did not want to produce more copies. See İpekten, Türk Edebiyatının Kaynaklarından Türkçe Şu’ara Tezkireleri, pp. 55–56, 59– 60.

3 From this world to the realm of dreams

Dream stories in the Ḥadā’iḳ present us a world of anxious and frightened ulema. “The scent of death blew towards his soul. The freezing wind of divine fear shakes him like a leaf in autumn.”1 These are the words through which ‘Aṭā’ī often explains the initiation of the ulema to the Sufi path. If it were spring, the winds would have brought the news of one’s beloved, a common image in Ottoman poetry. But it is autumn, and winds bring them the news of approaching death. These ulema reflect on their deeds and decide that they can save themselves only by leaving their careers. It is surprising to find such a gloomy depiction of the ‘ilmiyye path in a book dedicated to the glorification of the ulema. Would not an ‘ālīm reading the Ḥadā’iḳ be intimidated by such a chilling depiction of his career path? If so, the terrifying dream of a fellow ‘ālīm who left his career to seek the guidance of a Sufi sheikh might have been even more startling. This is the dream of Hüdā’ī, a young deputy judge and a lower-ranking professor in Bursa. After a particularly taxing day at court, Hüdā’ī had a dream of Hell where he saw devout acquaintances whom he had expected to find in Heaven. Even worse, his own professor, known for his righteousness, was there. Like Hüdā’ī, who saw some of the ulema among the flames, Yakub Efendi (d. 1571), an ‘ilm student, dreamed of his extreme agony on Judgment Day, and about twenty years later Şuhūdī (d. ca. late sixteenth century), a medrese graduate, found himself having great difficulty crossing the Bridge over Hell. All three dreamers decided that their careers would not lead them to salvation and gave up their positions to seek a life devoted to Sufism. Through their terrifying dreams, winds of fear entered the well-ordered garden of ‘Aṭā’ī. This chapter is an attempt to understand what ‘Aṭā’ī wanted to tell his readers by narrating these three initiation dreams. A better understanding of these dreams is possible only when we learn more about the particular social dynamics which encouraged the ulema to seek careers on the Sufi path. However, when doing so, we must be careful not to offer what we perceive as a more reliable explanation over that of our subjects. If we search for the “real” lives of the Ottomans beyond the stories they told about themselves, we inscribe our own contemporary expectations from a life story and miss an important opportunity to comprehend what a seventeenth-century Ottoman biographer has to say about the lives of his subjects. Thus, this chapter focuses on the stories themselves and explores why ‘Aṭā’ī included them in his work. I argue that ‘Aṭā’ī narrated dreams as a medium of criticism about career choices and the social networks that sustained them. After a brief discussion on the ways late sixteenth-century

Ottoman biographers circulated dreams to criticize or defend career paths, I discuss what terrified ‘Aṭā’ī about the ‘ilmiyye path and why he presented his fears by circulating dreams. Dream stories, I argue, turn the hierarchic arrangement of the Ḥadā’iḳ upside down and reveal a world where even one’s own professor could be in Hell. These dream accounts take us into a rich lore of initiation stories transmitted through the centuries. How did a king leave his throne to become a poor Sufi? How did a thief repent and find piety on the Sufi path? The well-known initiation stories of prominent Sufis such as Bishr the Barefoot (d. 850) and İbrahim b. Edhem (d. 782) must have provided the Ottoman practitioners of Sufism a template to understand and explain their own experiences.2 Still, this is not to say that Ottoman biographers narrated exact replicas of the earlier models. As studies covering a broad range of time periods from medieval Arabic biographical dictionaries to contemporary ethnographic work have shown, each initiation story is uniquely shaped according to the aims of its narrator.3 In the case of the Ḥadā’iḳ too, we can observe that ‘Aṭā’ī had a specific preference; these are not simply any kinds of dreams but terrifying ones, and the dreamers are not just from any profession, but the ulema. The terrifying aspect of the Ḥadā’iḳ dreams sets them apart from the majority of initiation dreams, which often bring good tidings. “Dreams belong to three categories,” states a dream interpretation book copied in the early seventeenth century, “those sent by God to warn the dreamer, those sent by God as good-tidings, and those sent by the devil.”4 For the contemporary readers of the Ḥadā’iḳ, the dreams of Hüdā’ī, Yakub Efendi and Şuhūdī must have been regarded as examples of divine warning: these protagonists were sinners who were offered an opportunity for salvation. In fact, all of them took advantage of this opportunity and pronounced repentance as soon as they woke up. Repentance, the first condition that an adept has to fulfill in entering the Sufi path, allows one to state one’s determination to leave behind a previous sinful life. Yet this alone was not enough: they had to refrain from all mundane attachments.5 Biographers like ‘Aṭā’ī thus followed all these stories of initiation with a narrative of spiritual exercises for renunciation (riyāẓet) emphasizing their subjects’ extraordinary concern with it. Hüdā’ī, for example, broke his fast only every three days to sniff an apple.6 Although stories about repentance and renunciation are repeated topoi and can be found as a part of the initiation stories of Sufis throughout Islamic history, ‘Aṭā’ī chose to include these stories in the Ḥadā’iḳ almost only for those withdrawing from the ‘ilmiyye and not for the bureaucrat, soldier or artisan recruits.7 A comparison of the initiation of two Bayrami sheikhs, father and son, will illustrate this point. Alaeddin Efendi (d. ca. early sixteenth century) was a soldier participating in a campaign when the Bayrami sheikh İskilibī saved him from a fatal accident, after which he found the sheikh and became his follower.8 However, his son Cerrahzade (d. 1575 or 1576), a müderris, entered the Sufi path through a more difficult and longer passage. His tribulation began with a miraculous stone falling down on him at his medrese room. Terrified, he abandoned his home and roamed cemeteries. He had many painful dreams and visions in this bewildered state such as being burned in an oven and severely beaten up by a holy man. Only after such suffering was he able to complete his spiritual training on the Sufi path.9 Like Cerrahzade’s painful experiences, Hüdā’ī, Yakub Efendi and

Şuhūdī had intense fear in the beginning of their initiation. According to ‘Aṭā’ī, it was the dreams that shook them and guided them to the Sufi path. But why narrate these ulema initiations through such frightening dreams?

Dreams, careers and biographers Before we look into these three dreams more carefully, let us visit the dream realm of the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Ottoman biographers. As discussed in the introduction, historians of the early modern world have shown how dreams were not recorded randomly but circulated to address debated issues of their period.10 Late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Ottoman biographers were also very selective in their inclusions and almost exclusively interested in career dreams. They included these dreams in their works at a time when Ottoman learned circles debated correct paths to take and right guides to follow. Joining this debate, biographers presented their views on career choices through dream narratives. It is perhaps not surprising that biographers wanted to share dreams about careers with their readers in this period. As the ulema, Sufi sheikhs and the bureaucrats navigated in a centrally regulated and competitive system of appointments, career concerns seem to have occupied them day and night. An example of this is the personal diaries of two scribes discovered by Cornell Fleischer in the marginalia of official documentation. Dreams occupy a significant place in these diaries and many of them are good tidings about desired appointments.11 One of the scribes wrote, for instance, On the fourth night of the same month [Zi’l-Ka’de 953/December/January 1546/47] I dreamed that someone came bearing good news. His Excellency Rüstem Paşa had sent him letters, but one of them was written as an anagram. Its content turned out to mean this: “Work steadily in the bureau, and in three years you will get a [salaried] post as long as you serve honestly, and faithfully.” Three years later, he received good news of this expected promotion in a dream: On Thursday night [cuma gicesi] 19 Ramazan 956 [September/October 1550] I had a dream. Some people came and said, “The post of financial director [defterdarlık] to Prince Mustafa has been given to you.” I then gave the good news to my superiors and comrades. By the grace of God [i.e. may it come true].12 Like this scribe who shared his career aspirations with his colleagues through dreams, an eighteenth-century kadi recorded auspicious dreams about desired appointments in his diary.13 These records show the early modern Ottoman interest in recording and circulating career dreams. But should one be a judge, scribe, Sufi, musician or a traveler? Here we step into a contested terrain. What is interesting about these dream records in collected lives is how the biographers used them as a medium of debate on career choices. Like medieval Arab biographers who narrated dreams to promote their views on debated issues of their period,

Ottoman biographers included dreams in their works to defend or criticize career choices.14 An example is a debate on the relative merits of careers in music and architecture. The seventeenth-century biographer Cafer Efendi, for instance, narrated a dream of the chief architect Mehmed Agha (d. 1622) to claim the superiority of a career in architecture to the one in music. In a dream, Mehmed Agha, a music student at that time, finds himself on his way to a pleasure ground with a group of despicable musicians. This dream, according to his biographers, shows him that music would not lead him to salvation and orients him to a career in architecture instead.15 Contemporaneous readers of this account must have understood this dream in the context of a recent debate between musicians and architects. When discussing the parade of guilds in 1638, Evliya Çelebi recorded a debate between the architects and the musicians on the relative merits of their careers. In Evliya Çelebi’s account, it was the musicians who persuaded the authorities and received permission to precede the architects in the protocol. In Cafer Efendi’s work, however, the dream allowed the biographer to claim the superiority of a career in architecture to the one in music.16 When the Ottoman biographers took up their pens to criticize or defend career choices, many turned their attention to the kadiships. On the one hand, we have the defenders of the kadis like Taşköprizade, who included two dreams in the Shaqā’iq to explain why he chose the kadiship. The first is his own dream which convinced him to become a kadi; he received a crown from the Prophet, which a Sufi sheikh interpreted as a good tiding for kadiship. The second dream is similar, and is also about the Prophet’s sanction of kadiship. It is the story of a kadi who used to see the Prophet regularly in his dreams until he withdrew from his post. The dreams ceased suddenly and resumed only upon his return. When the Prophet appeared again, he stated that it was the kadi’s service to the Muslim community that had brought them closer. “This was one of the reasons,” Taşköprizade wrote, “for my decision to become a kadi.” Significantly, Taşköprizade, who held one of the most prestigious positions among the ulema as the kadi of Istanbul, wanted to explain his reasons for becoming a kadi and chose to do this through dreams.17 These two accounts were perhaps Taşköprizade’s response to biographers like Lāṭīfī, who specifically used dreams to criticize kadis. The only dream story that Lāṭīfī included in his biographical dictionary of poets is the kadi Niḥānī’s dream of the Judgment Day. Niḥānī finds himself among the water mills crushing the heads of the unjust kadis. These water mills run on the rivers made up of the tears and blood of the victims. Suddenly, numerous peasants surround him, demanding justice from his tyrannical rule. He tries to flee, but they follow him; he runs, but they run after him. He wakes up in the middle of this chase and quickly decides to leave his career. However, not everybody agrees with this decision. A colleague, for instance, tries to change his mind by reminding him of a hadith about the blessed kadis like Taşköprizade who also claimed legitimacy through the Prophet.18 But Niḥānī replies by arguing for the impossibility of being a just kadi in his time compared to the time of the Prophet. In this debate, the biographer clearly takes the side of his subject and ends the entry by including a lengthy poem from Niḥānī criticizing the kadis. Thus, the dream story, along with that of the discussion and the citation of the poem, functions as a part of Lāṭīfī’s tripartite attack on unjust kadis.19 He was not alone in this attack. Others, including kadis like the poet Cinānī, were also

very critical of their career path and narrated other dreams of kadis being dragged to Hell because of their injustice.20 Here we have to be careful not to overlook these dreams, yet another example of a timeless and general criticism of the judges. Although stories about the kadis in Hellfire can also be found throughout Islamic history, a closer look reveals how Ottoman biographers responded to particular concerns of their period by narrating dreams.21 Theirs was a time when concerned members of learned circles, including the ulema themselves, watched over what they perceived as corrupt and oppressive kadis. Page after page of petitions sent to Istanbul in this period, as well as notices of the divan proceedings which responded to them, present us with kadis accused of various offenses, including a kadi who ran away with court records to hide fraud, or another who did nothing when a priest was caught hiding in the women’s bathhouse. More common and frequent grievances included the various ways the kadis increased their income through collecting extensive court fees, keeping money allocated for the repairs of endowments, issuing false documents, erasing data from court records, and favoring the guilty in return for receiving gifts.22 Such abuses were also recorded by contemporaneous writers of advice treatises who criticized the ulema and made suggestions to improve the system.23 Modern historians have been listening to these voices and what they wanted to say about their times. Among them, Rhoads Murphey has argued that seventeenth-century historians incorporated critical commentary to expose and correct the failings of men in authority. According to him, “in the seventeenth century, a distinct new intellectual order became established according to whose norms the historian was regarded not as authority, but as social critic, satirist, and arbiter of and watch dog over standards of ethical behavior for holders of public office.”24 Dream accounts, as argued by Ahmet Tunç Şen and discussed briefly in the introduction, provided these authors with a fertile medium to present their views.25 Like the poet and kadi Veysī, who used a dream framework to present contemporary discussions about Ottoman decline, a number of biographers used dreams to present their views on the shortcomings of the kadis. Interestingly, it was not only Ottoman authors who used dreams as a medium of debate and criticism in the seventeenth century. Spanish authors of the time who wrote reform treatises also narrated dreams to comment on what they perceived as decline in their period. In these accounts, such as the dream visions of the peasant Pere Porter (d. sometime after 1608) and poet Quevedo (d. 1645), we often encounter visions of Hell populated with the men of power, including the judges and professors of law.26 We also see a similar function of dream narratives in polemical treatises in seventeenth-century England such as the poet Cowley’s (d. 1661) treatise on Oliver Cromwell (d. 1658).27 Like Pere Porter, Quevedo and Cowley who criticized their contemporaries by narrating their dreams, ‘Aṭā’ī presented his critical observations of the ‘ilmiyye by narrating dreams of his fellow ulema. Thus, when we look at his dreams closely, we can see what about the life of a kadi was terrifying for a seventeenthcentury Ottoman biographer like ‘Aṭā’ī and where he directed his readers for salvation in a medium of debate.

Nightmares on the Sufi path ‘Where do I stand?’ and ‘Who is going to save me here?’ ‘Aṭā’ī’s nightmare accounts revolve around these two questions about social networks. They relate how the young ulema found themselves in the hereafter and were terrified to realize that they did not have trustworthy guides to lead them to salvation. These dreams question their ties to the ulema and guide them to establish new bonds with Sufi sheikhs. The significant role of dream narratives in establishing and sustaining communal ties has been noted by early modern historians.28 In his study of conversion dreams in China, Po-Chia Hsia, for instance, has examined how seventeenth-century Chinese Catholic biographers narrated dreams to present the importance of familial ties of the new converts. In their dream accounts, Christian family members dream about each other and tell their dreams to one another.29 Similarly, in the Ḥadā’iḳ ‘Aṭā’ī also emphasizes how dreams establish the ties between disciples and their future sheikhs. Yet, different from many other early modern biographers, ‘Aṭā’ī also narrates the ways dreams question existing social ties. In these accounts, he shares his critical observations about the career choices of the ulema and the social networks which sustained them. One of these dreamers is Hüdā’ī, a prominent Celveti sheikh of seventeenth-century Istanbul. In his entry, before narrating the dream ‘Aṭā’ī briefly presents how Hüdā’ī was born in Şereflikoçhisar in Central Anatolia, went to Istanbul for medrese education, and then followed his teacher Nazırzade as his assistant in Edirne, Damascus, Cairo and finally Bursa. On the eve of the dream, ‘Aṭā’ī recounts how Hüdā’ī, a deputy judge at the time, punished a devout man at court. Although ‘Aṭā’ī does not explain the reasons for this punishment, he presents it as the reason Hüdā’ī left his career in the ‘ilmiyye. Here is what he saw according to ‘Aṭā’ī: That night in “the world of images” he saw the fires of the Caḥīm. He witnessed that some among the charitable and pious people whom he expected to be at prominent positions on the terraces of the heaven’s gardens were burning at the bottom of the pits of the Cehennem. He was even shown the position of Nazırzade Efendi, well-known for his perfect chastity and purity, his uprightness abided by all. Afflicted from this terrifying dream, he scattered away all he possessed in the morning. He gave away the world, the shady garden of delight, as booty to the dervishes. He left the medrese and his post as a deputy judge, and sought repentance by entering the service of Üftade Efendi.30 What frightens Hüdā’ī is to find those whom he had considered pious in Hell. There must have been many reasons for a deputy judge to leave his career in this period, but ‘Aṭā’ī focuses his narrative on Hüdā’ī’s doubts about the piety of his social circles. Seeing Nazırzade in the pits of fire must have been especially striking for Hüdā’ī. Not only had Nazırzade held one of the most prestigious posts in the empire as the kadi of Istanbul, he and Hüdā’ī were also very close in the beginning of Hüdā’ī’s career in the ‘ilmiyye. ‘Aṭā’ī specifically recorded how Hüdā’ī accompanied his teacher in his travels throughout the empire. Did the teacher and student separate due to a disagreement? Was there a particular reason which would have caused his former teacher to fall into the pits of Hell? Significantly, ‘Aṭā’ī does not present any evidence. On the contrary, he notes how Hüdā’ī’s respect for Nazırzade continued after his

death by noting the sheikh’s patronage for Nazırzade’s son Mehmed Efendi in the latter’s entry.31 But more importantly, he presents Nazırzade as an “angel-natured teacher” in Hüdā’ī’s entry and praises him greatly for his righteousness, noting in the entry for Nazırzade how he “hurried towards the gardens of Heaven.” Then, what is he doing in Hell? If this high-ranking kadi known for his piety is in Hell, whom could one follow? Who could save them? Interestingly, the architect Mehmed Agha’s dream introduced briefly above has important similarities to that of Hüdā’ī. In both cases, the anxiety springs forth from a purportedly evil group associated with a particular career path. Whereas Hüdā’ī sees the ulema in Hell, Mehmed Agha sees the musicians as despicable men, after which he tells himself, “O unfortunate wretch! … Had that art been acceptable and desirable and esteemed and beloved in the sight of the Lord God the all-bounteous that abject tribe and loathsome band would not have shown interest in the aforementioned art.”32 Both for Mehmed Agha and Hüdā’ī, the career decision is a difficult process which included a wrong turn with the wrong companions. In both cases, the dream provided a medium to reflect on one’s career and find the correct path with the Sufi sheikhs. This search for upright guides in the midst of uncertain relationships can also be seen in the other two initiation dreams in the Ḥadā’iḳ. These are the dreams of the Halveti-Sünbüli sheikh Yakub Efendi and his disciple Şuhūdī. Here is what Yakub Efendi saw as a young medrese student. ‘Aṭā’ī writes, One night in the mirror which reveals the world of images, the Resurrection and Assembly for Judgment took form, and the terrifying state of the Day of Resurrection was manifested. He saw that the Balance for Judgment was set and the Book of Deeds was closed with a seal. The field of the resurrected was like the sizzling frying pan of anguish where people were like mercury drops intoxicated with pain. Whom he considered an acquaintance was a stranger, and whom he believed to be intelligent was a fool. The delicately brought up noble souls, who had dispositions of sultans, were each in struggling for dear life with thirsty lips. There was no grace from father to son, there was no help for anyone. In this state, while running towards every direction like a flame seeking a cure in outmost pain and inflammation, he saw a great tree. A group saved from damnation was secured from the fear of torment under its shadow, which was like an extended tent. They were in the presence of the noble saying, “there is no fear nor shall they grieve” [Yunus, 10:62]. A public crier became a guide to the path of salvation filling the plain of turmoil with his shout: “Whoever wants to be saved, join this group.” In this situation, with much try and effort he approached those honorable righteous people and was protected from fear and sorrow.33 Like Hüdā’ī, Yakub Efendi is also terrified from the untrustworthiness of his social world in the hereafter. He is among the people who ran away from each other in great pain like sizzling flames. He cannot receive help from those whom he had considered acquaintances. Those whom he had trusted, he realizes, were fools. Everybody suffers under the great heat, and there is no relief for anyone. Yet Yakub Efendi does find salvation. He follows a public crier and joins a group safe under a tree. This tree, ‘Aṭā’ī adds later in the entry, was the tree at the

Kocamustafapaşa Lodge. It was this lodge where Yakub Efendi completed his spiritual training and served as a Sufi sheikh towards the end of his life. ‘Aṭā’ī’s emphasis on unreliability of social ties can be seen more clearly when we compare this account with those of the previous biographers. According to the Halveti sheikh Yusuf Sinan, who was also Yakub Efendi’s son and successor, Yakub Efendi used to spend his youth drinking and partying with the high-ranking ulema in Istanbul. But one night in his dream, he found himself being tortured for drinking in the hereafter and sought repentance.34 The other biographer who narrated this dream was the Halveti biographer Ḥulvī, whose Lemazāt was one of the main sources for the Ḥadā’iḳ. In his account, Ḥulvī edited out Yusuf Sinan’s criticism of the ulema and presented Yakub Efendi’s townsmen as his drinking companions. Yet, he still used the dream as a warning for drinkers and depicted how the guardians of Hell tortured Yakub Efendi for this particular sin.35 ‘Aṭā’ī, however, did not follow the previous accounts.36 Rather than showing the punishment for a specific sin, he wanted to remind his readers of the great helplessness one encounters during the Last Judgment and among whom one can find salvation. Similarly, according to ‘Aṭā’ī, Yakub Efendi’s disciple Şuhūdī had a terrible dream of the hereafter when he was a lower ranking müderris. In this case, he was saved from falling into Hell with the help of his future sheikh. ‘Aṭā’ī writes, One night he witnessed the events of the Day of Resurrection in a dream. He had extreme difficulty trying to cross the Ṣırāt Bridge, but received a sheikh’s help with which he passed as swiftly as the lightening of the voice from Heaven. After some time, when he went to greet Yakub Efendi, who was visiting his town on his way from the Rumili, the sheikh unveiled his state by saying “Mehmed Efendi, your witnessing is in its proper place. Begin striving right now. You will witness its effects.” When he looked with the eye of faith, he realized that he was the luminous sheikh who helped in the dream. With that moment the ember of his talent was enflamed and this was the cause for his famous penname.37 These three dreams of the hereafter circulated in a milieu where the millennial anxieties on the eve of the Hijri year 1000 created a new kind of interest in the Last Judgment in different parts of the early modern world.38 In addition to the composition of new treatises and illustrated manuscripts, this terrifying day must have been discussed at medrese classes, gatherings in lodges, sermons at mosques and conversations among friends in the Ottoman lands like many other parts of the Eurasia.39 Unfortunately, we know very little about these discussions and without a systematic study of perceptions of the hereafter in this milieu, it is difficult to grasp the particular message of the Ḥadā’iḳ stories. Still, a close reading of ‘Aṭā’ī’s accounts in comparison to contemporaneous stories about the Hereafter shows how ‘Aṭā’ī narrated these dreams to question whom to believe.40 In his stories, ‘Aṭā’ī focuses the reader’s attention not on the population and events of the Hereafter but on the location of his subject and his relations to particular members of his circles. Curiously, ‘Aṭā’ī’s hereafter is almost deserted when compared to the angels,

guardians of Hell, Hell itself as a creature, and other entities which populate the Last Judgment in Yazıcızade’s (d. 1451) Muḥammediye and the anonymous Aḥvāl-i Ḳıyāmet. ‘Aṭā’ī’s Hell, for instance, only includes briefly mentioned pits. Yazıcızade, however, wrote how each guardian of Hell threw forty thousand sinners into the fires in a single moment, where with each hand and foot they were able to carry ten thousand, how fires destroyed the skins of the sinners, which emerged anew a hundred times in an hour, how scorpions and snakes constantly attacked causing pain for forty years, and many more richly described tortures.41 The author of Aḥvāl-i Ḳıyāmet also presented a detailed portrait where Hell is an enormous creature with one thousand faces, each face with a thousand mouths, each mouth with a thousand lips, and each mouth with one hundred thousand teeth, each as big as a mountain. It would arrive in hundreds of thousands of chains barely held by a thousand angels, each bigger than the earth, and “when the Hell sees the unbelievers and sinners, it roars and soars upon them.”42 Although these three works were written for very diverse audiences and for different purposes, I find the contrast helpful in understanding ‘Aṭā’ī’s focus. In the Ḥadā’iḳ, we see almost exclusively our dreamer in a particular location among a selected group of past or future acquaintances. Here the limelight is on the subject of the story, our dreamer, and selected people among his circles. In Hüdā’ī’s case, it is he and his acquaintances in Hell whom he expected to find in Heaven. In Yakub Efendi’s case, it is himself, the resurrected, a public crier, and a group safe under a tree. In Şuhūdī’s case, it is he and his future sheikh. What terrifies the dreamer is finding those whom he respected as pious in the pits of Hell, rather than on the terraces in Heaven. Like Yakub Efendi, who realized that “whom he considered an acquaintance was a stranger and whom he believed to be intelligent was a fool,” Hüdā’ī discovered that the men known for their piety and charitable deeds were not among the blessed. The dreams of Hudai and Yakub Efendi show a world turned upside down. It is surprising to find these stories in the orderly textual realm of the Ḥadā’iḳ, where hierarchy plays a significant role. As we have seen in the previous chapter, people and location are crucial in the Ḥadā’iḳ. This book is a meticulous compilation of the lists of posts and post holders, and in each entry, we read about the careers first by meeting teachers and Sufi sheikhs, and then following the subjects from one post to another. The dreams, however, question this hierarchical order. They oblige the reader to look at a world where nothing about the people and their positions is as it seems.

The hereafter in the mirror of dreams But why dreams? Why did ‘Aṭā’ī find in these terrifying dreams of the hereafter a valuable medium to discuss his subjects’ career decisions? In his exploration of medieval Muslim understandings of Hell in Saljuq Anatolia, Christopher Lange proposes that “we understand the Muslim Hell as a mirror image of this world,” and states his goal to “investigate hell’s significance for the very concrete and tangible lives of people living in the Saljuq period.”43 I find this suggestion, especially the use of the mirror metaphor, constructive for future research on the Ottoman hereafter narratives. Like other contemporaneous Ottoman writers, ‘Aṭā’ī called dreams mirrors. In Yakub Efendi’s entry, for instance, he presented the dream as the mirror where Yakub Efendi gazed upon himself. However, these mirrors are not like our

mirrors which reflect the sensory world as accurately as possible. Similar to the mirrors in early modern English poetry, they assist the onlookers with increasing their knowledge about the world and themselves, by making that which would otherwise be invisible visible.44 Thus, dreams in the Ḥadā’iḳ are ideal mirrors, which reveal the hidden to the ordinary eyes. At first glance, they reflect comparable images of the waking life; they too are about careers and social relations. But this is not an exact reflection of this-worldly engagements. On the contrary, the dreamer and his audience see another face of what they see under daylight. In a world where leaving a post, following a new path, and finding the right guide were probably slow and difficult processes, these dreams presented exceptional individuals who were able to leave everything they owned in one morning. In this respect, dreams of the Ottoman ulema show intriguing similarities to those of contemporaneous Chinese literati. As shown by Benjamin A. Elman, Ming literati circulated numerous dreams that foretold success in the challenging civil examinations. These dreams, Elman argues, present swift success in a divinely ordered universe as opposed to arduous hard work of the candidates over many anxious years.45 Similarly, by narrating such initiation stories ‘Aṭā’ī also points to the power of the otherworldly experiences to swiftly tear the dreamer’s ties to this-wordly attachments.46 It was the distance between the dream realm and waking life which made the hidden vista visible. ‘Aṭā’ī accentuated this distance in his narratives and emphasized a rupture between this world and the hereafter. For instance, ‘Aṭā’ī wrote that Hüdā’ī gave up all of his worldly possessions and left his posts as soon as he woke up from his terrifying dream. A unique source, Hüdā’ī’s first-person narrative about his daily conversations with his sheikh Üftade, however, presents a more gradual process.47 In an entry from March 24, 1577, about two months after his initiation, Hüdā’ī wrote how he asked Üftāde’s permission to leave his post in the medrese and told him that his savings would possibly support him for two or three years. Thus, according to this diary, not only had he not left his post immediately after the dream, but he also had not given away all his possessions. In the following six months, as we see from the entries dated May 25th, August 13th, September 23rd and September 25th, Hüdā’ī noted again and again how he asked permission to leave his post, but the sheikh was hesitant to give this permission fearing that Hüdā’ī would find himself in financial troubles. Finally, on October 5th, the sheikh finally accepted Hüdā’ī’s continuous pleas and permitted him to quit, but the decision seems not to have been final since he repeated his pleas three weeks later on October 30th. ‘Aṭā’ī’s account of sudden withdrawal from the ‘ilmiyye stands in striking contrast to this process spreading over months. Perhaps it was this sharp contrast that ‘Aṭā’ī tried to present in his biographical entry for Hüdā’ī to make an impression on his contemporaneous readers. The other instance where we see ‘Aṭā’ī diverting the readers’ gaze towards the hereafter is the place where a disciple meets his future sheikh. In ‘Aṭā’ī’s stories, they meet all at once in the hereafter, whereas the earlier biographers presented the meeting as the culmination of a this-worldly search. For earlier fifteenth- and sixteenth-century biographers Lāmi‘ī and Taşköprizade, the search for a sheikh was often a geographical search. The Sufi adept traveled among the Anatolian cities and beyond the Ottoman realms seeking his spiritual guide. Later biographers from the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries like Yusuf Sinan and Ḥulvī continued depicting such searches in the entries of the late fifteenth-century sheikhs but also

focused their narratives on one particular city in the entries of the sixteenth-century sheikhs.48 In these later accounts, they did not depict journeys among cities but walks among the streets, markets and mosques of a major city of the empire. The initiation stories of the Halveti biographers Ḥulvī and Yusuf Sinan reveal a shared topography where the medreses, lodges and mosques were built next to each other and frequented by friends, family members, and colleagues who took each other to Sufi gatherings. They narrate, for instance, how the müderris Maksud Dede (d. 1562 or 1563) was so impressed by a Halveti sheikh after listening to his sermon that he decided to leave his career to join him on the Sufi path.49 This is not to say earlier Ottoman biographers did not mention dream narratives. Dreams did play important roles in their initiation stories, but often only in the context of this-worldly social encounters. For instance, Taşköprizade narrated a dream as a major reason for Akşemseddin’s (d. 1459) initiation to Hacı Bayram (d. 1430). He wrote how Akşemseddin set out on a long journey in search of a sheikh. He met Hacı Bayram in Göynük, Central Anatolia, but left him for a prominent sheikh in Aleppo. When he arrived in Aleppo, however, he dreamed of himself chained to Hacı Bayram and returned to Göynük. In this initiation story, it was the dream which showed the disciple where he belonged and oriented him back to his future sheikh. Yet, it is important to note that Akşemseddin had already met Hacı Bayram before the dream.50 A similar example is Ḥulvī’s narration of Sünbül Sinan’s (d. 1529) initiation. According to Ḥulvī, Sünbül Sinan, a medrese student at the time, met with his future sheikh in Istanbul while walking with a friend from his medrese. This friend was among the followers of the sheikh and persuaded Sünbül Sinan to accompany him to the sheikh’s gathering. At the lodge, Sünbül Sinan experienced divine attraction and left his career in the ‘ilmiyye to pursue the sheikh. That night, he dreamed of a well gushing with water. Here, too, it was the dream which foretold the disciple about his future spiritual advancement, but again the dream story took place only after the social encounters had united the medrese, the road, and the Sufi lodge.51 None of the meetings on ‘Aṭā’ī’s initiation stories took place in such shared topography. Although ‘Aṭā’ī did not narrate the initiation of Akşemseddin and Sünbül Sinan, as both died before 1552 and thus neither of them were subjects of the Ḥadā’iḳ, he did include biographies of Ya‘kub Efendi and Şuhūdī using Ḥulvī as his main source. In his accounts, Ḥulvī specifically mentioned the interest of these two men in Sufism prior to their dreams and the significance of social settings. He noted that Yakub Efendi had met his sheikh at the Kocamustafapaşa lodge prior to his initiation dream and Şuhudi, who used to attend the gatherings of sheikhs, had his dream after attending a sheikh’s sermon at a mosque, where he listened to the description of Judgment Day. ‘Aṭā’ī omitted these notices; in his stories the young ‘ālim meets his sheikh or learns about him only through a dream of the Last Judgment. In his stories, the meeting of the sheikh and the ulema-recruit has moved from this world to the next. ‘Aṭā’ī’s emphasis on setting the meeting with a future sheikh in the dream realm could be related to a new kind of interest in initiation dreams among the seventeenth-century Halvetis. Although dreams have always played a significant role in the spiritual development of a Halveti disciple, in the early seventeenth century we observe a new kind of emphasis in dreams for choosing a sheikh in Halveti manuals. For instance, the fifteenth-century Halveti

sheikh Ahmed Şemseddin Marmaravī (d. 1504 or 1505) noted the importance of dreams in the spiritual path and explained how a Sufi novice should relate his dreams to his sheikh in a manual composed for the adepts, but he did not mention any dreams prior to initiation.52 However, Bolulu Himmet Dede (d. 1684), a seventeenth-century Halveti-Şabani sheikh, described the initiation as the process of choosing a sheikh from among those whose miracle a novice had witnessed. Otherwise, he recommended the novice to seek the future sheikh through a dream.53 Interestingly, so many adepts seem to have practiced this method of choosing a sheikh at this period that another seventeenth-century Halveti-Şabani sheikh, Ömer Fu‘ādī, warns his readers about the misuse of this practice. He notes that many adepts did not seek the Sufi path because they waited for a sheikh to appear to them in their dreams, and warns these adepts not to defer their initiation in search of a dream.54 ‘Aṭā’ī reflects this expectation of the adepts from their sheikhs in the initiation stories of Hüdā’ī, Yakub Efendi and Şuhūdī. Their dream narratives provide him with a medium to discuss the new ties that bind the sheikhs and their disciples in an uncertain world. To conclude, what do we see in the dream mirror of the Ottoman biographer ‘Aṭā’ī? Dreams united the past and the future, the doubtful and the certain, this world and the hereafter. And only through these ties could the biographer tell what was hidden and what needed to be revealed. The initiation dreams of Hüdā’ī, Yakub Efendi and Şuhūdī present the discontented ulema. They question whether one could reach salvation through a career in the ‘ilmiyye. Although ‘Aṭā’ī continued his career as a kadi, he presented their withdrawal favorably. Perhaps, like them, he thought that achieving eternal salvation through a career in the ‘ilmiyye was a difficult task. He included these dream narratives in his book to question his career path and the social relations which sustained it. It is noteworthy that when he narrated the search for a safe haven, he emphasized the otherworldly ties rather than social encounters in this world. To examine the significance of such otherworldly encounters and the bonds they establish further, it is now time to turn to the narratives of the apparitions, where the deceased visitors meet the living in late sixteenth-century Istanbul.

Notes Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 699: Meşāmm-ı cānına būy-ı fenā vezān ve ṣarṣar-ı ḫavf-ı ilāhī ile berg-i ḫazān gibi lerzān olup. For other examples of such formulaic statements concerning ‘ulema initiation into Sufism, see Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 76, 197, 616, 759. Numerous translated copies of the works by ‘Aṭṭar and Jāmī can be found in manuscript libraries in Istanbul. See İstanbul Kütüphanelerindeki Tarih Coğrafya Yazmaları Kataloğu, no. 368–73, 378, 303. For a general survey of Sufi initiation stories, see John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Community and Servanthood (London, 2008), pp. 43–67. Katherine P. Ewing, ‘The Dream of Spiritual Initiation and the Organization of Self Representations among Pakistani Sufis’, American Ethnologist, 17/1 (1990): 56–74. See also Cooperson’s discussion of the biographies of Bishr in his Classical Arabic Biography, pp. 166–177. (Anon.) Ta‘bīrnāme, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Hekimoğlu 591, fol. 43a. For a brief but very interesting discussion of the place of repentance in the initiation to Sufism, see Gerhard Böwering, ‘Early Sufism between Persecution and Heresy’, in Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke (eds), Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemic (Leiden, Boston and Köln, 1999), pp. 45–68. For a general survey of repentance in Islam, see Mahmoud Ayoub, ‘Repentance in the Islamic Tradition’, in Amotai Etzioni and David E. Carney (eds), Repentance: A Comparative Perspective (Oxford, 1997), pp. 96–122. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 761–2. For a brief description of the general characteristics of the initiation to the Sufi path and the spiritual exercises of the Sufi adept, see Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, 1975), pp. 98–107. For a discussion of the renunciation

of the world in classical Islamic literature, see Hellmut Ritter, Das Meer der Seele: Mensch Welt und Gott in den Geschichten des Fariddudin ‘Attar (Leiden, 1955), pp. 191–209. For the cases of the recruits to Sufism from other professions, see Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 78, 370, 87, 469, 597, 675. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 345–47. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 350 and Ali b. Bālī, al-‘Iqd al-manẓūm, p. 471. Moreira, Dreams, Visions, and Spiritual Authority in Merovingian Gaul; Luís R. Corteguer, ‘The Peasant Who Went to Hell: Dreams and Visions in Early Modern Spain’ and María V. Jordán, ‘Competition and Confirmation in the Iberian Prophetic Community: The 1589 Invasion of Portugal in the Dreams of Lucrecia de León.’ Cornell H. Fleischer, ‘Secretaries’ Dreams: Augury and Angst in Ottoman Scribal Service’, in Ingeborg Baldoruf and Suraiya Faroqhi (eds), Festschrift (Armağan) für Andreas Tietze (Prague, 1994), pp. 77–88. Fleischer, ‘Secretaries’ Dreams’, p. 82. Selim Karahasanoğlu, Kadı ve Günlüğü, pp. 123–25. See, for instance, Leah Kinberg, ‘Literal Dreams and Prophetic Hadiths’ and Fedwa Malti-Douglas, ‘Controversy and its Effects in the Biographical Tradition of al-Khatib al-Bagdadi.’ Cafer Efendi, Risāle-i Mi‘māriyye: An Early Seventeenth-Century Ottoman Treatise on Architecture, ed. Howard Crane (Leiden and New York, 1987), pp. 25–28. The biographer’s inclusion of this dream story is noteworthy since we do not find any dreams in the biography of the previous chief architect, Sā‘ī Çelebi’s (d.1595-96) biography of Sinan (d. 1588). While Sā‘ī Çelebi was content with presenting Sinan’s reasons for becoming an architect as centered on succeeding in this world and the Hereafter by building mosques, Cafer Efendi departed from this earlier example and included a separate chapter to explain his subject’s career choice. See Mustafa Sa’ī Çelebi, Sinan’s Autobiographies, Five Sixteenth Century Texts, ed. Howard Crane and Esra Akın, with a preface by Gülru Necipoğlu (Leiden and Boston, 2006), pp. 53, 56, 58, 61, 65, 78, 88, 102, especially 116 and 144; Risāle-i Mi‘māriyye, pp. 25–28. Tülay Artan discusses Cafer Agha’s interest in relating a discussion of music in her ‘Arts and Architecture’ in Suraiya N. Faroqhi (ed), The Cambridge History of Turkey (Cambridge, 2013), vol. 3, p. 455. Taşköprizade, Shaqā’iq, pp. 534-35; Aslı Niyazioğlu, ‘At Taşköprüzade’s Garden of Life Stories: A Sixteenth Century Ottoman Biographer Looks at Sufi Sheikhs and Dreams’, in John J. Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (eds), Nexus of Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800 (Routledge, 2011), pp. 243–58. For the significance of legitimacy through the Prophet and competition among different professional groups for being the true successors of the Prophet, see Cooperson, Classical Arabic Biography. Lāṭīfī, Teẕkiretü’ş-Şu‘arā’, pp. 542–43; Niyazioğlu, ‘On Altıncı Yüzyıl Sonunda Osmanlı’da Kadılık Kabusu ve Nihânî’nin Rüyası.’ Cinānī, Cilālü’l-Ḳulūb, published as Cinânî, Cilâlü’l-Kulûb (Giriş, İnceleme, Metin, Sözlük), ed. Mustafa Özkan (Istanbul, 1990), pp. 247–50. Christian Lange, Justice, Punishment and the Medieval Muslim Imagination (Cambridge, 2008). For the criticism of corruption among the kadıs, see also Baber Johansen, ‘La Corruption: un délit contre l’odre social, Les qadı-s de Bukhara’, Annales, Histoire, Sciences, Socieles, 57/6 (2002): 1561–89. Ertuğrul Ökten, Ottoman Society and State in the Light of the Fatwas of İbn Kemal, MA thesis, Bilkent University, Ankara, 1996, pp. 70–76. Hans Georg Majer, ‘Die Kritik an den Ulema in den osmanischen Traktaten des 16–18 Jahrhunderts’, in Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071-1920), Paper presented to the First International Congress on the Social and Economic History of Turkey (Ankara, 1980), pp. 147–155. See also Kafadar, ‘The Question of Ottoman Decline’; Khaled el-Rouayhab, ‘The Myth of the Triumph of Fanaticism in the Seventeenth Century Ottoman Empire’, Die Welt des Islams, 48 (2008): 196– 221. Murphey, ‘Ottoman Historical Writing in the Seventeenth-Century’, p. 105. Ahmet Tunç Şen, ‘A Mirror for Princes, A Fiction for Readers: The Habname of Veysi and Dream Narratives in Ottoman Turkish Literature’, Journal of Turkish Literature, 8 (2011): 41–65. Luís R. Corteguer, ‘The Peasant Who Went to Hell: Dreams and Visions in Early Modern Spain’ and Francisco de Quevedo, Dreams and Discourses, Sueños y discursos. Manfred Weidhorn, Dreams in Seventeenth Century English Literature (The Hague and Paris, 1970), pp. 77–81. See Carla Gerona, Night Journeys: The Power of Dreams in Transatlantic Quaker Culture (Charlottesville and London, 2004); Mechal Sobel, Teach Me Dreams: The Search for Self in the Revolutionary Era (Princeton, 2000); A. Azfar Moin, The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Sainthood in Islam (New York, 2014), pp. 56–94. R. Po-Chia Hsia, ‘Dreams and Conversions: A Competitive Analysis of Catholic and Buddhist Dreams in Ming and Qing China: Part I’, The Journal of Religious History, 29/3 (2005): 223–240. Ḥadā’iḳ, Esad Efendi 2343, fol. 132b: [132b] [1] Ol gice ‘ālem-i misālde nīrān-ı caḥīmi seyrān [2] idüp maḳāmı ṣadr-ı ṣuffa-yi cinān olmaḳ taḫmīn eylediği aṣḥāb-ı ḫayr u ṣalāḥdan ba‘żı kimseyi ḳa‘r-ı çāh-ı cehennemde sūzān müşāhede eyler. [Ḥattā kemāl-i ‘iffet ü nezāhet ile meşhūr ve istiḳāmeti [3] mecma ‘[4] ‘aleyh cumhūr olan Naẓırzāde Efendi’nüñ maḳāmın seyr eydürürler.] [5] Ol vāḳı‘a-yı hevl-nākden müte’essir olup seḥeri cemī‘i māmelekin perīşān ve ẓıll-ı zā’il-i

dünyāyı feyy-i dervīşān idüp [terk-i medrese ve niyābet ve] Üftāde Efendi ḥażretlerinden inābet eylemişleridi [6]. 1. P 761, E 464b, R1 463a, SE 270b 2. seyr P, E, R1, SE. 2. Beynü’l-‘aleme P, E, R1, SE. 3. Müttefiḳun SE. 4. Brackets indicate ‘Aṭā’ī”s additions to the text in the margins of the autograph copy which are incorporated into the main texts of manuscripts P, E, R1, SE 5. İtmişler idi P. See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, p. 658. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 544. Cafer Efendi, Risāle-i Mi‘māriyye, p. 27. Ḥadā’iḳ, İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü Library, Yazmalar, ŞR 000182: [123b] [1] Bir gice mirāt-i ‘ālem-nümā-yı ḫayālde ṣūret-i ḥaşr u neşr ‘iyān ve aḥvāl-i pür-ehvāl-ı rūz-ı ḳıyām [2] nümāyān olup görür ki mīzān-ı ‘adl ḳurulmuş ve ṣaḥā’if-i a‘māle [3] mühr-ı ḫitām urulmuş. Ṣaḥn-ı ṣaḥrā-yı maḥşer mānend-ı tābe-yi pür-tāb, ḫalḳ-ı ‘ālem misāl-i [4] ḳaṭre-i sīm-āb sermest-i ıżṭırāb, āşinā sanduġın bīgāne, ‘āḳil ḳıyās ittiğün dīvāne, nāzperverān-ı şerīfü’n-nefs-i pādişāh-meşreb mażā’iḳ-ı nefsī nefsīde tefsīde-leb, ne vālidde şefḳat-i veled ne kimseden kimseye meded, ol ḥālde bunlar daḫı şu‘le-yi nār gibi her ṣu devān ve kemāl-i ıżṭırāb u iltihāb ile cūyende-yi dermān iken bir şecere-yi ‘āliye görürler ki misāl-i iṭnāb-ı mümill-i memdūdu’ẓ- ẓıll, taḥtında bir fırḳa-yı nāciye hevl-i ‘aẕābdan me’mūn maẓhar-i kerīme-yi “lā- khawfun ‘alayhim walā hum yaḥzanūna” ve bir münādī ṭarīḳ-i ḫalāṣa hādī olup “her kim ḫalāṣ murād iderse bu ṭā’ifeye iltiḥāḳ itsün” diyü nidā ve ‘arṣa-yı restḫīzi pür-ṣadā i ider. El-ḥāletü hāẕihi sa’y-i mevfūr ve beẕl-i maḳdūr ile ol kirām-ı sāliḥīne ḳarīn ve ḫavf ve ḥüznden emīn olur. 1. P 204, E 124b, R1 132b, SE 73a 2. ḳıyāmet E, P, R1 3. Aḫvāle SE 4. Mübtelā-yı SE. See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, p. 1789. Yusuf Sinan, fol. 30b: Bir gice vāḳı‘asında ḳıyāmet ḳopmuş görüp kendüye envā‘ī ‘uḳūbet iderler, biñ dürlü tażarru‘ ve i‘tizār ve tövbe ve istiġfār ile ḫvabından bīdār olub… Ḥulvī, Lemazāt-ı Ḥulviyye, fol. 170a: Zebāniyye ṭā’ifesi şeyhüñ yanına gelüp “Nedürsün me’mūr olduġın işi işlemezsü, evāmire imtisāl nevāhīmden icribāv irmek şānuñ degüldür. Seni de nār-nīrāna ilḳā ve erbāb-ı cehennemle hem-pā idelüm” diyü terhīb eylerken Sünbül Efendi gelüp ellerinden ḫalāṣ eyler. ‘Aṭā’ī was also critical of drinking. For ‘Aṭā’ī’s views on drinking, see Kortantamer, Nev‘î-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, pp. 196– 197, 225–26. Ḥadā’iḳ, Esad Efendi, 2309, fol. 358b: [358b] [1] Bir gice vāḳı‘ada aḥvāl-i rūz-i ḥaşrı müşāhede idüp cisr-i ṣırāṭı ‘ubūrda müżāyaḳa-yı ‘aẓīme üzere iken bir şeyḫ-i destgīr imdādı ile berḳ-i ḫāṭıf gibi mürūr ider. Ba‘de zamān Ya‘ḳūb Efendi Rūmili’nden gelürken ḳaṣabalarına uġrayup destbūsa varduḳda “Meḥmed Ḫalīfe şuhūduñ yerindedir. Hemān mücāhede eyle, āsārın müşāhede idersün [2]” diyü keşf-i ḥāl iderler. İm‘ān-ı naẓar itdükde vāḳı‘ada destgīr olan [3] pīr-i rūşen-żamīr idigü ma‘lūm olup ol nefes te’sīri ile aḫker-ı isti‘dādı şu‘ledār ve bā’is-ı maḫlas-i şöhret-şi‘ār olur. 1. P 601, E 213b, PR 367a SE 213b 2. Müşāhede idersüñ: görürsüñ SE 3. – SE. See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, p. 1473. For the significance of millinerianism in the early modern Eurasia, see Sanjay Subrahmanyam, ‘Connected Histories: Notes towards a Reconfiguration of Early Modern Eurasia’, Modern Asian Studies, 31/3 (1997): 735–62. See for instance, Serpil Bağcı, ‘Images for Foretelling: Two Topkapı Falnamas’, in Marlow (ed.), Dreaming Across Boundaries, pp. 235–270; Metin And, Minyatürlerle Osmanlı-İslam Mitologyası (İstanbul, 2007), pp. 240–77. I chose these two works as examples, because Muḥammediye, a fifteenth-century handbook on Islamic beliefs and practices, was among the most popular works in ‘Aṭā’ī’s time as we find it frequently listed in probate inventories and Aḥvāl-i Ḳıyāmet is an example of the anonymous treatises on the subject produced in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. See Yazıcızade Mehmed, Muḥammediye, ed. Amil Çelebioğlu (Istanbul, 1996), vol. 2, pp. 340–431; Ahvâl-i Kıyâmet, ed. Osman Yıldız (Istanbul, 2002), pp. 174–182. Yazıcızade, Muḥammediye, pp. 415–16. Ahvâl-i Kıyâmet, p. 176. Lange, Justice, Punishment and the Medieval Muslim Imagination, p. 117. Miranda Anderson, ‘Early Modern Mirrors’, in Miranda Anderson (ed.), The Book of the Mirror: An Interdisciplinary Collection Exploring the Cultural Story of the Mirror (Newcastle, 2007), pp. 105–121. Benjamin A. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China, (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: 2000), pp. 295–371. Ibid., p. 123. Hüdā’ī, Aziz Mahmud, Vâkıât-ı Hüdâyi’nin Tahlîl ve Tahkîki, ed. Mustafa Bahadıroğlu, PhD thesis, Uludağ University, 2003, pp. 120–30. See, for example, Ḥulvī, Lemazāt-ı Ḥulviyye, fol. 163b; Yusuf Sinan, Teẕkiretü’l- Ḫalvetiyye, fols 36a–39b; and Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 76. During this period, the ulema especially went to the sermons of Halveti sheikh Nureddinzade. See Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 212. There were also house visits such as chief mufti Kemalpaşazade’s visits to Nakşibendi sheikh Emrullah Çelebi in his lodge or Halveti sheikh Mehmed Dāġī’s visits to ‘Aṭā’ī’s father at their house. See Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 600, 622. The building programs of the period’s

Halveti patrons contributed to a shared topography. Grand viziers Sokullu Mehmed Pasha (d. 1579) and Ali Pasha (d. 1511) endowed complexes which included a mosque, a medrese and a lodge. Dervishes and sheikh came together with students and their professor in the complex’s mosque to pray and participate in the Sufi gatherings of the lodge together. For an in-depth study of a medrese-lodge complex and the relations between the ulema and Sufi sheikhs, see Zeynep Yürekli, ‘A Building between the Public and Private Realms of the Ottoman Elite: The Sufi Convent of Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Istanbul’, Muqarnas, 20 (2003): 159–186. Taşköprizade, Şaḳā’iḳ, pp. 226–27. Ḥulvī, Lemāzat-ı Ḥulviyye, fol. 159b. Mustafa Tatçı and Cemal Kurnaz, Tasavvufi Gelenekte Miyarlar ve Karabaş-ı Veli’nin Miyarı (Ankara, 2001), pp. 134–35; see also Ahmed Ögke, Ahmed Şemseddin-i Marmaravî: Hayatı, Eserleri, Görüşleri (Istanbul, 2001), pp. 162–63, 248, 252– 265. Bolulu Himmet Dede, Ādāb-ı Ḫurde-i Ṭarīḳat, published in Tahir Hafızalıoğlu (ed.), Vahdet Aynasında: Osmanlı Tasavvuf Metinlerinden Seçmeler (Istanbul, 2001), vol. 1, pp. 137–38. Ömer Fu‘ādī, Menāḳıb-ı Şa’bān-ı Velī, pp. 102–5.

4 The dead and visits from the hereafter

“I can call spirits from the vast deep” boasts one of Shakespeare’s characters in Henry IV. “Why, so can I, or so can any man,” answers his companion, “but will they come when you do call for them?”1 Greenblatt cites this dialogue in Practicing Historicism while discussing his desire to speak with the dead. As an Ottoman historian working on the same period as Greenblatt, I also call on the Ottoman dead, although I find conjuring them particularly difficult. The dead are often not welcome into today’s disenchanted world. If a deceased person were to come back to the living and appear in a biographical entry, we would probably disregard the apparition as fiction and reconsider the factual credibility of the whole work. Even though many of us do believe in the afterlife, we see death as the end of one’s deeds and do not expect to read about visits from the hereafter in an encyclopedic compilation such as a Wikipedia entry. We have exorcised the dead from our conventional biography writing. For an Ottoman biographer like ‘Aṭā’ī, however, the realms of the living and the dead were not separated from each other by sealed borders. As we have seen in the previous chapters, a resident of this world, the corporeal realm (‘ālem-i ceberūt), could travel to the realm of images (‘ālem-i misāl) in sleep and to the incorporeal realm of spirits, angels and God (‘ālemi melekūt) in death. The dead could come back to the world of the living through dreams or meet them in their visions of the hereafter.2 Thus, it is not surprising to see a number of contacts between this world and the hereafter in the Ḥadā’iḳ. Not only did the deceased friends, lovers, sheikhs and esteemed figures such as the Prophet visit those they left behind but they also played significant roles within the lives of the Ottoman learned elite. As Jean-Claude Schmidt reminds us in the case of medieval European ghosts, though, the dead did not appear anytime, anywhere and to anybody.3 Assuming a fixed belief in apparitions in a “religious world” such as ‘Aṭā’ī’s would be as misleading as denying the place of the dead in Ottoman lives. Early modern Ottomans’ relations with their dead, like ours, were regulated through a complex web of beliefs and practices. Pioneering research on Ottoman funerals, tombstones and cemeteries has demonstrated how careful the Ottoman ruling elite were in demarcating the place of the dead in their world.4 Still, as shown by Marinos Sariyannis, there were also the dead who did not remain in their assigned places and came back to the living.5 These transgressions, as the rich scholarship on apparitions shows, offer a unique insight into the particular fears and aspirations of their milieu.6 “If you let it, the ghost can lead you toward what has been missing, which is sometimes

everything” writes the sociologist Avery F. Gordon.7 This chapter follows the deceased visitors of the Ḥadā’iḳ and enters into a world of friendship where the dead came back for remembrance. To understand these perplexing encounters, I find the approach of the anthropologists who focus on ontological characteristics of ghost beliefs particularly helpful. Amira Henra, Martin Holbraad and Sari Wastell propose to “take ‘things’ encountered in the field as they present themselves” and pay close attention to the shapes, requests and needs of the dead.8 “Ghosts can be beings with desires, with taste, with biographies” writes Patrice Ladwig, “they appear in specific ways, at certain places at a certain time; they slip into objects, they live in them, they consume things and demand a certain treatment of social beings.”9 Because the main actors of his research are never present in the conventional sense, he suggests studying the traces they have left behind. Following his suggestion, I focus on the appearances, demands and desires of the dead visitors in the Ḥadā’iḳ and on ‘Aṭā’ī’s record of their traces in his world. After a brief discussion of seventeenth-century debates on the proper place of the dead, I examine what the dead looked like, who appeared to whom, and why they arrived according to ‘Aṭā’ī. I discuss how the Ḥadā’iḳ stories emphasize the bonds between friends and lovers. ‘Aṭā’ī, I argue, shows that the living and the dead were not separated from each other but connected with embraces, couplets and tokens of remembrance. In her study of seventeenth-century Chinese apparitions, Judith Zeitlin writes how the tales she studies have “always the self-conscious awareness of loss, of a temporal assistance that cannot be bridged, however much that might be desired.”10 In the Ḥadā’iḳ stories of the living and the dead, we are also presented with the longing for the beloved dead. Yet unlike the Chinese visitors studied by Zeitlin, the dead in the Ḥadā’iḳ stories are about tight connections between the living and the dead. In these stories, friends and lovers as well as the renowned sheikh Rūmī and a Bayrami sheikh manage to unite. Significantly, these connections are not the social ties emphasized in the Ḥadā’iḳ. These are not the ties between fathers and sons, teachers and students, Sufi sheikhs and their disciples from the same order which ‘Aṭā’ī meticulously recorded throughout his work. These are also not the filial and career ties marked on the tombstones in the career-conscious world of the Ottoman ruling elite. These three exceptional stories of the dead, however, remind the readers of the bonds of friendship and love in the rank-conscious world of the seventeenth-century Ottoman learned circles.

The living and the dead in early seventeenth-century Istanbul In his mesnevī Nefḫa, ‘Aṭā’ī devotes an entire section on how death does not cease the ties between the living and the dead. He addresses visitors of the graves of the “special dead” by writing, Do not think soil destroys men Like gold, pure and clean they become. As the mirror of their spirits finds its polish They reach everywhere like dawn.11 These men, “each guardians of the world,” are “beneath the earth but open like

narcissuses.”12 Because through death they cleanse themselves of worldly ties, they reflect the divine light like polished mirrors dispersing sunshine and reaching the needy. To illustrate his points, ‘Aṭā’ī relates an interesting story from the chief mufti Kemalpaşazade (d. 1536) about students of philosophy who used to visit Aristotle’s (d. 322 BC) tomb. Forming a study circle around the grave, the perplexed students present their questions to Aristotle as if he were alive. This deceased teacher, not upset from these unending demands, helps by illuminating their hearts with the answers they seek.13 Aristotle is not the only special dead whom ‘Aṭā’ī praises for reaching the needy beyond the grave. In his mesnevīs, ‘Aṭā’ī also narrates the deeds of two deceased holy men which he personally witnessed: the thirteenth-century saint Sarı Saltuk punishing the Kazak raiders who plunder his tomb and ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede appearing to ‘Aṭā’ī in a dream guiding him to compose poetry, as discussed before. Like the first lights of the dawn after a dark night, Aristotle, Sarı Saltuk and ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede reach those in need. At first sight, these stories may appear as examples of an ever-present belief in shrine cults without any relation to their particular historical context. But at the time ‘Aṭā’ī related them, the relationship between the living and the dead, especially during a visit to a tomb, was a subject of heated debate. Like their contemporaries in post-reformation London, the seventeenth-century Istanbulites discussed the proper place of their dead.14 Can the dead appear to the living? Can the living receive their help? Not all of ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporaries answered these questions affirmatively.15 If we were to listen to a sermon at Aya Sofya Mosque in the 1630s, we would have been likely to hear the preacher Kadızade Mehmed Efendi (d. 1635) vehemently opposing those seeking assistance from the dead. In his treatises, following the teachings of Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328), he asks his readers to seek only God’s assistance and criticizes practices that he had witnessed around graves.16 Seeking help from the dead is a sin for Kadızade and he criticizes the belief that the living can communicate with the dead.17 A member of his audience, the author Katip Çelebi, approves and adds: When they reach the goal of their pilgrimage they should do no more than recite a Fatiha to win the approval of God (glorious is his splendor) and dedicate the reward thereof to the soul of the occupant of the grave. They should have no other idea; they should neither kiss the tomb nor cling to it … Let no one think that by any such pointless action he draws nearer to the spirits.18 These statements must have upset a number of Ottoman practitioners of Sufism. The daily life of many Sufi lodges revolved around the tombs of their founders. These tombs formed the central ritual spaces, attracted visitors, received donations and established the lodge’s connection with the hereafter.19 Thus, not all would have accepted Kadızade Mehmed Efendi’s refusal of the dead’s spiritual power. One of his opponents was the Halveti-Sivasi sheikh Abdülmecid Sivāsī (d. 1639). If we were to go to a sermon at the Mosque of Sultan Ahmet, the mosque facing Ayasofya, we would have listened to him encouraging visits of the graves. “If a pious man visits the grave of a sinner and prays for his/her spirit or gives donations, sins of that dead person may be forgiven,” he writes. “If someone visits the grave of a pious person,

he may receive enlightenment (feyẓ) and divine light.”20 With these words, Sivāsī Efendi distinguishes certain dead “special” with a distinctive spiritual authority. In contrast to Kadızade, he emphasizes the presence of the special dead and encourages connection with them. Kadızade, however, rejects the possibility of such contacts. He especially criticizes those who believed that the dead could appear to the living. Like some contemporaneous Protestant preachers, Kadızade explains the stories of apparitions as the devil impersonating the deceased to lead the believers astray.21 Biographers played an important role in the debates. If, the Halveti sheikh and biographer Ömer Fu‘ādī argues, the followers of Kadızade had also traveled to the incorporeal realms, met with the holy spirits, and witnessed their exalted stations, they would not be arguing in this way. To illustrate his point, he circulates stories about the miraculous deeds of his deceased sheikh, such as punishment of a sinner by beating him with a huge hand that appeared from his grave.22 In this way, biographers show the spiritual power of the sheikhs to their readers who have not experienced such otherworldly encounters themselves. They reveal the incorporeal realm around the tomb and its signs that might otherwise remain hidden. ‘Aṭā’ī also partook in the circulation of stories about this sacred terrain. Although he did not address the debates between Kadızade and Sivāsī directly, he included stories in the Ḥadā’iḳ which show the dynamic and beneficial encounters between this world and the next. Like Ömer Fu‘ādī, he shows how cemeteries were not only made of tombstones. In his reports in the Ḥadā’iḳ, flames come out of the dark graves of the sinners and gentle light glows from the spacious graves of the blessed. The sinners, weak from torturous pains, plead for supplications and converse with sheikhs.23 Thus, Ḥadā’iḳ stories show that this world and the hereafter are not sealed off from each other. But which of these dead visited the living and why according to ‘Aṭā’ī?

Apparitions and embraces For ‘Aṭā’ī, the dead who have a special spiritual status can appear to the living. “The spirits of the martyrs, especially those among the sheikhs and the ulema killed with the sword of God’s love, can perform wonderful deeds,” he writes. “Their appearance (temessül) to those in need who ask for their help is not ludicrous for the readers of the lives of the Friends of God.”24 This belief, namely that those who sacrifice themselves for God’s love can attain special powers, is among the fundamental principles of the Sufi path and was circulated among the seventeenth-century Ottoman practitioners of Sufism. The Halveti-Celveti sheikh Hüdā’ī, for instance, explains the status of the “martyrs of love” in his treatise on the afterlife. He writes how one can achieve the rank of martyrdom not only through fighting at the battlefield but also through renunciation, which allows access to this world and the next.25 Similarly, the Mevlevi and Bayrami sheikh İsmail Anḳaravī (d. 1631) records the Koranic words, “Do not call them dead who have been slain for God’s sake, nay, they are alive” (3: 163) and explains the special position of the “martyrs of love” in this world.26 Like Hüdā’ī and Anḳaravī, ‘Aṭā’ī also wanted to present the extraordinary power of martyrs and thus shared stories about their appearance to the living. Among them, the reports about Dāl Memī Çelebi (d. 1574 or 1575), a deceased sea captain who visits his friend in Algiers, and

Rūmī (d.1273), the renowned mystic who appears to the Bayrami Sheikh Hacı Efendi (d. 1537 or 1538) in Konya, are especially interesting. They not only show the special powers of the martyrs but also provide detailed accounts of why and how they appeared to the living. With whom did ‘Aṭā’ī share these stories? Did he include them in his work to address a contemporaneous interest in other worldly encounters? We know very little about Ottoman beliefs about the undead and how they changed in time, but the pioneering research by Sariyannis has shown how Aṭā’ī’s circles were keen on sharing stories about spirits, vampires and witches in the late sixteenth century.27 A friend of ‘Aṭā’ī’s father, the poet and kadi Cinānī, for instance, collected stories about possessions and apparitions in a book for the sultan in 1590. His stories present the rich variety of beliefs about encounters between the living and the dead that circulated among late sixteenth-century Ottoman readers. They relate evil spirits (ervāḥ-i ḥabīse) who possess living bodies as well as “cāzu” whose corpses continue to move after death.28 Like these accounts narrated by Cinānī, the Ḥadā’iḳ stories provide a unique view into the ways early modern Ottomans imagined their dead and thus offer an opportunity to explore this so far little-known aspect of Ottoman lives. Let us first look at Dāl Memī Çelebi’s visit. ‘Aṭā’ī relates it in the entry of the Bayrami sheikh İskilibī as a part of his discussion about the possibility of the appearance of the martyrs. The story, which ‘Aṭā’ī reports from a miscellanea collection (mecmū‘a) belonging to a friend whom he saw when at Mezistre (in Morea, Greece), begins with a knock at the door.29 The author of the manuscript, a sailor called Hevā’ī (d. sometime after 1575), who fought for the Ottomans in the Mediterranean, was resting at home after having just moved back to Algiers. ‘Aṭā’ī reports from him and writes, I was tired from the troubles of travel and resting sleepily at home at the above-mentioned city. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The servant answered and came back telling me that it was one of my very old friends captain Dāl Memī Çelebi and he wanted to greet me upon my arrival. I went to the door in great surprise because I had heard that this captain had died three years ago. I opened the door and looked. When the curtain of suspicion was lifted, I lost myself in extreme happiness. The stone on which you step is the jewel in the crown of happiness The mark of your shoe is the letter dāl of the word devlet (fortune) for me. Repeating this saying, we shook hands and embraced. Then, we sat next to each other on a dervish-rug. Because of my utmost happiness, I could not keep myself from saying, “I had heard that you had died. Thanks to God, your arrival has livened me up.” He was silent. But we talked about other things for a couple of hours. Then, he said good-bye and went towards his house. Sleep overcame me. After the mid-afternoon prayer, I went out to the coffee shop and met friends. I said, “I thought Dāl Memī Çelebi was dead, but he venerated my abode of sorrow (i.e. home) to enliven my wretched heart with words of water of life.” Those present in the gathering looked at my face in amazement. They all said, “Since the year 1574-75 three years ago, Dāl Memī Çelebi has been at the bottom of a grave, blessed with God’s grace, and had attained eternal reverence. ‘---be auspicious o the second Yusuf.’” In fact, his death and return to God was confirmed and this strange story astonished the listeners.30

Is this a dream, then? Or can the dead appear to the living in broad daylight? Significantly, ‘Aṭā’ī leaves the answer to the reader. On the one hand, by presenting Hevā’ī asleep before and after the visit, he suggests that the meeting took place in a dream. He also notes how friends call him “Yusuf the Second,” referring to the prophet famous for his dreams. On the other hand, he presents the visit as an apparition observed by two men, since the servant was also a witness of the arrival and the departure of the deceased visitor. Rather than providing proof for a dream or an apparition, ‘Aṭā’ī plays with the blurred boundaries between them. Historians of dreams have argued that early modern dreamers did not often observe a strict separation between dreams and visions as we do today.31 Early modern writers not only described these experiences interchangeably but also considered “in-between” states, such as the time between wakefulness and sleep, as a particularly good occasion to receive divine inspiration. Similarly, in this case, ‘Aṭā’ī does not present a clear separation between dreams and apparitions. On the contrary, he brings up the in-between state between them to induce wonder in his readers. This account, which ‘Aṭā’ī presents as “a strange and astonishing story,” can be considered as “a tale of wonder.” In his study of medieval European ghosts, Schimdt distinguishes three major types of tales: tales of wonder, which share astonished observations of curiosities; miracles, which affirm the divine power of a saint; and examplas, which present moral lessons.32 In his story, similar to other wonder tales about ghosts, ‘Aṭā’ī raises questions which he does not answer decisively. He also does not present miraculous deeds or moral messages. In this sense he was unlike some of his contemporaries who circulated stories about “undead” who fought alongside the living. The historian Peçevi, for instance, wrote of how beheaded martyrs attacked the enemy while carrying their heads under their arms and brought victory to the Ottoman army.33 ‘Aṭā’ī, however, omits detailed reports of the naval victories in Algiers thanks to the miraculous deeds of martyrs like Dāl Memī Çelebi.34 He is more interested in sharing an amazing encounter between the living and the dead. This story presents how a dead visitor looked to a seventeenth-century Ottoman biographer. Although we need more research to place the story of Dāl Memī Çelebi in the context of the history of early modern apparitions, there are intriguing similarities with contemporaneous ghost stories in Ming China and Tudor England. In this story, ‘Aṭā’ī emphasizes the corporeality of Dāl Memī Çelebi. The deceased visitors in seventeenth-century China studied by Judith Zeitlin also appear as if alive and leave traces of their visits by inscribing poetry on the walls. Similarly, for seventeenth-century European writers, as argued by R. C. Finucane, ghosts “do not float through walls or materialize out of thin air but tend to open and close doors, sometimes politely knocking first. Most apparitions recorded in our collections are quite normal in appearance, voice and general behavior.”35 In one of these accounts, in opening up to a knock at her door, a servant was shocked to find her deceased mistress standing before her. When she voices her doubts, the lady confirms her identity and takes the servant by the hand.36 Like Dāl Memī Çelebi’s account, the deceased mistress’ visit begins with a knock on the door and involves physical contact with the living. In both cases, the dead resemble so much their living selves that they are mistaken as living and thus amaze their hosts. This story also illustrates why the dead visit the living. Interestingly, rather than presenting a

didactic message or making a pressing demand, Dāl Memī Çelebi comes from the hereafter mainly to spend time with a friend. With his focus on the friendship, ‘Aṭā’ī departs from earlier Islamic examples such as Ghazālī’s (d. 1111) Iḥyā, a work popular among ‘Aṭā’ī’s circles. Ghazālī narrates numerous accounts of the deceased who appear to friends in dreams to report which deeds ensured their salvation and ask for assistance shortly after their death.37 Jane Smith presents these accounts as “allegorical vehicles for conveying various levels of human responsibility with specific requests about insufficient burial, repayment of debts and even the repair of a leaky tomb.”38 Compared to them, Dāl Memī Çelebi’s reason to visit is very different. During their conversation, when Hevā’ī shares his happiness to find him alive after learning about his demise, Dāl Memī Çelebi remains silent and does not contradict the news of his death. But other than this silence, the conversation seems to have been like any other between two friends. He does not visit Hevā’ī to burden him with a demand or to deliver messages about divine judgment. His visit is to welcome a friend back to their town. Our knowledge of Ottoman friendship is meager, but three elements in this account suggest ‘Aṭā’ī’s aim is to present Dāl Memī Çelebi and Hevā’ī as perfect friends. First, ‘Aṭā’ī’s description of their relation confirms his ideas of perfect friendship. In his mesnevī Soḥbet, ‘Aṭā’ī describes close friends as faithful companions. He follows the Aristotelian ideal and presents the perfect friends as two souls in one body, a popular conception of friendship in the early modern world.39 According to ‘Aṭā’ī, the perfect friends are the ones who spend both summers and winters together; they frequent bathhouses and rose gardens; they become one in sorrows and joy. When one is in pain, the other cries; when one drinks, the other gets drunk.40 Similar to this description, ‘Aṭā’ī emphasizes the time shared between friends when he depicts Dāl Memī Çelebi’s visit. During the visit, the two friends sit next to each other and converse for a few hours. Significantly, “hem-nişīn” (“who sit together”) is a term ‘Aṭā’ī uses to describe close friends in his works.41 Thus, for him, Dāl Memī Çelebi and Hevā’ī must have been perfect friends. They continue to sit together and converse even after death. Second, ‘Aṭā’ī emphasizes the bond of friendship in the frame story: a book exchange among friends. He begins the story with a note about its source. He writes how he read this account in a book that belongs to a close friend. “When this poor writer was a kadi in Mezistre in 1628/29,” he writes, “I saw a miscellaneous compilation belonging to my dear friend Begzade Abdülkerim Çelebi who is among the notables of that place.”42 Significantly, ‘Aṭā’ī recorded other cases of book exchanges when mentioning his close friends in the Ḥadā’iḳ.43 The sharing of unique and sometimes expensive manuscripts must have been an important sign of trust among early modern Ottoman friends. Shelomo D. Gotein, for instance, cites a pact written in Cairo on January 2, 1564: The two partners concluded the pact for their own life time and that of their children and their children’s children; they will pray in the same synagogue (which means that they will meet at least twice a week); and perhaps most important for them, they will lend each other any book they might possess for the duration of twenty days for the purpose of study or copying and will never conceal from each other any book they have.44

Manuscripts shared during such exchanges could also be registers of friendship. As Babayan has shown for the eighteenth-century Safavid friends, readers recorded their pledges of love in the mecmū‘as.45 Were such pledges or other signs of friendship also recorded in Ottoman mecmū‘as like the one shared between Abdülkerim Çelebi and ‘Aṭā’ī? It is possible that Abdülkerim Çelebi recorded the date and place of the reading of the work like many other early modern Ottoman readers and perhaps inscribed some of ‘Aṭā’ī’s couplets inside its covers. Such book exchanges must have joined friends. And finally, the theme of travel also draws attention to the significance of friendship. In his study of friendship in Ming China, Martin W. Huang discusses the growing importance of friendship among the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century learned circles.46 According to him, a number of new developments made it especially necessary for officials to develop ties of friendship rather than depend solely on filial affiliations. The necessity of travel was an important factor because exiles and appointment to distant lands necessitated the formation of new ties at new posts.47 In the case of Ottoman history, Elena Frangakis-Syrett has also argued that friendship helped the eighteenth-century Levantine traders to establish much needed bonds across distant lands.48 Interestingly, long distance travel plays an important role in the friendships of both ‘Aṭā’ī and Hevā’ī. In the beginning of the account, ‘Aṭā’ī notes how he was serving as a kadı at Mezistre and was friends with a local notable. As for Hevā’ī, we learn that this sailor had just returned from his work at the arsenal in Istanbul when visited by Dāl Memī Çelebi, who was among the corsairs of Algiers. Thus, ‘Aṭā’ī might have included the story of Dāl Memī Çelebi in his work to show the permanent bonds of friendship in a world where many Ottomans, especially soldiers and kadıs, were on the move. For him, perfect friendship could survive separation, even death itself. While the story of Dāl Memī Celebi and Hevā’ī shows how an old friendship survives death, three brief accounts of Mevlana Celaddin Rūmī’s apparition to the Bayrami sheikh Hacı Efendi in Konya suggest that new ties can be established beyond death. In these accounts, which ‘Aṭā’ī presents as “miraculous deeds,” he follows the conventions of the genre and presents the special grace bestowed on his subject. Thus, by narrating this apparition, ‘Aṭā’ī claims a privileged position for Hacı Efendi among other sheikhs interested in spreading Rūmī’s teachings and claims his superior position vis-à-vis his critics.49 ‘Aṭā’ī uses both oral and written sources for this report. He cites the biographer Ali b. Bālī as his source for the first two accounts and includes an oral account by the kadı Niksarizade as the third. He writes: It is among the generous sheikh [Hacı Efendi]’s great miraculous deeds that when he arrived to the plain of Konya on his way to the pilgrimage, the noble spirit of Mevlānā Celaleddin Rūmī, the discoverer of the secrets of the Mevlevi, the author of the Mesnevī and the receiver of the eternal grace, met him. After embracing, welcoming, and putting his blessed arm around the noble sheikh like a belt of blessing, [Rūmī] hung this unique couplet as a pearl necklace on the neck of his spiritual state. I am happy with the cries of the children because I can look at you Welcome, o the soul of his father (i.e. the dear one), welcome! Another time, he had to visit Konya again to investigate the damaged books which were

endowed at the lodge near Sultan Selim Mosque. One day, he joined the muḳābele and watched the pleasures of the semā‘. During the semā‘, the spirit of Rūmī appeared and joined the circle. Rūmī lighted the candle of desire bestowing the beauty of warmness. Lovers turned and the gathering took the shape of revolving spheres. The people of exalted spiritual states witnessed the meaning of [this couplet]. As Hacı Efendi also began to turn like a moth with that desire, Rūmī embraced and honored him. When they completed the semā‘ and pleasure like the end of the joy of a wine cup, [Rūmī] presented pure praise as a musky flavored wine. Be silent about the state of treasures of poverty and annihilation With our help your heart will be their cellar This poor one [i.e. ‘Aṭā’ī] had heard this miraculous deed once from the deceased Niksarizade. As he narrated, the revered Haci Efendi used to deny the path of semā‘ and hated the sound of the tambourine, reed flute and drums. When he stopped by Konya on his way to the pilgrimage, after the Friday prayer, he participated in the semā‘ gathering and watched the devrān of the people of pleasure who circled in delight. Later, he joined the circle of the gathering and began turning involuntarily. When he came back home, his friends who had pure hearts asked about the situation, which was contrary to usual. He explained by saying “The Prophet (May God commend and salute him) was at the head of the blessed gathering. When the spirit of Mevlana became the delegate for the semā‘ like a moth with a desire for the candle of the gathering of sincere friends, I was patient. Then, I could not stay still.”50 By narrating these accounts, ‘Aṭā’ī shows the special relationship between Hacı Efendi and Rūmī. What is striking here is the way he affirms Hacı Efendi’s spiritual authority through his ties to Rūmī rather than any other deceased sheikh. In her study of the cult of saints in fifteenthcentury Venice, Patricia H. Labalme examines how Venetians considered their saints to be still present among the living and why they circulated the apparitions of some saints more than the others.51 In the case of Rūmī, the new kind of interest in his teachings at the time he composed the Ḥadā’iḳ must have played a role in this preference. Although he has been important for Ottoman practitioners of Sufism throughout history, the teaching of Rūmī’s Mesnevī was particularly widespread in seventeenth-century Istanbul.52 Between 1597 and 1633, three new Mevlevi lodges were opened in Istanbul and became important centers for the teaching of the Mesnevī.53 Biographers Halveti-Sivasi sheikh Naẓmī and Halveti-Sünbüli sheikh Ḥulvī, for instance, recorded their participation in Mesnevī readings at the Yenikapı lodge as turning points in their spiritual education.54 Sufi sheikhs from different orders were also engaged in writing commentaries to the Mesnevī sometimes supported by imperial patronage.55 The Bayramis partook in this interest. Not only did they also begin to teach the Mesnevī at their lodges but they also formed close alliances with the Mevlevi sheikhs in the early seventeenth century.56 In this context, ‘Aṭā’ī claims Hacı Efendi’s exceptional status among other sheikhs including Bayramis who were also interested in spreading Rūmī’s teachings. We can even observe a competition among the seventeenth-century Ottoman writers in presenting their subjects as

recipients of Rūmī’s grace.57 Among them, the Mevlevi sympathizer Evliya Çelebi writes how Rūmī taught Mesnevī to the Mevlevi sheikh Mübarek Hasan Dede (d. 1660) at his lodge in Beşiktaş. According to him, Mübarek Hasan Dede would declare in the midst of his session: “I have learned my lesson from Rūmī in this way last night and I am now sharing it with the brethren of pleasure.”58 The Halveti-Gülşeni biographer Muhyī also claims a personal bond between Rūmī and Gülşenī, the founder of their order.59 He writes how Rūmī had foretold the arrival of Gülşenī in the Mesnevī. And finally, the Bayrami biographer Hüsameddin Bursevī (d. 1632) narrated how Rūmī visited Bayrami sheikh Üftade Efendi to request the teaching of his Mesnevī at his lodge in Bursa.60 It is important to note that not everybody was sympathetic to Rūmī’s teachings at the time these stories circulated. During the reign of Murad IV, Kadızadeli Mehmed Efendi and his followers also criticized the permissibility of the semā‘ ritual and received imperial support to close a number of Mevlevi lodges. Mevlevi sympathizers, in return, defended the semā‘ and rebuked the suppression of their practices.61 ‘Aṭā’ī joined these critical voices by circulating stories of Rūmī’s apparitions. His account shows the spiritual power of Rūmī and presents a defense of the semā‘ against its opponents. Especially in his third account, ‘Aṭā’ī directly addresses the critics of the practice by writing how Rūmī invites Hacı Efendi to the semā‘. Hacı Efendi, who had previously objected to the practice, cannot resist joining the gathering. How can one reject the semā‘ when Rūmī personally invites one to his gathering?62 To claim the special bond between Rūmī and Hacı Efendi, ‘Aṭā’ī focuses on the sharing of an embrace and a couplet upon the meeting. For his contemporaneous audience, the meaning of this exchange must have been evident. Seventeenth-century Ottoman historians, as Rhoads Murphey has shown, narrate the observance of protocol at receptions to comment on the alliances and struggles among the meeting parties. While they show the tensions through its breech and mismanagement, they portray steadfast alliances by recording its proper observation.63 Like them, ‘Aṭā’ī carefully records how the deceased observe the greeting etiquettes carefully. In the case of Rūmī, the embrace is particularly important because of its role in the Mevlevi customs of greeting. In his handbook for the Mevlevis composed in 1619 or 1624, the sheikh İsmail Anḳaravī instructs travelers to embrace the brethren they personally knew upon their arrival to the lodge.64 ‘Aṭā’ī not only records Rūmī’s observance of this practice but also adds his sharing of a couplet during their meeting. Hacı Efendi secures the couplets by “hanging them in his ear” and tells how they kept on ringing in his ears throughout his life. Thus, while many Ottoman practitioners of Sufism listened to the Mesnevī at their lodges, this case is special: Rūmī personally addresses Hacı Efendi.65 His couplets, like embraces during meetings, present a precious gift exchange and secure a tangible bond between the living and the dead.

Dreams and tokens of remembrance In addition to the apparition accounts, ‘Aṭā’ī also included dreams in the Ḥadā’iḳ to display how the dead love the living and arrive with gifts to help. With these accounts, he presents the possibility of communication with the dead and the transformative power of receiving their

gifts. Among them, Bālī Efendi’s dream of his deceased beloved Piruze Ali is an interesting example.66 Like Dal Memi Çelebi and Rūmī, Piruze Ali is a compassionate dead. He visits his lover Bālī Efendi shortly after his death in a dream and presents a token of remembrance to ease his pain from their separation. Miraculously, Bālī Efendi still has the gift when he wakes up. According to Aṭā’ī, this token of remembrance not only orients Bālī Efendi from mundane to divine love but also shows his ability to communicate with the dead. In the beginning of the account, we find Bālī Efendi suffering from the sudden and untimely death of Piruze Ali. He is greatly tormented by his longing for the dark curls and bow-like eye brows of his beloved boy. He is bedridden and almost dead himself. But one day, he arrives at a gathering of his friends with great joy. He addresses those present, saying: “O, friends of pleasure! For many days my eyes have been a silver sea because of longing for my silver-bosomed beloved. I have been destroyed after the separation from the treasure of union. I saw him in my dream tonight and I prostrated myself before his feet. (Couplet): The beloved did not wake up at night when the candle was burnt Fulfilling my desire I woke up and prostrated before his hand and feet. This meaning became evident. I approached him and said involuntarily, ‘Since I have been away from the dust of your feet, I have deserted the realm of reason. With scattered thoughts, I have stepped into the circle of insanity like a compass. I have given up the fountain life because of the separation from your sweet lips. After this, I do not have any strength to endure separation and any ability to be patient. Either take this weak soul to your gathering or give joy to my thoughts with a token of remembrance from the dust of your feet.’ He showed compassion and mercy. He put some soil under his foot into a paper and presented it, saying, ‘This elixir-like jewel will be a token of remembrance for you.’ I received it and placed it on my head. I put it in the corner of my headgear. I said farewell. Suddenly, sleep departed from my eye and pain left my heart. Thanks to God, I felt at ease.” After [Bālī Efendi] says this, during the conversation he opened his headgear like a rose petal, re-arranged it like a branch of blossoms, and scattered it in the middle of the gathering. Some soil inside a piece of paper appeared at the top of his cap. It was verified that it was the precious kohl of the soul’s eye and the gem of the elixir of the lovers. Those present at the gathering were amazed in this state and bit their fingers like stibium pots. It is narrated that after this dream, the melancholic love was snatched away from him and the attraction of the true beloved was hooked into his compassionate heart. With a victorious guide, he traveled on the great path of initiation step-by-step.67 ‘Aṭā’ī concludes the account by writing “this poor one (ie. the author) says that [Bālī Efendi’s] unique characteristics of making the dead speak like the breath of Jesus and the state of Hızır is clear and evident from this event.”68 Such personal remarks are rare in the Ḥadā’iḳ and show ‘Aṭā’ī’s commitment to defend Bālī Efendi against his critics among the other Sufi sheikhs who disputed his claims to speak with the dead. Bālī Efendi, as discussed in the second chapter, had a controversial life and a number of his spiritual practices were criticized by his contemporaries. One of them was his practice of telḳīn at funerals. Telḳīn, the

proclamation of the articles of faith to the departed before their burial, was a common practice at his time. What made Bālī Efendi’s telkin unique were the reports about the response from the dead.69 Funeral attendants claimed to have heard the deceased answering back to the sheikh and the family members identified the voices as belonging to the departed. Reports about such an exchange created a discussion among contemporaneous sheikhs. The Halveti sheikh Nureddinzade, for instance, disputed the practice for being an innovation (bid‘at) which could bring sedition. Bālī Efendi defended himself by arguing that that there was “room for all kinds of novelty in the unbounded ocean of miraculous deeds.” Which sheikh was right? Whom to follow? The Ottoman literati took sides. “People have become such unbelievers when it comes to miraculous deeds,” wrote the sixteenth-century poet and ‘ālim ‘Azmī Efendi, father of ‘Aṭā’ī’s teacher Azmizade, regarding the controversy. “Make the dead speak and be called a heretic.”70 Kınalızade recorded these controversies in his work. About fifty years later, this controversy was still so important for ‘Aṭā’ī that he decided to include it his work. This story also has a moral message: Piruze Ali helps Bālī Efendi give up chasing beloveds and orients him towards divine love. The male beloveds, as a number of studies have shown, played an important role in early modern Ottoman literary circles. Poets, scholars and patrons revered them for their beauty, composed poetry for them and presented them with gifts.71 Their biographers, who were among the lovers, recorded these exchanges with interest. However, they were also concerned with what they considered as proper sexual conduct. The biographer of poets, ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, for instance, recorded misadventures of those who chased beloveds as cautionary tales.72 ‘Aṭā’ī agreed with him. Although he shared his reverence for their beauty, he upheld refraining from sexual intercourse with the beloveds.73 Like the exampla studied by Jean-Claude Schmidt, his dream account of Bālī Efendi supports his position and shows how the dead can put the living on the correct path. But how can the dead help the living? A token of remembrance (yādigār) shared between a beloved and his lover plays a crucial role in ‘Aṭā’ī’s account. Unlike his source Kınalızade, ‘Aṭā’ī writes how Bālī Efendi asks Piruze Ali for a yādigār. Piruze Ali responds by putting some of the soil under his foot into a paper and presenting it saying, “This elixir-like jewel will be a token of remembrance for you.” It is possible that such yādigārs were shared among friends and lovers among ‘Aṭā’ī’s circles. In addition to the frequent mention of yādigārs in Ottoman poetry, biographical works include notices about poets who presented couplets in their own hand writing to friends on the eve of their death.74 ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, for instance, records a couplet he received from his friend the poet Ṣun‘ī (d. sometime after 1542) at his deathbed. Shortly afterwards, Ṣun‘ī died from the plague, but still found a way to show his love for ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi; he appeared in a dream to tell him of his longing.75 ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi recorded this dream and the couplet in his work and thus ensured the remembrance of a talented young friend who passed away too soon. In his account of the yādigār exchange in Bālī Efendi’s dream, ‘Aṭā’ī includes a similar case. Like the embraces and couplets exchanged in the apparitions of Dāl Memī Çelebi and Rūmī, Piruze Ali’s gift establishes tangible bonds of affection between the living and the dead. His story presents the transformative power of love, longing and remembrance.

When the deceased visitors arrived from the hereafter in early seventeenth-century Istanbul, they stepped into a charged milieu. Not everybody believed them and some questioned whether one should seek their help. ‘Aṭā’ī participated in these debates and showed how the special dead could appear to the living. What did his contemporaries such as the kadızadelis think about these deceased visitors? Do ‘Aṭā’ī’s stories reveal changing attitudes towards the dead in the early seventeenth century? And if so, how can we understand the early seventeenthcentury stories in the context of the rich history of Ottoman apparitions? We need more research to address these questions. The dead visitors in the Ḥadā’iḳ can help us to take the preliminary steps towards this work. ‘Aṭā’ī’s stories introduce the gentle dead and their love for the living. Dāl Memī Çelebi is a polite ghost who knocks first; Piruze Ali not only answers his lover’s prayers and shows up in a dream, but also comes with a gift that cures Bālī Efendi’s sick heart; Rūmī welcomes Hacı Efendi to his gathering with a warm embrace and couplets. None of these dead frequent creepy uninhabited places; instead all show up with gentle steps in the comfort of the house, Sufi lodge, and a main road. The Ḥadā’iḳ presents us with a serene relationship between the living and the dead from which fear and tension are lacking. The emotion which these meetings was reported to have triggered is amazement (ta‘accüb). When they hear ghost stories, Hevā’ī’s friends at the coffee shop and Bālī Efendi’s friends at his medrese room are amazed. The stories present mutual love and tangible bonds established through embraces and gifts. How could one be afraid?

Notes Shakespeare, The Norton Shakespeare, ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. (New York, 1997), I Henry IV, 3.I.51–53 cited by Stephen Greenblatt and Catherine Gallagher in their Practicing New Historicism (Chicago, 2000), p. 29. For ‘Aṭā’ī’s contemporaries’ views on the place of the dead, see for instance Hüdā’ī, Ḥayātü’l-Ervāh ve Necātü’l-Eşbāh, published as Aziz Mahmûd Hüdâyî’nin Ḥayâtü’l-Ervâh ve Necâtü’l-Eşbâh Adlı Eserinin Tahkîk, Tahrîc, Terceme ve Tahlîli, ed. Cemal Acer, MA thesis, Marmara University, 1998; Ahmed Vecdī, Raḫatü’l-Eşbāh fī Beyānü’l-Ervāh, Topkapı Palace Library, M.R. 1062. Jean Claude Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society, trans. Teresa Lavender Fagan (Chicago, 1998). Ethem Eldem, ‘Urban Voices from Beyond: Identity, Status, and Social Strategies in Ottoman Muslim Funerary Epitaphs of Istanbul (1700–1850)’, in Virginia H. Aksan and Daniel Goffman (eds), The Early Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire (Cambridge and New York, 2007), pp. 233–56; Gülru Necipoğlu, ‘Dynastic Imprints on the Cityscape: The Collective Message of Imperial Funerary Mosque Complexes of Istanbul’, in Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont and Aksel Tibet (eds), Cimetières et traditions funeraires dans le monde Islamique (Ankara, 1996), vol. 2, pp. 23–31; Ethem Eldem, Death in Istanbul: Death and Its Rituals in Ottoman Islamic Culture (Istanbul, 2005); Nicolas Vatin and Stéphae Yerasimos, Les cimetières dans la ville. Status, choix et organisation des lieux d’inhumation dans Istanbul intra-muros (Paris, 2001), pp. 9–19; G. Veinstein (ed.), Les Ottomans et la mort. Permanences et mutations (Leiden, 1996); Hans-Peter Laqueur, Hüve’l-Baki: İstanbul’da Osmanlı Mezarlıkları ve Mezar Taşları, trans. Selahattin Dilidüzgün (Istanbul, 1993). Marinos Sariyannis, ‘Of Ottoman ghosts, vampires and sorcerers: An old discussion disinterred,’ Archivum Ottomanicum 30 (2013): 191–217. See for instance, Mu-Chou Poo (ed.), Rethinking Ghosts in World Religions (Leiden and Boston, 2009); Sasha Handley, Visions Of An Unseen World: Ghost Beliefs and Ghost Stories in Eighteenth Century England (London, 2007); Judith T. Zeitlin, ‘The Return of the Palace Lady: The Historical Ghost Story and Dynastic Fall’, in David Der-wei Wang and Shang Wei (eds), Dynastic Crisis and Cultural Innovation from Late Ming to the Late Qing and Beyond (Cambridge, MA and London, 2005), pp. 151–199. Avery F. Gordon, Ghostly Matters, Haunting and the Sociological Imagination (Minneapolis, 1997), p. 58. Amira Henare, Martin Holbraad and Sari Wastell (eds), Thinking Through Things: Theorizing Artefacts Ethnographically (London, 2007).

Patrice Ladwig, ‘Can Things Reach the Dead? The Ontological Status of Objects and the Study of Lao Buddhist Rituals for the Spirits of the Deceased’, in Kristen Endres and Andrea Lauser (eds), Engaging the Spirit World in Modern Southeast Asia (Oxford and New York, 2012), p. 23. Zeitlin, ‘The Return of the Palace Lady: The Historical Ghost Story and Dynastic Fall’, p. 153. Nefḫa, fols 62a–63a. Nefḫa, fol. 62a. For a similar account of learning from the dead, see R. C. Finucane, Ghosts: Appearances of the Dead & Cultural Transformation (Amherst, 1996), p. 17. For the significance of Aristotle for medieval Muslim scholars, see Annemarie Schimmel, Halifenin Rüyaları: İslam’da Rüya ve Rüya Tabiri (Istanbul, 2005), p. 131. Marshall Peter, Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England (Oxford and New York, 2002), pp. 188–232. For early seventeenth-century discussions on the nature of the spirit, the location of the souls after death and the situation of the graves, see Vücūdī Mehmed b. Abdülaziz, Aḥvāl-i ‘ālem-i berzah, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Raşid Efendi 527 and Ahmed Vecdī, Raḫatü’l-Eşbāh, fols 1b–24b. In fourteenth-century Cairo, Ibn Taymiyya criticized performing the ritual prayer at the graves, burning candles, and seeking help from the deceased. According to him, the purpose of the visit must be the living’s offering prayers to the dead and remembering their death. See Christopher Shurman Taylor, In the Vicinity of the Righteous: Ziyāra and the Veneration of Muslim Saints in Late Medieval Egypt (Leiden, New York and Köln, 1998), pp. 168–195. Kadızade Mehmed Efendi, İrşādü’l-‘Uḳūli’l-Müstaḳime ile’l-Uṣuli’l-Ḳayime bi İbtāli’l-Bid‘āti’s-Saḳīme, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Fatih 5407, fol. 175b; Çavuşoğlu, The Kadızadeli Movement, pp. 303–304. Katip Çelebi, The Balance of Truth, trans. G.L. Lewis (London, 1957), p. 94. Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in the Ottoman Empire; Curry, ‘Defending the Cult of Saints in Seventeenth-Century Kastamonu’; Baha Tanman, ‘Settings for the Veneration of Saints’. Abdülmecid Sivāsī, Dürer-i ‘Aḳāid, ms. Süleymaniye Library, Mihrişah Sultan 300, fol. 82a; Çavuşoğlu, The Kadızadeli Movement, pp. 305–306. Marshall, Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England, pp. 248, 255. Ömer Fu‘ādī, Halvetiliğin Şa’baniyye Kolu, pp. 200-01, 86–87. Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 204, 340. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 345: Temessül-i ervāḥ-ı şühedā bā-ḫuṣûṣ şehīdān-ı tīġ-ı ‘aşḳ-ı Hüdā olan meşāyiḫ ve ulemā taṣarrufāt-ı ‘acībeye ḳādir ve zamān-ı müżāyaḳada istimdād iden mü’minīn vāḳa‘a-dīdeye mu‘āvin ve muẓāhir olduḳları tetebbü‘yi menāḳıb-ı evliyā-yı kirām idenler yanında muḥal kelām degüldür. Sivāsī also shared these views. See Cengiz Gündoğdu, Bir Türk Mutasavvıfı, Abdülmecid Sivâsî (971/1563-1049–1639): Hayatı, Eserleri, ve Tasavvufî Görüşleri (Ankara: 2000), pp. 381–85. See for instance, Hüdā’ī, Ḥayātü’l-Ervāh, pp. 61–62. İsmail Ankaravi, Minhācu’l-Fuḳarā’, published as Minhâcu’l- Fukara, Fakirlerin Yolu, ed. Saadeddin Ekici (Istanbul, 1996), pp. 205–11. We do not know whether ‘Aṭā’ī read this book, but he presented it among Cinānī’s works in the Ḥadā’iḳ. See Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 395. Marinos Sariyannis, ‘Of Ottoman ghosts, vampires and sorcerers’, pp. 200–203. Some examples from the rich literary tradition of the early modern Ottoman Algiers have survived. See for instance, Şükrü Elçin, Akdeniz’de ve Cezâyir’de Türk Halk Şâirleri, (Ankara: Türk Kültürü Araştırma Ensititüsü Yayınları, 1988). Unfortunately, there is no work by any “Hevā’ī” in this collection. Neither could I find in the major manuscript catalogues any work that could belong to our Hevā’ī. Ottoman Turkish miscellanea collection are often poorly catalogued. Thus, if any copy of this manuscript has survived, it may be discovered when more detailed catalogues are produced in the future. Ḥadā’iḳ, Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2344, fols 156a–157a: [156a] [1] Maḥrūse-i mezbūrede vāḳi ‘menzilümde zaḥmet-i esfārda fersūde, ḫvābānīde [2] [156b] vü āsūde idüm. Nāgāh ḳapu daḳḳ olındı. Ḫidmetkār istifsār içün varup ‘Ḳadīmī aḥbābumdan olup gemi re’īslerinden olan Dāl Memī Çelebi geldi. Tehniyet-i ḳudūm içün mülāḳāt murād ider.’ diyü ḫaber getürdi. Re’īs-i merḳūmuñ üç sene muḳaddem mevti istimā ‘olınmaġın ta‘accüb-künān, ḳapuya revān oldum ve ḳapuyı açup naẓar itdüm. Perde-i evhām mündefi ‘olıcaḳ kemāl-i sürūr ile kendümden gitdüm. Seng-i rāhuñ dürretü’t-tāc-ı sa‘ādetdür baña Na‘linüñ resmi zemīnde dāl-i devletdür baña mażmūnın tekrār iderek muṣāfaḥa vü mu‘ānaḳadan ṣoñra kilim-i dervīşānede hem-nişīn olup ifrāṭ-ı sürūrumdan bī-iḫtiyār olup “Sizi vefāt itdi diyü istimā ‘itmiş [3] idük. El-ḥamdu li’llāhi te‘ālā ḳudūmuñuz ḥayāt-ı tāze virdi.” didüm. Sükūt itdi. Lâkin sā’ir aḥvālden bir iki sā‘at miḳdārı muṣāḥabet itdük. Ba‘dehu vedā ‘idüp menziline müteveccih oldı. Faḳīre ḫvāb ġalebe idüp ba‘de’l-‘aṣr ḳahve-ḫāneye [4] çıḳup aḥbāb ile mülāḳī oldum ve ‘Dāl Memī Çelebi’yi fevt oldı bilürken bugün ġamḫānemüze şerefbaḫşā olup mā’u’l-ḥayāt-ı kelimātla dil-i pejmürdemüzi iḥyā eyledi. Bir iki sā‘at ṣoḥbet itdük.’ didüm. Ḥużżār-ı meclis ta‘accüb iderek yüzüme baḳdılar ve “Seksān iki tārīḫinden berü üç senedür Dāl Memī Çelebi zīr-i laḥd [5] olup ġarḳ-ı raḥmet-i Aḥad ve fā’iz-i izzet-i Sermed olmışdur.” diyüp ‘Ḫayr ola düşüñise [?] eger iy Yūsuf-ı Sānī’ [157a] mażmūnı ile hem-zebānī itdiler. Fi’l-ḥaḳīḳa mevti taḥḳīḳ ve müdde‘āları taṣdīḳ olınup bu ḳıṣṣa-i ġarābet-‘unvān

ḥayret-efzā-yı müstemi‘ān oldı. 1. P 346, E 212a, PR 217b 2. ḫˇābānde P 2. İstimā ‘itmiş: işitmiş SE 3. 218a R1 4.212b E. See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 937–38. Plane, Dreams, Dreamers and Visions, p. 5 and Kafadar, Kim Var İmiş Biz Burada Yoğ İken, pp. 143–44. Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, pp. 59–78. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Türk Folkloründe Kesik Baş, Tarih-Folklor İlişkisinden Bir Kesit (Ankara, 2013), pp. 97–103. Tal Shuval, ‘Cezayir-i Garp: Bringing Algeria Back into Ottoman History’, New Perspectives on Turkey, 22 (2009): 85–98. Finucane, Ghosts, p. 149. Ibid. Ghazālī, The Remembrance of Death and the Afterlife, Kitāb dhikr al-mawt wa-māba‘dahu, Book XL of the Revival of the Religious Sciences Iḥyā ‘Ulūm al-Dīn, ed. T.J. Winter (Cambridge, 1989). Jane I. Smith, ‘Concourse between the Living and the Dead in Islamic Eschatological Literature’, History of Religion, 19/3 (1980): 228–29. Carolyn James and Bill Kent, ‘Renaissance Friendships: Traditional Truths, New and Dissenting Voices’, in Barbara Caine (ed.), Friendship: A History (Oakville, 2009), pp. 111–65. When he presents his own close friends in his mesnevīs, he also emphasizes how they spent time together from morning till night. Soḥbet, p. 72: Herbiri hem-dem ü hem-rāhım idi/Yār-ı her şām u sehergāhum idi. For the significance of shared social activities in early modern practices of friendship, see Alexandra Shepard, ‘ ‘Swil-bols and Tos-pots’: Drink Culture and Male Bonding in England, c.1560–1640’, in Laura Gowing, Michael Hunter and Miri Rubin (eds), Love, Friendship and Faith in Europe, 1300–1800 (London, 2005), pp. 110–130. See, for instance, the description of the friendship between Kemalpaşazade and Hacı Efendi, Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 350. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 346: Fāḳīr cāmi‘ü’l-ḥurūf biñ otuz sekiz tārīḫinde Mizistre’de ḳāḍī iken ol diyār a’yānından yār-ı cānımuz Begzāde Abdu’l-kerīm Çelebi ḫidmetlerinüñ elinde bir mecmū‘a gördüm. We do not know much about their relationship but the only other information we have about Abdülkerim Çelebi is the chronogram ‘Aṭā’ī composed for the building of his new house. See his Dīvān, p. 714. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 360. Shelomo D. Goitein, ‘Formal Friendship in the Medieval Near East’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 115/6 (1971): 488. Kathryn Babayan, ‘In Spirit We Ate Each Other’s Sorrow: Female Companionship in Seventeenth-Century Safavi Iran’, in Kathryn Babayan and Afsaneh Najmabadi (eds), Islamicate Sexualities, Translations across Temporal Geographies of Desire (Cambridge, Mass., 2008), p. 254. Martin Huang, ‘Introduction’, in Martin Huang (ed.), Male Friendship in Ming China (Leiden, 2007), pp. 3–19. Ibid., p. 16. Elena Frangakis-Syrett, ‘Networks of Friendship, Networks of Kinship: Eighteenth-Century Levant Merchants’, Eurasian Studies, 1/2 (2002): 183–205. For Hacı Efendi’s life, see Öngören, Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf, p. 160. Ḥadā’iḳ, Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2344, fol. 161a–161b: [161a] [1] Ol şeyḫ-i kerīmüñ menāḳıb-ı ‘aẓīmelerindendür ki [161b] ḥacc-ı Beled-i Ḥarām’a müteveccih olduḳları eyyāmda Ḳonya ṣaḥrāsına vāṣıl olduḳlarında kāşif-i esrār-ı mevlevī, ṣāḥib-i kitāb-ı Mesnevī, maẓhar-ı ‘ināyāt-ı ḳayyūmī, Mevlānā Celāle’d-dīn-i Rūmī ḥażretlerinüñ rūḥ-ı şerīfleri istiḳbāl idüp mu‘ānaḳa vü [2] terḥīb ve bāzū-yı pür-nūrların hamā’il-i şeyḫ-i necīb ḳılduḳdan ṣoñra bu beyt-i bī-misāli [3] ‘ıḳdu’l-le’āl-i gerden-i ḥāli iderler. “Ḫoshnūdem āz nevā-ye püser dārem besī bātō nażar / Ḫosh āmedī jān-e peder ehlan ve sehlan merḥabā.” Bir def‘a daḫı Sulṭān Selīm Cāmi‘i ḳurbında olan zāviye-i ma‘rūfeden ba‘ż-ı vaḳā’i ‘ḥasebi ile kütüb-i mevḳūfe żāyi ‘olup teftīş içün Ḳonya’ya varmaları iḳtiżā eyledükde bir gün muḳābeleye ḥāżır ve semā ‘u ṣafāya nāẓır olurlar. Esnāyı semā‘da rūḥ-ı Mevlānā mütemessil ve ḥalḳa-i semā‘a dāḫil olup [4] “Şem‘-i şevḳı yaḳdı Mevlānā ṣalup tāb-ı cemāl / Döndi ‘uşşāḳ oldı meclis şekl-i fānūs-ı ḫayāl” [5] mażmūnı meşhūd-ı ehl-i ḥāl olup Hacı Efendi daḫı ol şevḳle pervānevār devre āġāz idicek rūḥ-ı Mevlānā mu‘ānaḳa vü i‘zāz idüp cām-ı sürūr-encām gibi devre-i semā ‘u ṣafāyı itmām itdüklerinde bu beyt ile raḥīḳ-ı iltifātı müşgīn-ḫitām iderler. “Ḫāmūsh bāshoz āḥvāl-e genj-e fāḳr u fenā / Dil-e tō maḫzen-e īnhā būd behjet-e mā.” Naḳl olınur ki ḥażret-i Mevlānā’nuñ şekl ü sīmā-yı nūrānīsin ve ziyy-i mu‘tād [162a] u pūşānīsin meşhūr u mesmū‘a tevfīḳ ve erbāb-ı menāḳıb żabṭına taṭbīḳ idüp ol beytleri müddetü’l-‘ömr āvīze-i gūş itdüklerin [6] taḥḳīḳ iderlermiş. Faḳīr eydürin bu menḳabe-i celīleyi bir def‘a [7] Niksārī-zāde merḥūmdan işitmiş idüm. Anlaruñ naḳli üzere Hacı Efendi ḫidmetleri muḳaddemā ṭarīḳat-ı semā‘a münkir ve deff ü nāy u ḳudūm istimā‘ından müteneffir imiş. Ḥacca giderken Ḳonya’ya uġraduḳlarında ba‘de ṣalāti’l-cum‘a cem‘iyyet-i semā‘a ḥāżır ve ẕevḳe dā’ir olan devrān-ı aṣḥābı ṣafāya nāẓır olurlar. Bi’l-āḫare ḥalḳa-i cem‘iyyete dāḫil olup bī-iḫtiyār devre başlarlar. Menzile geldüklerinde aḥbāb-ı [ḫāliṣü’l-bāl][8] ḫilāf-ı ma‘hūd ṣādır olan ḥālden su’āl itdüklerinde “Sırr-ı Resūl-i Ekrem (Sallā Allahu Te’ālā ‘Aleyhi Ve’s-selām) ṣadr-nişīn-i meclis-i pür-iḥtirām olup rūḥ-ı Mevlānā ol şem‘-i cem‘-i aṣfiyā şevḳına

pervānevār muraḫḫaṣ-ı semā ‘u ṣafā olunca ṣabr itdüm. Ba‘dehu ḳarāra iḳtidārum ḳalmadı.” diyü ta‘bīr buyurmışlar. 1. P 349, E 214a, R1 119b, SE 2. 220a R1 3. 214b E 4.şi’r P 5. nesr P 6. 350 P 7. Bir def‘a:- SE. 8. ḫāliṣü’l-bāl incorporated into the text in P, E, R1, SE. See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 937–38. Patricia H. Labalme, ‘Holy Patronage, Holy Promotion: The Cult of Saints in Fifteenth-Century Venice’, in Sandro Sticca (ed.), Saints: Studies in Hagiography (Binghamton and New York, 1996), pp. 95–114. For the Nakşıbendi interest in the Mesnevī, see Dina LeGall, A Culture of Sufism: Naqsbandīs in the Ottoman World, 1450– 1700, p. 57. Alberto Fabio Ambrosio, Bir Mevlevi’nin Hayatı, 17. Yüzyılda Sufilik Öğretisi ve Ayinleri, trans. Ayşe Meral (Istanbul, 2012), pp. 73–74. Naẓmī, Hediyyetü’l-İḫvān, p. 54 and Ḥulvī, Lemazāt-ı Ḥulviyye, fol. 215b. For the commentaries from this period, see İsmail Güleç, Türk Edebiyatında Mesnevî Tercüme ve Şerhleri (Istanbul, 2008); Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı, Mevlanadan Sonra Mevlevilik (Istanbul, 1983), pp. 142–165. For Sultan Ahmed’s interest in the Mesnevī, see also Franklin D. Lewis, Rumi Past and Present, East and West (Oxford: 2000), p. 449; Naẓmī, Hediyyetü’lİḫvān, pp. 390–91. Sheikh İsmail Ankaravi, the sheikh of the Mevlevi lodge at Galata, for instance, had dual affiliation to both the Bayrami and Mevlevi orders. For the relations of the Mevlevis with Halvetis and Bayramis, see Goncagül Artam, Osmanlı Devleti’nde Mevlevî Tarikatı’nın Klasik Öncesi Dönemi (13–17. Yüzyıllar) (Istanbul, 2007), pp. 166–167. Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol 1, p. 222: Mukâbele günleri kürsîde Mesnevî-yi şerîf kırâ’at ederken ba‘zı zamân kendülere bir vecd hâsıl olup, “Bu gece dersimizi Hazret-i Mevlâna’dan böylece tilâvet edüp hâzır ihvân-ı safâya kırâ’at ederiz” deyü takrîr ederlerdi. Muhyī-i Gülşenī, Menāḳıb-ı Şeyh İbrāḥim Gülşeni, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı (Ankara: 1982), p. 3. Hüsameddin Bursevī, Menāḳıb-ı Üftāde, published as Menâkıb-ı Üftâde, ed. Abdurrahman Yünal (Bursa, 1996), p. 27; Ḥadā’iḳ, pp. 357–59. Terzioğlu, Sufi and Dissident in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 227–33; Ambrosio, Bir Mevlevi’nin Hayatı, pp. 175–285. Hacı Efendi’s account shows significant similarities to the story of Kadı İzeddin, a contemporary of Rūmī who once rejected semā‘ but then joined Rūmī’s gathering. The narrators of Hacı Efendi’s account, or Hacı Efendi himself, might have known this encounter and taken it as a model. See Eflākī, Menāḳību’l-‘Ārifīn, trans. Tahsin Yazıcı (Ankara, 1976–80), vol. 1, p. 104. Rhoads Murphey, ‘The Cultural and Political Meaning of Ottoman Rituals of Welcome: A Text-Linked Analysis Based on Accounts by Three Key Ottoman Historians’, in Essays on Ottoman Historians and Historiography, pp. 191–205. İsmail Ankaravi, Minhācu’l-Fuḳarā’, pp. 91–92. The custom of greeting with an embrace might have also circulated among the Mevlevis in their accounts of Rūmī’s life. According to the nineteenth-century writer Kayserī, for instance, Rūmī dreamed of his beloved Şems a few days after his death and embraced him saying “O my soul.” (“hāy cānum diyüp mu‘ānaḳa itdikte”); İbrahim ibn Abdullah Ḳayṣerī, Menāḳıb-ı Mevlānā, Harvard Houghton MS4053, fol. 9r. For the Mevlevi rituals of reading the Mesnevī, see Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı, Mevlevî Âdâb ve Erkânı (Konya, no name of publisher, 2001), pp. 89–91. Another one of these dead is the Gülşeni sheikh ‘Uryānī Mehmed Efendi. As discussed in the first chapter, he visits ‘Aṭā’ī in a dream and presents a pen and gives glad-tidings for his poetry. Ḥadā’iḳ, İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü Library, Yazmalar, ŞR 000182: [132ba] [1] Yārān-ı ṣafā, nice gündür ol dil-ber-i sīmīn-berüñ firḳati ile gözlerüm baḥr-ı sīm-āb ve gencīne-i vaṣlından cüdā olalı ḥālüm ḫarāb idi. Bu gice vāḳı‘ada gördüm ve ḫāk-i pāylarına yüzüm gözüm sürdüm. [2] “Gice dildār bīdār olmadı bir şem ‘yanunca/Kef ü pāyına yüz sürdüm murād üzre uyanunca” [3] mażmūnını der-kār, ba‘dehu ‘arża girüp bī-iḫtiyār eyitdüm, “Ḫāk-i pāyuñdan dūr olalı diyār-ı ‘aḳldan mehcūrum. Efkār-ı perīşān ile pergār [4]-ṣıfat dā’ire-i cünūna ḳadem ḳodum [5] ve firāḳ-ı la‘l-i şīrīnüñle çeşme-i cāndan el yudum. Min-ba‘d firāḳa ṭāḳatüm ve ṣabra istiṭā‘atüm ḳalmadı. Ya cān-ı nā-tüvānı bezmüñe maḥrem, yāḫūd [6] ḫāk-i pāyuñdan bir yādigār ile ḫāṭırum ḫürrem eyle.” didügümde iẓhār-ı şefḳat ve ḥālüme [7] merḥamet idüp ayaġı tozından bir miḳdār ġubār-ı tūtiyā-‘ayārı bir kāġıd pāre içine [8] ḳoyup “Bu cevher-i iksīr-i‘tibār sende yādigārum olsun.” didi. Ben daḫı öpüp [9] başuma ḳodum ve kūşe-i destāra ta‘biye idüp vedā ‘itdüm. Fi’l-ḥāl gözümden ḫvāb ve göñlümden ıżṭırāb gidüp bi-ḥamdi’llāhi te‘ālā selvet-i ḫāṭır ẓāhir [10] oldı.” diyüp esnā-yı ṣoḥbetde destārını berg-i gül gibi perīşān ve şāḫ-ı şükūfedār gibi tāzeleyüp meyān-ı meclise rīzān eyledükde pīçīde kāġıd içinde bir miḳdār ġubār, kūşe-i ṭāḳ-ı ṭāḳıyyeden bedīdār olup [133a] ẕikr itdükleri kuḥlü’l-cevāhir-i çeşm-i cān ve cevher-i iksīr-i ‘irfān-ı [11] [‘āşıḳān] idügi taḥḳīḳ olınmaġla ḥużżār-ı meclis bu ḥāle ḥayrān ve mīl-i mikḥaleveş engüşt der-dehān oldılar. Naḳl olınan üzere bu vāḳı‘adan ṣoñra sevdā-yı māsivā ḫāṭırlarından meslūb ve ceẕbe-i ‘ışḳ-ı maḥbūb-ı ḥaḳīḳī ḳullāb-ı ḳalb-i maḥabbet-üslūb olup refīḳ-ı tevfīḳ ile pey-ender-pey şāh-rāh-ı sülūki ṭayy itmişler idi. 1. P 211, E 129a, R1 136b SE 76b 2. Beyt P 3. Nesr P 4. 137a R1 5. 129b E 6. Yā P 7. iẓhār/ ḥālüme: ḥālüme şefḳat iẓhār-ı SE 8. Alup P 9. Pāre içine: pāreye SE 10.77a SE. 11: – P E R1 SE. See also, See also Suat Donuk, Nev‘î-zâde Atâyî, pp. 670–

71. Ḥadā’iḳ, Ibid.: Faḳīr eydürin ki cāh-ı maḫṣūṣ-ı bī-misālleri olan inṭāḳ-ı mevti mānend-i iḥyā-yı Mesīḥā, lāzıme-i enfāsı ‘Īsevī ve meşreb-i Ḫıżrīleri [1] olduġı bu vāḳı‘adan ẓāhir ve bu vaḳ‘adan rūşen ü bāhir olur. 1. Ḫıżr-ı yārī SE. For this practice, see Ibn Qayyim’s discussion in Kitābu’r-Rūḥ, a book which also circulated among the late sixteenth-century Ottoman learned circles: Ibn Qayyim, Kitābu’r-Rūḥ, published as Kitâbu’-r-Rûh, trans. Şaban Haklı (Istanbul, 1993), pp. 11– 27. Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 611: Cihān ḫalḳı şôd deñlü münkir olmuşdur kerāmete / Nedür bu vaẓ‘-ı münkir dir eger mevtāyı söyletsen. Dror Ze’evi, Producing Desire: Changing Sexual Discourse in the Ottoman Middle East, 1500–1900 (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 2006), pp. 125–149; Khaled el-Rouayheb, Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World, 1500– 1800 (Chicago and London, 2005), pp. 25–51; Walter Andrews and Mehmet Kalpaklı, The Age of the Beloveds: Love and the Beloved in Early-Modern Ottoman and European Culture and Society (Durham, London, 2005), p. 32–59. See, for instance, the lenghty entry on Me’ālī, Edith Ambros, Candid Penstrokes: The Lyrics of Me’ālī: An Ottoman Poet of the 16th Century (Berlin, 1982). See for instance, the discussion in the Heft Hvān in Heft Han Mesnevīsi, Karacan, pp. 141–147. Another example is ‘Aṭā’ī. As discussed in the first chapter, he notes how his nine-year-old friend, the Prince Mustafa, presented him a couplet with his own hand before his execution. See Ḥadā’iḳ, p. 385; Kortantamer, Nevî-zâde ‘Atâyî ve Hamse’si, p. 110. ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Meşâ‘irü’ş- Şu‘arâ’, vol. 3, p. 1300.

Epilogue

This study has shown the significance of the bonds between this world and the hereafter for early modern Ottoman learned circles. Biographers like ‘Aṭā’ī were committed to developing a lively relationship between the deceased Ottoman learned men and their contemporaneous readers. They presented their subjects as everlasting plants, biographical collections as gardens, and themselves as gardeners who kept these lives alive. These bonds were important for their readers. The late sixteenth and early seventeenth century was a time when a number of Ottoman writers perceived a decline in their society and sought their way out by following exemplary models from the past. Biographers took part in this search among other members of the learned circles and promoted ideal lives. They narrated dreams to show that death did not cut their ties to previous generations and the deceased continued to offer guidance and support. By joining the past and the present, the dead and the living, this world and the hereafter, dreams offered the biographers with a medium to discuss correct paths to take and best guides to follow. The preceding chapters have underlined the need to approach Ottoman biographical works not only as reference sources but also as mediums of debate about careers and social networks. The comparison of ‘Aṭā’ī’s accounts with those of earlier biographers have demonstrated that Ottoman biographers were neither distant observers of their subjects nor passive transmitters of earlier sources. Rather, by choosing what to emphasize, omit or alter, they presented competing views about the controversial issues of their milieu. When we consult biographical works solely to gather available information to establish coherent factual accounts, we often overlook these opinions and positions. Yet, as the previous chapters have shown, when we focus on the variations between diverse accounts, we can tune in to a loud discussion among early modern Ottoman learned circles about their intellectual and spiritual pursuits. Ottoman biographical collections, I have argued, can offer us more than factual information; they allow us to explore competing views and disputed paths at a time of empire building. A further finding of this study is the necessity of paying close attention to the rich imagery of the Ottoman writers. In his study on Rabelias (d. 1553) and his learned circles, Lucian LeFebvre has discussed the difficulty of entering into the minds of sixteenth-century intellectuals and understanding texts written in a world very different from ours.1 This study also took this challenge and asked what early seventeenth-century biographers wanted to tell about themselves and their times. When we enter the garden of ‘Aṭā’ī and look into his dream

mirrors, we find the hierarchic world of a career-conscious learned elite. The arrangement, style and selections of the Ḥadā’iḳ highlight the significance of the dynastic history for Ottoman learned men and the ways they strove to partake in the imperial order. Biographers reflect on this search and its agonies by narrating dreams in two, somewhat contradictory ways. On the one hand, dreams present how learned men established bonds with each other and claimed high-ranking positions in a competitive world. On the other hand, dreams also expose how dreamers questioned their careers and the social relationships which sustained them. As a whole, dreams help the Ottoman learned circles to contest, and endure, a fragile social landscape. Early modern Ottoman biographers’ little-explored interest in dreams raises questions for further research. Although we have identified a certain group of patrons and friends of ‘Aṭā’ī, owing to the state of current scholarship, more research is needed to identify whether they shared similar intellectual interests and social agendas, and more generally, what the relationship was between early Ottoman biographers and broader strata of Ottoman society. Was, for instance, ‘Aṭā’ī’s patron Yahya Efendi also interested in the dreams of the Judgment day and apparitions of deceased visitors? An analytical examination of his poetry can illuminate this question, as well as other inquiries on how he might have received the biographies in the Ḥadā’iḳ. Further research will also demonstrate whether the ideas discussed in this study were widespread in this period. Did members of the groups who ‘Aṭā’ī excluded from the Ḥadā’iḳ but who were closely involved with Sufi sheikhs such as merchants, artisans, bureaucrats and soldiers, women as well as men, share similar interests in dreams and visions? Comparative readings of a variety of contemporaneous sources, such as chronicles, Sufi treatises, didactic mesnevīs and reform treatises in addition to dream manuals, will allow us to explore early modern Ottoman dreamscapes in their diversity and reveal the changing landscapes of fear and hope in Ottoman history. To conclude, this study has attempted to enter into ‘Aṭā’ī’s textual garden of the deceased learned men and follow him in his travels between this world and the hereafter. I looked into the lives of the ulema, Sufi sheikhs and poets who once populated the medreses, Sufi lodges and gardens of Istanbul and discussed what they wrote, fought for and dreamed about. Like me, ‘Aṭā’ī did not want the learned lives of his city to disappear without a trace and produced a meticulous collection of biographies. His book connects us to his world. The Ḥadā’iḳ manuscripts were preserved, copied and transmitted from one generation to another throughout the centuries. Today they are the first source to consult about late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Ottoman learned circles and ‘Aṭā’ī is our guide to them. The dead, as Jean-Claude Schmidt reminds us, have no other existence than that which the living give them.2 This study, I hope, has succeeded in inviting ‘Aṭā’ī and his learned circles to our world.

Notes Lucien Lefebvre, The Problem of Unbelief in the Sixteenth Century: The Religion of Rabelias, Beatrice Gottlieb (trans.), (Cambridge, MA, 1942), p.12. Jean Claude Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press) pp. 223–24.

Appendix

Sample biographical notice ms. Istanbul, Süleymaniye Library, Esad Efendi 2344: 135b–136a. Please refer to the “Note on transliteration and manuscripts” for the Sigla. [135b] Eş-Şeyḫ Sinān1: A. Edirne ḳurbunda Ergeneköprisi2 nām ḳaṣabadan ẓuhūr ve ṣayḳal-ı sa‘y ü ictihād ile safḥa-yı isti‘dādın3 cilvegāh-ı cevher-i şu‘ūr idüp ‘azm-ı ṭarīḳ- ı sa‘ādet-refīḳ ve hemrāhī-yi tevfīḳ ile seyr-i menāzıl-ı ders ü taḥḳīḳ itmiş idi. B. Biñ on bir ṭārīḫinde Üç Şerefeli müderrisi iken Rāzī Efendi’ye mu‘īd ve şeref-i mülāzemetle vāṣıl-ı ümīd olup [Mülāzım fī Şa‘bān]4 Vārna’da yirmi aḳçe5 müderris ve mesned-i ifādeye6 ṣadr-ı meclis olmuş iken meşāmm-ı cānına būy-ı fenā vezān ve ṣarṣar-ı ḫavf-ı ilāhī ile berg-i ḫazān gibi lerzān olub [ṭarīḳdan ferāġat] ve ḳaṣaba-yı mezbūrede seccāde-nişīn-i irşād olan Nūreddīnzāde ḫ ulefāsından Şeyḫ Meḥ med Ḳırīmī ḫ idmetlerinden inābet eylemiş idi. Biñ on sekiz senesinde ‘azīz-i merḳūm rıḥlet eyleyüp seccāde-nişīn-i ḫilāfet oldılar. Belde-yi merḳūmeye Ḳazāḳ eşḳiyāsı muṣallāṭ olmaġ ın hicret iḫtiyār idüp Yeñişehir ḳażāsına tābi‘ ḳaṣaba-yı Fenārda Ḥamza Beg zāviyesine sāye-yi ‘ināyet ṣalmışlar idi. Biñ otuz ḥ udūdunda şehr-i7 Tırḥāla’ya intiḳāl ve Ḥācī Efendi zāviyesinde taṭyīb-i ḳulūb-ı erbāb-ı ḥāl itmişler idi. Ol buḳ‘a-yı mübārekede ser-ḥalḳa-yı tevḥīd ü teẕkīr ve ‘Ömer Beg Cāmi‘inde kürsī-nişīn-i naḳl-ı tefsīr iken biñ otuz ṭoḳuz Rebī‘ü’l-āḫir’inde rebī‘-i ḥayātı āḫir ve seyr-i nevbahār-ı ‘ālem-i envār ile mütefāḫir oldı. Zāviyesi sāḥasında medfūndur. [Tārīḫ-i faḳīr Şeyḫ-i kāmil Sinān Efendi’nüñ Menzilin cennet ide Rabb-ı Cemīl Rıḥletin gūş idince8 tārīḫin Didiler göçdi āh o şeyḫ-i celīl. (1039)] 9

C. ‘Azīz-i [136b] mezbūr çeşme-yi ḫūrşīd gibi dā’imü’l-feyż-i fāiżü’n-nūr, mecma‘ü’l-baḥreyn-i ‘ilm ve ‘irfān, mevridü’n-nehreyn-i fażl ü beyān, sābit-ḳadem-i maḳām-ı tecrīd, per-kār-ı edvār-ı eṭvār-ı tevḥīd, ḫarīṭa-yı sīne-yi pürsekīnesi levḥ-i maḥv ü10 isbāt, İskender-i rūḥ- ı pür-fütūḥı ẓulemāt-ı ‘ademde rehyāb-ı āb-ı ḥayāt, derviş-i fānī‘11-meşreb, müstaġnī-yi ‘ālīmaṭlab, D. eş‘ār-ı dil-āvīzi keyfiyyet-i ‘ ışḳ ve muḥabbetle pür-şōr ve Sinānī maḫlaṣı ile meşhūr idi. E. Bu ḥaḳīruñ ol diyārda ferş-ı kilīm-i iḳāmet itmesine bunlaruñ ilṭifātī bādī ve ser-çeşme-yi muḥabbetleri ābişḫōr-ı ḳalb-i ṣādī olup12 üç sene miḳdārı taḥte’ş-şu‘ā ‘-yı lutf u iḥsānları ve ġarḳ-ı envār-ı feyż-i bī-girānları olmuş idim.13 Demler ol demler idi Zamān ol zamān idi. F. Bu beyt anlaruñdur.14 [Egerçi dāġ-ı sīnem yāre ‘arż itmek murādumdur Velīkīn ża‘fdan ṭāḳat mı var çāk-i girībāna.]15 A. He was born in a town called Ergeneköprisi near Edirne. With great effort and extertion, he perfected his talent for learning, and he entered the blessed path. He progressed successfully along the stations of study and investigation. B. He became the assistant of Rāzī Efendi in 1602, a müderris at Üç Şerefeli during that time, and received his working permit. [Possessor of the working permit in the month of Şa‘ban].16 He became a müderris at Varna with a salary of 20 aḳçe and led the study circles there. While there, a terrible scent wafted into his soul and the cold wind of the fear of God made him tremble like a leaf in fall. He [left his path], renounced the world, and entered the Sufi path under the guidance of Şeyh Mehmed Ḳ ırīmī, a ḫalīfe of Nūreddīnzāde, who was a sheikh in this town. With the death of that revered one in 1609, he succeeded his sheikh. When Cossack brigands attacked that area, he decided to emigrate. He sheltered in the grace of the Hamza Beg lodge in the town of Fener, under the jurisdiction of Yenişehir. At the end of 1620, he moved to Tırhala and revitalized the Hacı Efendi lodge. While leading the gatherings of litany and remembrance in that blessed place and while transmitting Quran commentaries at the ‘Ömer Beg Mosque, In October of 1629, the spring of his life ended and he was honored with the journey to the spring of the realm of lights. He is buried on the grounds of his lodge. [Chronogram of this poor one (i.e., the author) He said this chronogram upon hearing of The departure of the illustrious sheikh Sinān Efendi, May God the Beautiful make Paradise his abode:

Alas! That great sheikh has departed. 1039.] C. Like the fountain of the sun, he perpetually dispersed abundant light. He became the meeting point of the two seas of knowledge and gnosis. He was the mouth of the two rivers of grace and rhetoric. He was persistent in seclusion and a center of the circle of union. The map of his tranquil chest was the tablet of annihilation and affirmation. Like Alexander the Great of many conquests, he showed the way to the water of life which is in the darkness of nothingness. He was a dervish cognizant of the world’s transitoriness who reached the point beyond desire. D. His heart-ravishing poems were full of torment with the state of love and affection, and he was renowned under the pen-name Sinānī. E. His kindness caused this poor one (i.e., the author) to settle in that realm. The fountainhead of his affection became a spring for the heart. For three years, I was under the light of his grace and favor, engulfed with his endless light of enlightenment. “Those were the moments And those were the times” F. This couplet is one of his. [My desire is to show my wounded breast to the beloved Yet in my weakness do I have the strength to tear off my shirt?]17

Notes P 762, E 455a, PR1 463b, SE 270B Ergeneköprisi: Uzun Köpri P, SE 455b E ‘Aṭā’ī’s addition to the margins in E4, incorporated into the text in E, PR1, SE, P Aḳçe: aḳçe ile E, PR1, SE, P İfāżaya SE - E, SE, PR1, P 164a R1 ‘Aṭā’ī’s addition to the margins E4. This chronogram is recorded in the main body of text in SE, E, PR1 and is missing in P. Tāriḫ-i faḳīr: Li-Mü’ellifihi PR1, SE. Maḥv ü: maḥv-i SE Fānī‘:ḳānī‘ P Sādī olup: ṣānī SE Mıṣrā‘ P Beyt P “Sinānī dāġ- ı derdüm ‘arż itdirirdüm bil ki ol tāre / Egerki ṭāḳat olsa ża‘afdan çāk-i girībāne” is crossed over and replaced with the couplet “Egerçe dāġ- ı sīnem yāre ‘arż itmek murādumdur/ Velakīn ża‘fdan ṭāḳatum mı var çāk-i girībāne” in the margins in E4. The correct couplet is cited in P, E, PR1 and SE, instead of the deleted one. “He became a possessor of a working permit in the month of Şa‘ban” is a chronogram added to the margins of E4. It is missing in E, PR1, SE and P. “Sinānī, know that I would have shown my sorrow’s wound to that beloved If in weakness I had had the strength to tear off my shirt.” is crossed over and replaced with the couplet “My desire is to show my wounded breast to the beloved Yet in my weakness do I have the strength to tear off my shirt?” in the margins in E4. The corrected couplet is included in P, E, PR1 and SE instead of the deleted one.

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Index

Abdülmecid Sivāsī 13, 60, 94, 105 Aḫizāde Hüseyin Efendi 23, 29, 40, 56, 66 Ahmed I, Sultan 16 Aḥvāl-i Ḳıyāmet 82, 89 Akşemseddin 7, 16, 84–5 ‘Ᾱlemnümā 21, 23–4, 26–7, 38–9, 41, 46 Ali b. Bālī 34, 63, 65–7, 99 ‘ālim 2, 4, 25, 37, 41, 51, 53, 74, 85, 103 Anadolu Hisarı 23–4, 26–7, 38 ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi 15, 18, 44–5, 69, 103, 109 ‘Aṭā’ī, Nev’īzāde: and books 24; career in the ‘ilmiyye 25; childhood and social background 38; dreams, 21–2, 30–2, 35–6; family 37 (see also Nev’ī; friends 97–9 (see also Fā’iẓi); enemies 20, 27–8; literary models 21–2, 31, 36; places of residence 26; reasons for composition 22, 30–2, 35–6; seeks patronage 23–5; and Sufi sheikhs 33–5; works (see Ḥadā’iḳ, Heft-Hvān, Nefḫatü’l-Ezhār, Sāḳīnāme, Sohbetü’l-Ebkār) ‘Aṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn 49, 58, 64, 68, 71, 86–7 ‘Azmīzāde Ḥāletī 25, 42 Bālī Efendi, Serhoş 65–7, 101–4 Bayramis 6–7, 13, 33–5, 44, 51, 59–60, 65, 69, 71, 75, 92, 95, 99–100, 108 Bayrami-Melamis 34–5, 51, 59, 60 biographers 2, 49–53; and social networks 20; and subjects 19, 34, 48; relationship with imperial power 53–4; see also, Ali b. Bālī, ‘Āşıḳ Çelebi, Hulvī, Kınalızade, Lāmi‘ī, Laṭīfī, Mehmed Ḫakī, Muḥyī, Ömer Fu‘ādī, Riyāẓi, Sehī Bey biographical dictionary 2- 3; audience and reception 5; debates 50 (see also Ḥadā’iḳ written sources); as a garden 47–8; titles 47, organizational structures 55; community-building 10, 48–9; purpose of 5, 94; see also biographers, Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ Bektaşis 10, 49, 59, 69, 71 Celaleddin Rūmī 13, 99 Celveti 79, 95 Cerrahzade b. Alaeddin Efendi 34, 75–6 dead: apparitions 94–7, 99–100; debates 93–4, 102–3; and embraces 96, 101, 104; ghosts 92, 96–7; martyrs 94–6, Ming china 92, 97; reasons for visiting the living 97, 101 dreams: definition 6; and apparitions 96; and composition of poetry 30–2; career dreams 4, 7, 76–7, 80; as divine warning 75; Habsburg Spain 4, 78–9; of hell 8, 74, 79–80; initiation 7, 74, 84–5; interpretation 6–7, 31–4, of Judgment day 74, 80–2; and life-writing 7–8; as medium of communication 3–5, 9; as medium of debate and criticism 6, 8, 77–8; Ming China, 79, 83; as mirrors 83–4; Safavid Iran 4; and social ties 7–8 Ebussuud Efendi 35 Esad Efendi 14, 40–1, 69, 72, 88–9, 106–7 Fā’iẓi, Kafzade 11, 19, 21, 23–9, 38, 41 fathers and sons 19, 27–8, 36 Fatih Mosque 56

friendship 95–8; and book-exchange 24, 98; and travel 98; see also Fā’iẓi Ganizade Nādirī 20, 25–8, 42 gardens: and biography writing 47–9; literary gatherings 19, 23–4; as metaphors 36–9 Gülşenis 31, 51, 59, 100, 108 Hacı Efendi 62, 95, 99–101, 104, 107–8 Ḥadā’iḳü’l-Haḳā’iḳ 2–3; audience and reception 4, 52–3, 95; emphasis on career lines 61–3; as a garden 47; oral informants 66; organization and imperial order 54–7; selection of subjects 58–61; style and rhymed prose 57–8; written sources 65–7 Halveti 6–7, 13, 18, 32–6, 38, 44, 46, 49–51, 56, 59, 62–3, 65–6, 69, 71–2, 80–5, 89, 94–5, 100–108 ḫamse 4, 15, 32, 40–3, 46, 70, 89, 109 Heft-Hvān 16, 21, 23, 35, 39, 45, 109 history-writing: uses 4–5; audience 48–9 hell 82–3; see also dreams of hell Hulvī 8, 34, 36, 44–5, 51, 55–6, 69, 73, 81, 84–5, 88–90, 100, 108 Hüdā’ī 34, 58, 74–6, 79–86, 95 İdris-i Muḫtefī 34, 44 ‘ilmiyye 23, 25–6, 37, 41, 62–3, 66, 72, 74–5, 79–80, 84–6 İsmail Ma‘şūḳī 35 Istanbul: ban of coffee houses 22; literary gatherings at gardens 19, 23–4; see also Anadolu Hisarı, Fatih Mosque, Kocamustafapaşa, revolts and uprisings kadis: career choices 34, 77, 86; criticism and defense 8, 27, 77–9; executions 23; literary pursuits 25–8, 34, 77, 86; subject of invective poetry 27–8; uprisings 56 Kadızade Mehmed Efendi 93–4, 101, 105 kadızadelis 5, 93–4, 101, 104, see also Kadızade Mehmed Efendi Katip Çelebi 2, 5, 14, 40, 43, 51, 93, 105 Kınalızade Hasan Çelebi 36–37, 45, 51, 63, 66–7, 69, 72–3, 103 Kocamustafapaşa Lodge 50, 81, 85 Lāmi‘ī Çelebi 48, 55, 68, 70, 84 Laṭīfī, Abdüllatif Efendi 8, 18, 51, 54, 63, 69–70, 77–8, 87 Makhzan al-Asrār 21 Maḫzen 21, 26, 32, 107 mecmū‘a 2, 95, 98, 107 Mehmed Ḫakī 5, 16 Melamis, see Bayrami-Melamis Mere Hüseyin Pasha 56 Mevlevis 18, 33, 59, 69, 71, 95, 99–101, 107–8 Muḥammediye 82, 89 Muḥyī 56, 100, 108 Murad III, Sultan 16–17, 38–9, 46, 51, 68 Murad IV 28–9, 55, 101 Mustafa ‘Ᾱlī 16–17, 32–3, 44, 51–2, 66–9, 71–3 müderris 36, 51–3, 56, 62, 75, 81, 84 Nādirī, see Ganīzāde Nādirī Nafaḥāt al-uns 48–9 Nakşibendis 5, 34, 55, 59, 69, 71, 89, 108 Nefḫatü’l-Ezhār 21, 40 Nergisī, Mehmed b. Ahmed 24, 26, 41–2, 58 Nev’ī, Yahya b. Pir Ali 4, 11, 19, 21, 32, 35–9, 41, 44–6, 66 Nef‘ī, Ömer b Mehmed 19, 27–8, 37, 40, 43 Nizāmī Ganjavī 21–22, 40 Nureddinzade Muslihüddin Efendi 33, 62, 65–6, 72, 89, 103 Osman II, Sultan 52

Ömer Fu‘ādī 49, 69, 85, 90, 94, 105 patronage: cultivation of 24–5; fragility 23, 29; of Sufi sheikhs 32–3, and poetry 25–6 Peçevi İbrahim Paşa 5, 16, 20, 34, 40, 44, 96 remembrance 19, 38–9, 101–4 revolts and uprisings 23, 28–9, 56 Riyāẓi, b. Birgili Mustafa 18, 26, 45, 51, 57–9, 63, 67, 69–73 sāḳīnāmes 24, 26, 41, 46 Sāḳīnāme, see ‘Ᾱlemnümā sebeb-i te’līf 21–3, 30, 41 Sehī Bey 18, 51, 53, 55, 70 Selānikī, Mustafa Efendi 72 semā‘ 99–101, 107–8 al-Shaqā’iq 5, 34, 44, 50, 52, 54–5, 63, 70, 77, 87 Sihām-ı Ḳaẓā 43 Sivāsī, see Abdülmecid Sivāsī Sohbetü’l-Ebkār 26, 34, 97 (düzeltildi) sufis: initiation 74, 84–5, 101–4; as patrons of literature 32–3, relationship with state authorities 56–7; see also Bayramis, Bayrami-Melamis, Bektaşis, Celvetis, Gülşenis, Halvetis, Mevlevis, Nakşibendis, and kadızadelis Süleyman, Sultan 5, 16–17, 53, 55, 65 Taşköprizade 5, 8, 34, 44, 47, 52, 54–5, 70, 77–8, 84, 87, 89 Tırhala 24, 27, 34, 40, 42, 57, 62–3, 65 ulema: criticism 27–8; executions 23; fear and anxiety 62, 74, 80; initiation to Sufism 62–3, 74–5; see also kadis, müderris ‘Uryānī Mehmed Dede 11, 21–2, 30–2, 35, 93 Üftāde, Muhyiddin Mehmed 80, 84, 88, 100, 108 Veysī, Üveys b. Mehmed 6, 26–8, 42, 78 Yahya Bey 22, 31–2, 40, 43 Yahya b. Zekeriya Efendi 25–9, 42 Yakub Efendi, Germiyanlı 74–6, 80–6 Yazıcızade Ahmed 82, 89 Yusuf Sinan 50, 56, 63, 69, 81, 84