Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses on Ottoman Print Culture 9781618116192

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Waiting for Müteferrika Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture

Ottoman and Turkish Studies Series Editor HAKAN T. KARATEKE (The University of Chicago)

Waiting for Müteferrika

Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture Orlin Sabev

Boston 2018

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: The bibliographic data for this title is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-61811-618-5 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-61811-619-2 (electronic) Book design by Kryon Publishing Services (P) Ltd. www.kryonpublishing.com Cover design by Ivan Grave. This book is published with the financial support of Balkanlar Medeniyet Merkezi (BALMED), Istanbul, Turkey.

Published by Academic Studies Press in 2018 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.co

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments Note on the Front Cover Image

vi viii

Note on Transliteration

ix

List of Tables and Figures

x

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

xi

Chapter 1. The Strange Arts: Printing and Other “Oddities”

1

Chapter 2. Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set

16

Chapter 3. Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press

36

Chapter 4. They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?

57

Chapter 5. Virgin or Poison: The Making of Ottoman Print

88

Culture Conclusion: Waiting for Godot?

109

Bibliography

115

Index

137

Acknowledgments

T

he present book is the outcome of my research on the topic for the last two decades, parts of which have been carried out in Cambridge, England (Skilliter Centre for Ottoman Studies at Newnham College, 2001), in Istanbul and Ankara, Turkey (the American Research Institute in Turkey– ARIT, supported by Andrew Mellon Foundation, 2002; the Center for Islamic Studies–İSAM, 2002; the Research Center for Islamic History, Art and Culture–IRCICA, supported by Rumeli Türkleri Kültür ve Dayanışma Vakfı–RUTEV, 2004; Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations–RCAC at Koç University, 2006–7), Bucharest, Romania (New Europe College, 2005), and Princeton, USA (Princeton University, supported by the Friends of the Princeton University Library Research Grants Committee, 2006). I owe deep gratitude to all the abovementioned institutions for providing me with the necessary fellowships. I have also conducted my research in archives such as Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi and İstanbul Müftülüğü Arşivi in Istanbul, Turkey, as well as the Oriental Department of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library in Sofia, Bulgaria. I would like to express my gratitude to their polite and cooperative staff for facilitating my research as much as possible. I acknowledge my deep gratitude also to my esteemed colleagues Kemal Beydilli, İsmail Erünsal, Erhan Afyoncu, Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, Halit Eren, Machiel Kiel, Harry Norris, Evgeni Radushev, Geoffrey Roper, Kate Fleet, Dana Sajdi, Larry Wolff, Virginia Aksan, Baki Tezcan, Irina Vainovski-Mihai, Maria Kalitsin, Krassimira Mutafova, Yordanka Bibina, Krassimira Daskalova, Svetlana Doncheva, Mustafa Birol Ülker, Snejana Dimitrova, and Cemal Toksoy for being so supportive of my research and contributing to it. I am much indebted to Academic Studies Press, and especially to Hakan Karateke, David Michelson, and Alessandra Anzani for encouraging me to

Acknowledgments

p­ repare this book. I would like to express my deep gratitude to the reviewers of the draft of the book. I have done my best to improve it taking into consideration their valuable critique and priceless suggestions. Last but not least, I am deeply grateful to Balkanlar Medeniyet Merkezi (BALMED), based in Istanbul, Turkey, and especially to its president Halit Eren, for being so kind to provide the financial support for this publication.

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Note on the Front Cover Image

I

n 2011, the Turkish researcher of Ottoman printing history Yahya Erdem published the image of an engraving depicting the Müteferrika Press.1 According to the author, the engraving is found in a German book of the 1750s whose title he has not written down because of “negligence” (“gaflet eseri,” in the author’s words). Since—according to him—the image has never been reprinted before, no one has referred to it, and it is not available on the Internet, the author claims that, until someone finds the real source of this image, everyone who reprints it should refer to his article as the only source. Otherwise such a reprint would be considered plagiarism (since the latter is a copyright infringement, it is amazing that someone could claim this if he does not really hold the copyright!). It should be noted that Yahya Erdem’s publication is indeed very important, since for the first time ever a scholarly study draws attention to the only known and the earliest so far image of the Müteferrika Press. However, I found a reproduction of the same engraving even in an earlier publication, and on page 835 of Andreas Lazarus von Imhof ’s book published in 1735 (see fig. 1).2 The digital copy of Imhof ’s book is available online for free within Google’s digitization project of books with no copyright.3 Thus, Imhof ’s case shows that the said engraving has been reprinted at least twice, and the earliest known reprint (of 1735) is even contemporary of the Müteferrika Press itself, which operated between 1726 and 1746. The image reprinted on the front cover of this book is the one appearing on page 835 of Imhof ’s book (1735), and not that printed in the 1750s and reprinted by Yahya Erdem in 2011. 1

Yahya Erdem, “Müteferrika Matbaasının Erken Dönemde Yapılmış Bilinmeyen Bir Resmi,” Müteferrika 39 (2011): 222. 2 Andreas Lazarus von Imhof, Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals, vol. 9, part 1 (Nuremberg: Johann Leonhard Buggel and Johann Andreas Seitz, 1735), 835. 3 https://books.google.bg/books?id=sYBNAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA835#v=onepage&q&f=false.

Note on Transliteration

B

asic modern Turkish orthography has been used in the transliteration of Ottoman Turkish terms, texts (including their titles, although composed according to Arabic or Persian grammar), and personal names. The names of pre-Ottoman and non-Ottoman Muslim historical persons, as well as the Arabic terms, are transliterated according to the rules of IJMES (International Journal of Middle East Studies). Place names with an established anglicized version—such as “Istanbul” (and not İstanbul), “Smyrna” (and not İzmir) and “Salonica” (and not Selanik)—are applied in that form. The same is true also for these Ottoman institutions and titles that have their established anglicized forms, such as “Grand Vizier” and “Pasha.”

List of Tables and Figures  ooks printed by the Müteferrika Press (1729–42). 64–67 Table 1 B Table 2 Properties of Istanbul booksellers and printers (eighteenth– 79–81 nineteenth centuries) according to their probate ­inventories. 23 Figure 1 Engraving depicting the Müteferrika Press in Istanbul. Andreas Lazarus von Imhof, Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals, vol. 9, part 1 (Nuremberg: Johann Leonhard Buggel and Johann Andreas Seitz, 1735), 835. 95 Figure 2 Introducing page of Takvīmü’t-tevārīh li-Kātib Çelebi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1146/1733). Courtesy of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O II 72, fol. 1b. 97 Figure 3 “Title” page of Tārīh-i Rāşid Efendi (Constantinople: Dārü’ttıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1153/1741). Courtesy of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O II 150a, fol. 1a.

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time? “Le veritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux.”1 Marcel Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu, vol. 5: La Prisonnière

A

t the very beginning, it would be probably expedient to be reminded of two simple facts, namely, that European printing with movable type was invented and introduced in the 1440s, while the first Ottoman printing house to print books for the Muslim and Turkish-speaking reading public was established in Istanbul only in the 1720s. That is, Ottoman Turkish printing (and also Muslim, in terms of cultural affiliation) was introduced nearly 300 years later. What was the reason for this considerably late introduction? Although numerous explanations have so far been suggested, the subject remains an enigma whose hidden logic is still to be disclosed. As Marcel Proust’s words suggest, sometimes it is better not to seek new horizons of knowledge but to take a look at the existing one through the lens of “other eyes.” Historians’ “other eyes” can thus be new sources or new approaches, as well as new questions to be raised. The title of Marcel Proust’s novel In Search of Lost Time (À la recherche du temps perdu) provides a good metaphor for the topic of this book, in which I want to discuss whether the time preceding the late introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing was lost or wasted in waiting for the first printer, if one can speak of a “waiting” at all. Reconsidering the issue in the light of recent s­ cholarship on Ottoman history, on the one hand, and the history of the book, on the other, I thus propose to look at the topic with “other eyes.” 1

“The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes,” quoted after Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past [In Search of Lost Time], vol. 5: The Captive, trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff (London: Chatto & Windus, 1929), 253.

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The first paradigm in which this topic was hitherto considered is the decline theory that was—until recently—deeply rooted in the scholarship of Ottoman state and society. Lately, however, this theory has been disputed. A new generation of scholars has suggested a revised view of the period after the late sixteenth century, which is considered to have been a time of slow but irreversible institutional and social transformation.2 The decline paradigm suggests a priori underdevelopment and inevitable failure in every initiative to introduce novelty. The lack of printing long after the heyday of the Ottoman state in the sixteenth century, as well as the allegedly disappointing start of Ottoman Turkish printing in the first half of the eighteenth century, were ­perfectly fitting within that paradigm. However, newly found documentary ­evidence about that enterprise makes it clear that the decline theory is nothing but a farfetched construct that could hardly account for all the facts in the alleged trend of decline. I have been fortunate enough to come across the probate inventory (tereke defteri) relating to the possessions of İbrahim Müteferrika (c. 1670–1747)— the founder of the first Ottoman Turkish typography—preserved in the Mufti Archives of Istanbul.3 This source, dated 20 Rebīü’l-ahīr 1160/April 1, 1747, is thus far the most illuminating with regard to many hitherto unknown aspects of Müteferrika’s personality and printing enterprise.4 Scholars dealing with history of the book admit that the introduction of printing with movable type in Europe provided a new alternative way of multiplying texts that was only a complementary and coexisting technology along with manuscript copying well until the eighteenth century. In different sociocultural contexts, printing showed different degrees of efficiency and replaced the manuscript tradition in an evolutionary rather than a revolutionary way.5 2 See the latest overview of the decline scholarship in: Dana Sajdi, “Decline, Its Discontents and Ottoman Cultural History: By Way of Introduction,” in Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee. Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Dana Sajdi (London and New York: I. B. Tauris & Co, 2007), 1–40. 3 For more details about that archive, see Yvonne J. Seng, “The Şer’iye Sicilleri of the Istanbul Müftülüğü as a Source for the Study of Everyday Life,” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15, no. 2 (1991): 307–25. 4 İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul): Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, defter 98, fol. 39а–40b. See the facsimile and the transliteration of this inventory in modern Turkish orthography in: Orlin Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika ya da İlk Osmanlı Matbaa Serüveni (1726– 1746). Yeniden Değerlendirme, 4th ed. (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi, 2016), 370–82, 439–41. 5 See Robert A. Houston, Literacy in Early Modern Europe. Culture and Education 1500–1800 (London: Longman, 1988); Brian Richardson, Printing, Writers and Readers in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book. Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1998);

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

Having this in mind, one should be much more indulgent as far as the formation of Ottoman or Islamic print culture is concerned. Yet, we still have no clear definition of what print culture is in itself. The new approaches and theories suggested by recent scholarship as well as the newly found documentary evidence provide a reasonable basis for raising new and hitherto almost neglected (despite their great importance) questions relating to Ottoman Turkish printing. One of the new questions would be reframing the old one “Have the Ottomans indeed been late in adopting printing technology?”: instead asking why Ottoman Turkish printing was introduced so late, one could ask why it was launched exactly in the first half of the eighteenth century, for instance. My intention here is to review the existing answers to the old questions, as well as to raise new questions and suggest answers. I have no ambitions to suggest new answers to the old questions, while the answers to the new questions might seem old and well known. Rather, I will dwell on why some questions could be considered out of date and others currently important. Hence, the goal of this book is not to offer a comprehensive study of printing in the Ottoman Empire, or even of Ottoman Turkish/Muslim printing,6 but to draw scholarly attention to some still controversial issues and to suggest a personal view, which might well be also controversial or dissatisfying. However, it could at least—I am convinced—stimulate the conception of new far better theses.7 Assa Briggs and Peter Burke, A Social History of the Media: From Gutenberg to the Internet (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003); David McKitterick, Print, Manuscript and the Search for Order, 1450–1830 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 6 It is more or less done. See Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika (first edited in Bulgarian in 2004 and Turkish in 2006). 7 I have already drawn attention to these controversial issues in some of my publications: Orlin Sabev, “Formation of Ottoman Print Culture (1726–1746): Some General Remarks,” in New Europe College. Regional Program 2003–2004, 2004–2005, ed. Irina Vainovski-Mihai (Bucharest: New Europe College, 2007), 293–333; Orlin Sabev, “The First Ottoman Turkish Printing Enterprise: Success or Failure (A Reassessment),” in Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee: Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Dana Sajdi (London: I. B. Tauris & Co, 2007), 63–89; Orlin Sabev, “A Portrait of the Printer as a Young Man. The Transylvanian Past of the First Ottoman Printer,” Colloquia Journal of Central European History 15 (2008): 30–43; Orlin Sabev, “Rich Men, Poor Men: Ottoman Printers and Booksellers Making Fortune or Seeking Survival (Eighteenth-Nineteenth Centuries),” Oriens 37 (2009): 177–90 (reprinted in The History of the Book in the Middle East, ed. Geoffrey Roper [London: Ashgate Publishing, 2013], 319–32); Orlin Sabev, “En attendant Godot. La formation d’une culture imprimée ottomane,” Études balkaniques Recherches interdisciplinaires sur les mondes hellénique et balkanique Cahiers Pierre Belon 16 (2009): 219–37; Orlin Sabev, “A Virgin Deserving Paradise or a Whore Deserving Poison: Manuscript Tradition

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It seems appropriate to begin with a brief survey of the existing answers to the probably most disputed old issue: why the Ottomans were for so long reluctant to adopt the printing technology and thereby to facilitate the ­multiplication of their texts. The answers given by most Turkish scholars are usually tinged with the wish to defend their sense of national pride. For the late introduction of printing by the Ottomans is not only an issue for scholarship; it is equally an issue that shakes the Turkish national consciousness because it strengthens the existing sense of underdevelopment. This is why one can find the issue to be discussed even in the major Turkish newspapers. My attention to this issue was first attracted by such a discussion in the Turkish daily Milliyet under the headline “Why was Printing Press Introduced to the Ottomans Too Late?”8 The sense of backwardness makes modern Turkish scholars and intellectuals defend their national pride by searching for not necessarily reasonable but always apologetic explanations for that question. Only recently have some Turkish scholars, like Hidayet Nuhoğlu and Hüseyin Gazi Topdemir, insisted that such an approach is not needed anymore.9 The reasons for the late ­introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing as discussed in the existing scholarship could be summarized as follows: ••

Psychological and ideological reasons: the Ottomans were reluctant to adopt printing technology with movable type since it was an invention of Christian Europe; if they adopted this invention they would possibly admit the Christians’ supremacy over them; by refusing to

and Printed Books in Ottoman Turkish Society,” in Friars, Nobles and Burghers—Sermons, Images and Prints. Studies of Culture and Society in Early-Modern Europe, In Memoriam István György Tóth, ed. Jaroslav Miller and László Kontler (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2010), 389–409 (reprinted in The History of the Book in the Middle East, ed. Geoffrey Roper [London: Ashgate Publishing, 2013], 143–64); Orlin Sabev, “In Search of Lost Time: How ‘Late’ was the Introduction of Ottoman Turkish Printing?,” in Europa und die Türkei im 18. Jahrhundert/Europe and Turkey in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Barbara SchmidtHaberkamp (Göttingen: Bonn University Press by V&R Unipress, 2011), 447–56; Orlin Sabev, “Waiting for Godot: the Formation of Ottoman Print Culture,” in Historical Aspects of Printing and Publishing in Languages of the Middle East. Papers from the Third Symposium on the History of Printing and Publishing in the Languages and Countries of the Middle East, University of Leipzig, September 2008, ed. Geoffrey Roper (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 101–20; Orlin Sabev, “Portrait and Self-Portrait: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind Games,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 44 (2014): 99–121. 8 Milliyet 20 (August 9, 2001), 2. 9 See Hidayet Nuhoğlu, “Müteferrika Matbaası ve Bazı Mulâhazalar,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 7 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 1999), 221–29; Hüseyin Gazi Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika ve Türk Matbaacılığı (Ankara: T. C. Kültür Bakanlığı, 2002), 27–39.

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

••

••

adopt it the Ottomans tried to preserve their cultural identity; the superciliousness of the Ottomans as rulers made them abstain from adopting a technology that was used by their Jewish, Armenian, and Greek subjects.10 The Muslim religious scholars and functionaries were allegedly against such a Christian invention, condemning it as a “blasphemy.”11 In other words, the defensive behavior restricted the Ottomans, or, in a broader sense, the Islamic world in the cramped framework of tradition.12 The Ottomans were ready to adopt printing only during the so-called Tulip Age (1718–30), when such an adoption was facilitated by a process which is believed to have been similar to the European Renaissance.13 Socioeconomic reasons: the Ottomans were concerned about the livelihood of the numerous manuscript copyists; introduction of printing could have shaken the established social order.14 Sociocultural reasons: since the manuscript tradition was quite developed, it satisfied the demands of the reading public.15

10 Selim Nüzhet Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, I. Müteferrika Matbaası (Istanbul: Maarif Vekâleti, 1939), 33–34; İsmet Binark, “Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Geç Girişinin Sebepleri Üzerine,” Türk Kültürü 65 (1968): 295–304; İsmet Binark, “Matbaanın Türkiye’ye Geç Girişinin Sebepleri,” in Basım ve Yayıncılığımızın 250. Yılı Bilimsel Toplantısı, 10–11 Aralık 1979, Ankara, Bildiriler (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1980), 139–73; İsmet Binark, “Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Geç Girişinin İçtimaî-Ruhî Sebepleri,” in VIII. Türk Tarih Kongresi, Ankara 11–15 Ekim 1976, Kongreye Sunulan Bildiriler, vol. 2 (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1981), 1299–1319; İsmet Binark, “Matbaanın Türkiye’ye Geç Girişinin Sebepleri,” Yeni Türkiye 12 (1996): 1599–1616. 11 Ahmet H. Rafikov, Ocherki istorii knigopechataniia v Turtsii (Leningrad: Nauka, 1973), 15–29; A. D. Jeltyakov, Türkiye’nin Sosyo-Politik ve Kültürel Hayatında Basın (1729–1908 Yılları) (Ankara: Basın Yayın ve Turizm Genel Müdürlüğü, 1979), 21; Orhan Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri ve Sonuçları (Istanbul: İstanbul Gazeteciler Cemiyeti, 1987), 8–55. 12 Yusuf Kaplan, “Osmanlılarda Matbaa: Bir Medeniyet Krizi Sorunu,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 7 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 1999), 230–37. 13 Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika, 27–39. 14 Binark, “Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Geç Girişinin Sebepleri Üzerine”; Binark, “Matbaanın Türkiye’ye Geç Girişinin Sebepleri”; Binark, “Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Geç Girişinin İçtimaîRuhî Sebepleri”; Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri ve Sonuçları, 8–55; Wahid Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe à Istanbul et en Syrie: Évolution de l’environnement culturel (1706–1787) (Tunis: Institut Superieur de Documentation, 1985), 83–122. 15 Nuhoğlu, “Müteferrika Matbaası ve Bazı Mulâhazalar,” 225–26; Mustafa Armağan, “Prof. Dr. İlber Ortaylı ile Konuşma: Bir Kabuk Değiştirme Dönemi,” in İstanbul Armağanı. 4: Lâle Devri, ed. Mustafa Armağan (Istanbul: İstanbul Büyükşehir Belediyesi Kültür İşleri Daire Başkanlığı Yayınları, 2000), 61–73; Christoph K. Neumann, “Üç Tarz-ı Mütalaa. Yeniçağ

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••

••

Technical and aesthetic reasons: adjustment of printing with movable type to the cursive Arabic script was far more problematic as compared to non-cursive alphabets like Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Armenian, and Cyrillic. For this reason, the invention of the printing press did not necessarily offer easier, faster, and cheaper multiplication of texts. Aesthetically, printed texts in Arabic script were inferior to the elegant manuscripts.16 Financial reasons: printing required considerable initial investments as compared to manuscript copying.17

Each of the abovementioned explanations can be considered more or less reasonable, and a variety of combinations of them may serve as a general explanation. However, what is troublesome about such an approach is that scholars were/are trying to explain something which seems problematic in their own “eyes” but not problematized or dramatized by the Ottomans themselves. In other words, there is no evidence that the Ottomans experienced a dilemma about whether to print or not to print. If so, why do modern scholars dramatize so much the lack of Ottoman Turkish printing until well into the eighteenth century?18 It is true that the seventeenth-century Ottoman intellectual Mustafa bin Abdullah, known mostly by the names Katib Çelebi and Haji Khalifa/ Hacı Halife (1609–57), who, among others, considered printing somewhat a “strange” art—a consideration discussed at length in chapter 1—complained that he was able to put in his famous geographical work Cihānnümā (Mirror of World) only a few maps since the art of printing was not in common use in his country.19 Therefore—as he admits—it was difficult to draw even a page Osmanlı Dünyası’nda Kitap Yazmak ve Okumak,” Tarih ve Toplum. Yeni Yaklaşımlar 1 (2005): 51–76. 16 Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri ve Sonuçları, 8–55; Francis Robinson, “Technology and Religious Change: Islam and the Impact of Print,” Modern Asian Studies 27/I (1993): 229–51. 17 Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe à Istanbul et en Syrie, 83–122. 18 Christoph K. Neumann claims that the late introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing and the lack of interest in printing in the Ottoman Turkish society up to the eighteenth century should be considered a manifestation of a certain cultural mode rather than a disadvantage as traditional scholarship tends to think. See Neumann, “Üç Tarz-ı Mütalaa. Yeniçağ Osmanlı Dünyası’nda Kitap Yazmak ve Okumak,” 57. 19 It was true, in fact, only for the Turkish-speaking segment of Ottoman society since Jewish, Armenian, and Greek printing presses were already operating in Katib Çelebi’s time.

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

(bu diyārda basma istimāl olunmāmak ile bir sahifesini bile resm emr-i asirdir).20 However, as Orhan Koloğlu points out, Katib Çelebi did not recommend to his compatriots the adoption of printing.21 Katib Çelebi’s last work, Balance of Truth (Mizānü’l-hakk, 1656), which contains a number of essays on controversial issues related to Islamic doctrine and practice, is completely silent about printing, apparently because it was not yet a part of the Ottoman agenda. The author (and obviously his contemporaries) was more concerned about the ignorance of the rational sciences or preoccupied with the issue of whether to drink or not to drink coffee, and more importantly with the most controversial issue of the Ottoman seventeenth century, the Sufi views and practices that had been contested by the influential Kadizadeli movement (1630s–80s).22 In other words, in the Ottoman seventeenth century printing was an issue which did not receive any serious attention. One possible reason for this could be the simple fact that for the Ottomans, printing did not seem a good enough alternative to manuscript copying. However, Katib Çelebi’s explicit complaint about the lack of printing facilities—particularly for maps—is an implicit indication that some pre-eighteenth-century Ottoman intellectuals felt the need for printing. One must recall here that İbrahim Müteferrika’s initial attempts at printing were—maybe not for nothing—related to cartography. Given this, should we consider the time before the eighteenth century, when Ottoman Turkish printing was at last introduced, “lost” or “wasted”? A lot of western travelers were curious about the reasons for the lack of Ottoman Turkish printing, but the Ottomans themselves seemed to be quite ­undisturbed by any feeling of backwardness or of being old-fashioned in ­comparison with other societies. Such a feeling would begin to arise only in the eighteenth ­century and gain importance throughout the nineteenth century. As stated above, contrary to the question of why the Ottomans did not print their books as early as their European counterparts, we might consider

20 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1145/1732), 55; Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 80; Hamit S. Selen, “Cihannümā,” in Kâtip Çelebi Hayatı ve Eserleri Hakkında İncelemeler (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1991), 131; Osman Ersoy, Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Girişi ve İlk Basılan Eserler (Ankara: A. Ü. Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi, 1959), 30 (the author quotes Selen’s publication but presents incorrectly Katib Çelebi’s words in claiming that printing has been forbidden). 21 Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri ve Sonuçları, 30. 22 See Geoffrey L. Lewis, ed. and trans., The Balance of Truth by Kātib Çelebi (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1957); Madeline C. Zilfi, “The Kadizadelis: Discordant Revivalism in Seventeeth-Century Istanbul,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45, no. 4 (1986): 251–69.

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the question of why Ottoman Turkish printing was introduced in the first half of the eighteenth century—at exactly that time in history. Hüseyin Gazi Topdemir points out that the introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing was completely due to the personal efforts of the founder of the first Ottoman Turkish printing house, İbrahim Müteferrika, and therefore Topdemir holds the opinion that the question of whether Ottoman Turkish printing was late is meaningless.23 Indeed, the personal factor is quite important, because every invention has its inventor, and every adoption of an invention has its agent. However, it is of equal importance whether such an agent enjoys a favorable milieu and sufficient support in his innovative efforts. The existence or lack of the latter would make these efforts achieve success or face failure. With regard to this, one may recall Müteferrika’s statement about printing presented to the Ottoman governors, in which he stated that many previous efforts for introduction of printing had failed. However, there is still no particular historical evidence for such efforts. Some historical circumstances could potentially provide opportunities for the introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing even in the late fifteenth century. For instance, Sultan Mehmed II the Conqueror (b. 1432, r. 1444–46 and 1451–81) invited Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) to serve as a court painter in the Ottoman capital. Leonardo refused the offer, having only recently started working as a military engineer for the Sforza court in Milan. However, when Milan was captured by the armies of France in 1499 and Duke Sforza incarcerated, Leonardo abandoned the city and wrote the then Ottoman sultan Bayezid II (b. 1447; r. 1481–1512) a letter, offering his service as a military engineer with the intention to build a single-arch bridge over the Golden Horn. It seems that the new sultan was not impressed or interested at all and Leonardo was not invited.24 Since Leonardo designed a printing press in c. 1480–82,25 one may presume that he could possibly have introduced the art of printing to the Muslims if he had accepted the first invitation or had been invited a second time to the Ottoman court. Thus, in Leonardo’s case, historical circumstances were unfavorable.

23 Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika, 27–39. 24 See Franz Babinger, “Vier Bauvorschläge Lionardo da Vinci’s an Sultan Bajezid II. (1502/3),” in Nachrichten der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, I. Philologisch-Historische Klasse 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1952); Bülent Atalay, “Leonardo: A Man for All Seasons,” in The Genius of Leonardo. Exhibition Catalogue (Istanbul: Rahmi M. Koç Muzeum, 2006), 31. 25 See The Genius of Leonardo. Exhibition Catalogue (Istanbul: Rahmi M. Koç Muzeum, 2006), 66–67.

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

It is true also that the first Ottoman Turkish printing press was established through the personal effort of İbrahim Müteferrika, and not through a state initiative. Sinan Kuneralp describes Müteferrika as one of those “unusual” persons—or “out of the ordinary” (“personnages hors du commun”)—that appear in Ottoman history from time to time.26 Chapter 2 is devoted to this “unusual” personality. Müteferrika was of Hungarian and Protestant (allegedly Unitarian) origin and became an Ottoman subject and convert to Islam when he was between the age of eighteen and twenty. He was probably already skilled at the art of printing while still in his hometown of Kolozsvár (today’s ClujNapoca), Transylvania (today in Romania). He was at least a confident bearer of print culture, eager enough to undertake a risky enterprise such as the establishment of the first Ottoman Turkish printing press. On the other hand, in his service at the Ottoman court he created good relationships with the most influential Ottoman statesmen, making the implementation of his enterprise easier. Yet a number of non-Muslim printers existed, who could have run a press to print books for the Muslim reading public. But it seems that the Ottoman ruling class, obliged to be Muslim by birth or conversion, would never allow a non-Muslim to print books for Muslims. Hence, someone Muslim who was skillful at the art of printing was needed to launch such an enterprise. The time was of vital importance not for the Ottomans themselves but for Müteferrika himself, because he appeared in quite a favorable historical moment, the period of Nevşehirli Damad İbrahim Pasha’s (b. 1666–d. 1730) service as grand vizier, the so-called Tulip Age (1718–30).27 The adoption of printing technology was closely connected with the sociocultural developments during 26 Sinan Kuneralp, “Les débuts de l’imprimerie à Istanbul au XVIIIe siècle,” in Turquie: Livres d’hier, livres d’aujourd’hui, ed. Paul Dumont (Strasbourg: Centre de recherche sur la Civilisation ottomane et le domaine turc contemporain Université des Sciences Humaines– Les Éditions Isis, 1992), 3. 27 For the historiographical construction of the Tulip Age see Ahmet Ö. Evin, “The Tulip Age and the Definitions of ‘Westernization,’” in Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071–1920), Papers Presented to the First International Congress on the Social and Economic History of Turkey (Ankara: Hacettepe University, July 11–13, 1977), ed. Halil İnalcık and Osman Okyar (Ankara: Meteksan, 1980), 131–45; Fatma Müge Göçek, East Encounters West: France and the Ottoman Empire in the Eighteenth Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 72–81; Can Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West? The Origins of the Tulip Age and its Development in Modern Turkey (London: I. B. Tauris, 2008); Selim Karahasanoğlu, “İstanbul’un Lale Devri Mi? Tarih ve Tarih Yazımı,” in Tarih İçinde İstanbul Uluslararası Sempozyumu/Istanbul throughout History International Symposium 14–17 Aralık/December 2010. Bildiriler, ed. Davut Hut, Zekeriya Kurşun, and Ahmet Kavas (Istanbul: Mtt İletişim ve Reklam Hizmetleri, 2011), 427–63. Selim Karahasanoğlu, A Tulip Age Legend: Consumer Behavior and Material Culture in the Ottoman Empire (1718–1730) (PhD diss., Binghamton University, State University of New York, 2009).

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the Tulip Age,28 and that is why the contextualization of the first Ottoman Turkish printing press within the framework of these developments is unavoidable. The major trend that started during that age was the so-called westernization of the Ottoman Empire, which was to a great extent sparked by the first Ottoman long-term embassy to France. The almost one-year-long embassy that took place in 1720–21 provoked among the Ottoman elite a remarkable interest in western culture, luxurious lifestyle, architectural styles such as Rococo and Baroque, and findings in the field of geography, astronomy, biology, medicine, as well as printing. The western influence, however, did not replace immediately and completely the traditional Ottoman culture. It was adapted rather than merely adopted, thus creating, in Fatma Müge Göçek’s words, a “cultural dichotomy”29 or, in Rifaat Ali Abou-el-Haj’s expression, a “cultural symbiosis.”30 In such an atmosphere, far more opened to the western counterpart as compared with previous times, the Ottoman elite, or at least a part of it, inclining to make use of selected western achievements, supported the establishment of a typography to print books for the Turkish-speaking Muslim reading public. The printing enterprise happened to be just one of the “eccentric” novelties the then Ottomans felt comfortable with. In fact, printing might have not been as obsessive as the cultivation of tulips, a flower that became the object of extreme adoration during that period,31 and the erection of new residences by adopting or adapting European or Iranian architectural styles,32 but at least it enjoyed a favorable environment at a time when—it seems—everything was possible and allowed. Sexual pleasure and prostitution were ­gaining more 28 See Wilhelm Heinz, “Die Kultur der Tulpenzeit des Osmanischen Reiches,” Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 61 (1967): 62–116. 29 Göçek, East Encounters West, 81. 30 Rifaat Ali Abou-el-Haj, Formation of the Modern State. The Ottoman Empire Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 67. 31 See Münir Aktepe, “Damad İbrahim Paşa Devrinde Lâle,” İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Tarih Dergisi 4, no. 7 (1952): 85–126. 32 See Ali Uzay Peker, “Western Influences on the Ottoman Empire and Occidentalism in the Architecture of Istanbul,” Eighteenth-Century Life 26, no. 3 (2002): 139–63; Shirine Hamadeh, “Ottoman Expressions of Early Modernity and the ‘Inevitable’ Question of Westernization,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 63, no. 1 (2004): 32–51; Shirine Hamadeh, “Westernization, Decadence, and the Turkish Baroque: Modern Constructions of the Eighteenth Century,” Muqarnas 24 (2007), 185–197; Shirine Hamadeh, The City’s Pleasures: Istanbul in the Eighteenth Century (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007); Can Erimtan, “The Perception of Saadabad: The ‘Tulip Age’ and Ottoman-Safavid Rivalry,” in Ottoman Tulips, Ottoman Coffee. Leisure and Lifestyle in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Dana Sajdi (London: I. B. Tauris & Co, 2007), 41–62.

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

socially visible dimensions,33 and even pornographic miniature images were being depicted far more boldly than ever before.34 The Tulip Age terminated in quite a dramatic way, showing how violence and peace, destructivity and creativity could exist simultaneously in history at one and the same place. On September 28, 1730, the Albanian Patrona Halil (d. 1730), a dealer in ready-made goods, sparked the so-called Patrona Revolt that involved the Istanbul citizens, traders, and artisans, along with the military, and led to Damad İbrahim Pasha’s execution and Sultan Ahmed  III’s (b. 1673–d. 1736, r. 1703–30) resignation from the throne.35 A contemporary of this revolt, Abdi Efendi,36 relates vividly that on the very first day of the revolt, while the insurgents were angrily rushing into the Istanbul streets, on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus the grand vizier and the other state officials were entertaining themselves at the military campus in Üsküdar, and the grand vizier’s deputy (kaymakam) was innocently planting tulips in his garden.37 Despite its dramatic end, the Tulip Age saw the first Ottoman efforts at modernization by following western patterns and adopting European ­aesthetical norms and technological achievements, with the printing press being the most striking technological break from the traditional Ottoman ­culture. In 1727, Ahmed III authorized İbrahim Müteferrika and Said Çelebi (d. 1761) to run a printing house, which was the first to print books with Arabic script in the Ottoman Empire. Said Çelebi joined the diplomatic mission to France in 1720–21, headed by his father Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi (d. 1732), and provided financial and organizational support to Müteferrika in the very 33 See Fariba Zarinebaf, Crime and Punishment in Istanbul, 1700–1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 86–111; Orlin Sabev, “Ahlâkın Arka Sokakları: 18. Yüzyıl Osmanlı İstanbulu’nda Fuhuş ve Ceza,” in Osmanlı İstanbulu IV: IV. Uluslararası Osmanlı İstanbulu Bildirileri 20–22 Mayıs 2016, İstanbul 29 Mayıs Üniversitesi, ed. Feridun M. Emecen, Ali Akyıldız, and Emrah Safa Gürkan (Istanbul: 29 Mayıs Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2016), 621–42. 34 See Tülay Artan and İrvin Cemil Schick, “Ottomanizing Pornotopia: Changing Visual Codes in Eighteenth-century Ottoman Erotic Miniatures,” in Eros and Sexuality in Islamic Art, ed. Francesca Leoni and Mika Natif (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2013), 157–207. 35 For more details about the Patrona Revolt, see Münir Aktepe, Patrona İsyanı (1730) (Istanbul: İ. Ü. Edebiyat Fakültesi, 1958); Robert W. Olson, “The Esnaf and the Patrona Halil Rebellion of 1730: A Realignment in Ottoman Politics?” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 17, no. 3 (1974): 329–44. 36 See Franz Babinger, “‘Abdī Efendi,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 1, ed. H. A. R. Gibb, J. H. Kramers, E. Lévi-Provençal, and J. Schacht (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 97. 37 Faik R. Unat, ed., Abdî Tarihi (1730 Patrona İhtilâli Hakkında Bir Eser) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1943), 29–30.

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beginning of his undertaking. Thus, Müteferrika’s personal effort seems to be as important as the state support in introducing the art of printing. To summarize, one could suggest the following answer to the question of why Ottoman Turkish printing appeared exactly in the first half of the eighteenth century: there seems to have been a favorable coexistence and combination of important factors, such as the appearance of a capable and enterprising person like Müteferrika, a Muslim convert, and the specific demand for certain texts existing among the Ottoman elite, as well as the willingness of the rulers to support such an enterprise financially and institutionally. Müteferrika’s appearance on the stage of Ottoman history in the first half of the eighteenth century seems to be good fortune, somewhat resembling Samuel Beckett’s Godot. As Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot (En attendant Godot) implies, chance is the underlying factor behind human existence and, as a direct result, time has no meaning.38 However, the similarity to Waiting for Godot is confined only to the concept of time. Beckett’s characters Vladimir and Estragon are constantly waiting for Godot but he never appears, while the Ottomans were not seemingly waiting for their first printer faithfully and impatiently when Müteferrika appeared all of a sudden in the first half of the eighteenth century. Chapter 3 deals with the operation of the Müteferrika press between 1726 and 1746 and analizes its output in the light of the traditional Ottoman/Muslim concept of learning and knowledge diffusion as well as of Müteferrika’s personal educational/religious background and publishing policy. Müteferrika printed sixteen editions in twenty-two volumes, including eighteen titles. One of them, a manual of the Turkish language, was intended not for Ottoman/Muslim readers but rather the Francophone reading public. Of the remaining seventeen titles, two were dictionaries (Arabic-Turkish and Persian-Turkish, respectively), ten dealt with history, two others combined historical and geographical accounts, one was completely a geographical work, one was on physics, and one was on political and military issues. The books Müteferrika offered to the public (actually, a rather limited segment of that public) created their own demand because they were rare and not easily available, and because of the scarcity of relatively current information. They also challenged the traditional Ottoman or Islamic concept of knowledge ­diffusion, which gave privilege to religious literacy. The commercial balance 38 See the comments at the following website: http://www.freeessays.cc/db/philosophy/ index.shtml (retrieved on March 25, 2005).

Introduction: In Search of Lost Time?

of Müteferrika’s enterprise, as discussed in chapter 4, while not disastrous, was not staggeringly successful either. However, sales figures clearly show that his business was far from the fiasco presented in scholarly and literary sources. By the end of his life he sold about 70 percent of the books he printed, even though their topics were far from being the most popular, competitive, or profitable in the book market. Müteferrika’s efforts in printing seem a fruitful combination of personal enthusiasm and a response to an increasing demand of the Ottoman elite for books on certain topics. As I have tried to demonstrate in chapter 5, when his prints became artifacts in a world dominated by the manuscript tradition, they provided an alternative way of multiplying texts, shortening the time and widening the space of knowledge and information diffusion. Yet they set a precedent that made the next generations accept the idea of ­printing and become its active promoters.39

39 See Geoffrey Roper, “The Printing Press and Change in the Arab World,” in Agent of Change: Print Culture Studies after Elizabeth A. Eisenstein, ed. Sabrina Baron, Eric N. Lindquist, and Eleanor F. Shevlin (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007), 250–52.

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CHAPTER 1

The Strange Arts: Printing and Other “Oddities”1 “When one encounters enough strangeness, then what is strange ultimately becomes familiar.”2 John Connolly

I

t is well known that anyone’s initial contact with an unknown civilization creates cultural shock. Unfamiliar shapes, aesthetical principles, modes of behavior, ways of entertainment, technological facilities, and so forth draw strangers’ attention, spark their curiosity, and normally give grounds for comparative comments and interpretations. It was true, in particular, for the western travelers and envoys to the Ottoman Empire, who provided in their travelogues, reports, and letters detailed accounts about unknown and curious matters they had the opportunity to see and observe there. Equally, Ottoman travelers and envoys experienced the same cultural shock when ­visiting or observing countries and customs which were quite different than their own cultural milieu. 1 This chapter is a revised version of a paper presened at the International Symposium on Ottoman Empire & European Theatre III: Seraglios and Harems, organized by Don Juan Archiv Wien in Istanbul on May 27–28, 2010. The paper has been just recently published: Orlin Sabev, “European ‘Seraglios’ and ‘Strange Arts’ as Seen by Ottoman Encounters from the Seventeenth to the Nineteenth Century,” in Ottoman Empire and European Theatre, vol. IV: Seraglios in Theatre, Music and Literature, ed. Michael Hüttler and Hans Ernst Weidinger (Vienna: Hollitzer Verlag, 2016): 231–44. Meanwhile, two articles dealing with the Ottoman notion of “strange” has appeared: Yeliz Özay, “Seyahatnâme’de “Acâyib ü Garâyib,” in Doğumunun 400. Yılında Evliyâ Çelebi, ed. Nuran Tezcan and Semih Tezcan (Ankara: T. C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2011), 305–9; Marinos Sariyannis, “Ajā’ib ve Gharā’ib: Ottoman Collections of Mirabilia and Perceptions of the Supernatural,” Der Islam 92, no. 2 (2015): 442–67. 2 John Connolly, The Burning Soul: A Charlie Parker Thriller (New York: Pocket Books, 2011), 246.

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The present chapter will be focused on Ottoman accounts dealing with European arts such as printing, theater, and opera, on the one hand, and the western accounts about the Ottoman “strange” abstention from printing and some other western technological achievements, on the other. The chapter will not only present descriptively these accounts but will also try to figure out the change in perception of these arts throughout the centuries.

THE STRANGERS’ “STRANGE” ARTS Initially, the Ottomans defined what is unknown and unfamiliar with the adjectives “acāyib” and “garib”, meaning “strange, curious, queer.” These adjectives are derived from the Arabic words “‘ajā’ib” (pl. of “‘ajībe”) and “gharā’ib” (pl. of “gharībe”) used to designate “strange, wondrous things, wonders, and marvels.”3 In the Islamic learning tradition, the two words were usually used to entitle cosmographical and geographical works describing little known or completely unknown phenomena and places. There were two main conceptions of the “‘ajā’ib.” It referred to the extraordinary monuments or inventions such as the Pharos of Alexandria, for example, on the one hand, and the marvels of God’s creation, that is, the natural phenomena, on the other. The two adjectives were usually used together as rhymes in sophisticated expressions and the best representative of their two conceptions and the most popular of such works were Zakariya al-Kazwini’s (d. 1283) Arabic-language cosmography titled ‘Ajā’ib al-makhlūkāt wa-gharā’ib al-mawjūdāt (The Marvels of Creatures and Strange Things Existing) and his second book titled ‘Ajā’ib al-buldān (Wonders of Countries) or Aṭār al-bilād wa-akhbār al-‘ibād (The Monuments of Places and History of God’s Bondsmen).4

See James W. Redhouse, A Turkish and English Lexicon Shewing in English the Significations of the Turkish Terms (Constantinople: A. H. Boyajian, 1890), 1286, 1288, 1340, 1343. 4 C. E. Dubler, “‘Adja’ib,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 1, ed. H. A. R. Gibb, J. H. Kramers, E. Lévi-Provençal, and J. Schacht (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 203–4; T. Lewicki, “al-Kazwini,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 4, ed. E. van Donzel, B. Lewis, and Ch. Pellat (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 865–67; L. Richter-Bernburg, “al-Qazwini, Zakariyya‘ ibn Muhammad,” in Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, ed. Julie Scott Meisami and Paul Starkey, vol. 2 (London: Routledge, 1998), 637–38; Günay Kut, “Acaibü’l-mahlukat,” in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, vol. 1 (Istanbul: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, 1988), 315–17; Ramazan Şeşen, ed., Müslümanlarda Tarih-Coğrafya Yazıcılığı (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1998), 168–69; Cevat İzgi, “Kazvini, Zekeriyya b. Muhammed,” in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi, vol. 25 (Ankara: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, 2002), 160. 3

The Strange Arts: Printing and Other “Oddities”     Chapter 1

Al-Kazwini’s cosmography—which describes the universe, the celestial bodies, the earth, and the seas, islands, plants, animals, peoples, and birds on it5—was immensely popular among the Ottomans and has over ten translations into Turkish, dating from the period of the fourteenth to early eighteenth century. Yazıcıoğlu Ahmed Bican’s (d. 1455) translation was the most known.6 Ibn al-Wardi’s (d. 1457) Kharidāt al-‘ajā’ib wa-faridāt al-gharā’ib (The Marvels of Pearls and the Wonders of the Unique Things) was also a very ­popular text of the same genre.7 Al-Kazwini’s and al-Wardi’s works deserved the attention of leading European scientists, who published translations of their works.8 There are also other cosmographical and geographical works whose titles include the words “‘ajā’ib” and/or “gharā’ib,” such as Ibn Said’s (d. 1286) Kitāb al-musnib fī gharā’ib al-Maghrib (Book on Wondrous Magreba), Ali bin Abdurrahman’s ‘Ajā’ib al-makhlūkāt (1361), Ibn Iyas’s (d. 1523) Neshk al-azhār fī ‘ajā’ib al-ak.ṭār   (Flowering Plants in Strange Lands), İbrahim al-Tokadi’s (Murad III’s rule, 1574–95) ‘Ajā’ibnāme-i Hindistān (Book on India’s Wonders), and the famous Damascus-born Ottoman geographer and historian Abu Bakr al-Dimashki’s (d. 1691) Cevelānü’l-efkār fī ‘Acāyibi’l-ak  . ṭār (The Wandering of the 9 Poorest Man in the Strange Lands). It is noteworthy also that “‘ajā’ib” appeared also in embassy narratives such as, for instance, Hoca Gıyaseddin Nakkaş’s Hıtāy Sefāretnāmesi (An Embassy Report from China) of 1422, depicting Tamerlane’s son Mirza Shahruh’s envoy to the Chinese emperor. The embassy report was known also under the title ‘Ajā’ib al-letā’if (Charming Marvels). Later on this work, written in Persian, was translated into Ottoman Turkish.10

  5 Cevat İzgi, Osmanlı Medreselerinde İlim, vol. 2 (Istanbul: İz Yayıncılık, 1997), 252–53.   6 Günay Kut, “Acaibü’l-mahlukat”; Esin Kahya, “On Beşinci Yüzyılda Osmanlılarda Bilimsel Faaliyetlerin Kısa Bir Değerlendirilmesi,” Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü Dergisi 1 (2003): 11–19; Mahmut Ak, “Osmanlı Coğrafya Çalışmaları,” Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi (TALİD) 4 (2004): 163–211.   7 Moh. Ben Cheneb, “Ibn al-Wardī,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 3, ed. B. Lewis, V. L. Ménage, Ch. Pellat, and J. Schacht (Leiden: Brill and Lusac & Co, 1986), 966.  8 İzgi, Osmanlı Medreselerinde İlim, vol. 2, 253–54; Şeşen, ed., Müslümanlarda Tarih-Coğrafya Yazıcılığı, 191–92. See the partial German translations of al-Kazwini’s work: Hermann Ethé, trans., Zakarija ben Muhammed ben Mahmud el-Kazwini’s Kosmographie (Leipzig: Fues’s Verlag, 1868) and Alma Giese, trans., Al-Qazwini, Die Wunder des Himmels und der Erde (Stuttgart: Erdmann, 1986).   9 Şeşen, ed., Müslümanlarda Tarih-Coğrafya Yazıcılığı, 173, 231–232, 313–314; Ak, “Osmanlı Coğrafya Çalışmaları,” 166. 10 Baki Asiltürk, Osmanlı Seyyahlarının Gözüyle Avrupa (Istanbul: Kaknüs Yayınları, 2000), 19.

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Al-Kazwini’s cosmography has four introductory texts of which the first explains the meaning of “‘ajā’ib,” and the third the meaning of “gharā’ib,” respectively. According to al-Kazwini “‘ajā’ib” means a certain helplessness and confusion felt by a man when unable to understand the reasoning of a thing or the way of its appearance. He gives an example with a beehive. When a man see bees, he becomes amazed if this is his first such experience. This is true for any other uncommon animals, rare plants, or phenomena that make the rational being wonder and the mind amazed before them. However—as al-Kazwini stresses—the more people come across such wonders the more they become accustomed to them.11 According to al-Kazwini, “gharā’ib,” on the other hand, are those rare things which are contradictory to the customs and to the things which could be explored through experience and observation. Such are the miracles performed by the prophets to make people believe them, such as the split of the sea and the moon, the healing of the blind and disabled persons, and the resurrection, as well as the art of fortune-telling and misfortune-bringing.12 During the Ottoman period, however, the Arabic forms “‘ajā’ib” and “gharā’ib” were used not only with the abovementioned two meanings, but were also used to refer to some artistic forms unknown for the Ottomans themselves. Besides the military campaigns, the Ottomans started to travel to Europe as cultural encounters only in the seventeenth and more intensively in the eighteenth century.13 Thus we have in hand a number of accounts belonging to persons of Ottoman origin who had the opportunity to see such “strange” arts due to the fact they originated from or spent some time in Central or West Europe. In particular, the Ottoman envoys to European courts developed a new genre by accounting their experiences and observations while in foreign lands in embassy reports titled sefāretnāme.14 Since many of the things they had the opportunity to observe were new and unfamiliar for them, they used frequently the Ottoman forms “‘acāyib” and/or “garīb” to express their amazement. 11 Ethé, Zakarija ben Muhammed ben Mahmud el-Kazwini’s Kosmographie, 6–12. 12 Ibid., 16–21. 13 See Cevat Memduh Altar, 15. Yüzyıldan Bu Yana Türk ve Batı Kültürlerinin Karşılıklı Etkileme Güçleri Üstüne Bir İnceleme (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları, 1981); Göçek, East Encounters West; Suraiya Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan. Culture and Daily Life in the Ottoman Empire (London: I. B. Tauris, 2000), 240–71. 14 For this newly developed particular Ottoman literary genre, see Faik Reşit Unat, Osmanlı Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1987); Hüner Tuncer, Osmanlı Diplomasisi ve Sefaretnameler (Ankara: Ümit Yayınları, 1997); Asiltürk: Osmanlı Seyyahlarının Gözüyle Avrupa, 27–36; İbrahim Şirin, Osmanlı İmgeleminde Avrupa (Ankara: Lotus Yayınevi, 2009), 129–148.

The Strange Arts: Printing and Other “Oddities”     Chapter 1

As a matter of fact, printing was one of the arts which drew first some seventeeth-century Ottoman intellectuals’ attention and deserved their particular comments. This is quite understandable, given the fact that as men of letters these intellectuals’ lives were greatly associated with books and any difference in their appearance had been immediately noticed. Peçevi İbrahim Efendi (1574–1650), who originated from Pécs, Hungary, provides in his History a short account of the development of European printing and describes it as “‘acāyib” (that is, “strange”) but efficient art.15 However, Peçevi remains completely silent about any possible adoption of this technology on the part of the Ottomans. The same is true for the other renowned seventeenth-century Ottoman author, Katib Çelebi (1609–57). In his famous geographical work Cihānnümā (Mirror of World) he considers printing a “strange art” too, with regard not to European but the ancient Chinese art of printing.16 He points out that the ancient Chinese had printed their books by means of xylography that had proved to be a much harder way of book multiplication than the European typesetting.17 Although he complains about the lack of printing in his own country, Katib Çelebi also remains indifferent to the idea of the introduction of printing to the Ottomans, as already pointed out in the introduction. Oddly enough, even the Ottoman promoter of printing, İbrahim Müteferrika, uses the adjective “strange” to define the art of printing. In the introductory notes to the 1732 printed edition of Katib Çelebi’s Cihānnümā, Müteferrika refers to printing as a “strange art” (san‘at-ı garībe).18 Since he was quite accostumed to the art of printing as being coming from European lands with developed printing, one may suggest that he had used this adjective not to express his own assessment of this art but to comply with the general Ottoman view in these times with regard to printing. One may observe the same approach in another of Müteferrika’s writings, the report of his embassy to the Polish ruler in 1736–37, as will be shown in the following pages. Another famous seventeenth-century Ottoman writer, Evliya Çelebi (1611–82), had the opportunity to encounter Europe as a personal assistant and scribe of Kara Mehmed Pasha, Ottoman envoy to the Habsburgs in 1665. 15 Peçevi İbrahim Efendi, Peçevi Tarihi, ed. Bekir Sıtkı Baykal, vol. 1 (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlığı, 1981), 82–83. 16 For printing in China, see Lucille Chia and Hilde De Weerdt, ed., Knowledge and Text Production in an Age of Print: China, 900–1400 (Leiden: Brill, 2011). 17 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi, 156; Orhan Şaik Gökyay, Katip Çelebi’den Seçmeler (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1968), 124. 18 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi, [iii].

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In his famous Seyāhatnāme (Travelogue), Evliya Çelebi uses frequently the adjectives “‘acāyib” and “garīb,” especially when he gives an account of his personal impressions from Vienna and its lively printing activities, technological achievements, fashion, and women’s active place and role in public space. Evliya Çelebi mentions the Viennese guilds of printers, clock-makers, goldsmiths, barbers, and tailors. According to him, they were incomparable in making their “strange arts and wondrous devices” (san‘at-ı ‘acībe ve ālāt-ı garībe işlemede bī-nazīr esvāklardır).19 He was astonished by the mills in Vienna, which, instead of using horses, used oxen and were man-operated through machines with “clock wheels” (sā‘at çarhları). Evliya Çelebi seems to have been so deeply impressed by these technological achievements that he simply exclaims: “machines made in a strange and wondrous way” (‘acīb ü garīb musanna‘ arabalardır). Then he continues with accounts of some of the other “hundreds of thousands” (niçe yüz bin ‘aded) of “wondrous and strange things” (garā’ib ü ‘acāyib şeyler), such as grinders, candlesticks with mechanized extinguishers in the form of a funny man with scissors, as well as lighters, meat mincers, and fans made of iron.20 Evliya Çelebi was also impressed by the physicians market in Vienna, which he describes as a “place that would seem very curious” (çok garīb görülecek bir yer) since the medicines were grinded in bronze mortars by mechanized bronze statues moved through clock mechanisms and dressed up like Muslim captives. As usual, the traveler ejaculates: “It was a strange and wondrous show indeed!” (Hakkā ki garā’ib ü ‘acāyib temāşā idi).21 In addition, according to Evliya Çelebi, the Austrians had knowledge in physics, mathematics, medicine, and surgery, as well as 374 other “curious and strange sciences” (ulūm-ı garībeler ve ulūm-ı ‘acībelere māliklerdir).22 Having found him in a virtually miraculous place exactly like Alice in Wonderland, Evliya Çelebi provides an extensive account of some performing arts. Together with the other members of the Ottoman delegacy, he enjoyed a performance of “strange imitators” (‘acāyib-i kār-ı mukallidān), who performed breathtaking acrobatics and imitated in an amusing way Swiss, Polish, Czech, Russian, Jewish, and Hungarian manners, as well as various bird voices.23 Evliya Çelebi was impressed not only by strange, in his view, objects and arts, but also by the Viennese people, including the emperor himself, and their 19 Evliyâ Çelebi b. Derviş Mehemmed Zıllî, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 7, ed. Yücel Dağlı, Seyit Ali Kahraman, and Robert Dankoff (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2003), 93. 20 Evliyâ Çelebi, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 7, 94. 21 Ibid., 95–96. 22 Ibid., 100. 23 Ibid., 114.

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“strange” appearance and manners. Among the “marvels” Evliya Çelebi had to come across while in Vienna was also the fact that women enjoyed profound respect by men, including the emperor. His particular account has the eloquent subtitle “A Wondrous and Strange [Thing]” (Garā’b ü ‘acīb).24 As a matter of fact, how Ottoman visitors reacted to their encounters with the West reflected their baggage from their culture, which made a clear distinction between the visible men’s world (selāmlık) and the hidden and invisible women’s world (haremlik); visitors admitted their amazement about the equal place that women and men share in western public space. Müteferrika Süleyman Ağa, for instance, who was sent in 1669 as Ottoman envoy to the French king Louis XIV (b. 1638, r. 1643–1715), describes in an embassy report his amazement about the fact that no harem tradition existed in France and that monogamy was a rule.25 Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi (d. 1732), who spent eleven months in France (1720–21) and related his observations in a sefāretnāme, was also impressed by the presence of women in the French public space26 and amazed that they went shopping instead of spending their time home.27 Ali Ağa, who traveled as Ottoman envoy to Poland in 1755, was also much impressed by women’s commercial activities and ownership of big real estates. He even proclaimed in verse: “Oh Poland’s state of affairs is quite strange, its women possess property” (‘Acībdir be Leh’in hāli, mülke mālikdir nisvānı).28 Even the nineteenth-century Ottoman envoys to Europe were deeply amazed at women’s public activities and described them in length.29 As mentioned above, Peçevi İbrahim Efendi and Katib Çelebi perceived the art of printing only as a curiosity that deserves to be described and nothing else. As a matter of fact, in none of the following Ottoman accounts of “strange arts” will one find any recommendation to the Ottomans to adopt them. As Namık Sinan Turan points out, the traditional Ottoman attitude toward Europe was full of stereotypes. The Ottomans considered themsleves superior to the non-Muslim European countries and, as one can see in Katip Çelebi’s and Evliya Çelebi’s accounts, the adjectives “‘acāyib” and “garīb” also served to 24 Ibid., 116. 25 Asiltürk, Osmanlı Seyyahlarının Gözüyle Avrupa, 408–9; Şirin, Osmanlı İmgeleminde Avrupa, 153. 26 Göçek, East Encounters West, 45–46. 27 Şevket Rado, ed., Yirmisekiz Mehmet Çelebi’nin Fransa Seyahatnamesi (Istanbul: Doğan Kardeş, 1970), 73. 28 Hasan Korkut, Osmanlı Elçileri Gözü İle Avrupa (Istanbul: Gökkubbe, 2007), 176–77. 29 See Asiltürk, Osmanlı Seyyahlarının Gözüyle Avrupa, 407–38.

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underestimate the influence and accomplishments of the West. This attitude changed, however, toward the eighteenth century when the West was considered with respect and sometimes even as a model to be followed.30 This shift in attitude is detectable in the eighteenth- and nineteenth-­ century Ottoman embassy reports. Moreover, the then Ottoman envoys to western countries were given the task of observing their principles of statehood and their achievements, which could be potentially adopted by the Ottomans themselves. When sent in 1720 to the first long-term Ottoman embassy to France, Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi was instructed by the Grand Vizier Damad İbrahim Pasha (b. 1666, g. 1718–30) to acquire information about the French ways of prosperity and education and to report about which of them could be applied on Ottoman soil.31 Therefore, the eighteenth-century Ottoman envoys to European countries provided more detailed accounts of the “strange arts” they had the opportunity to observe there. Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi’s observations show striking differences between the Ottoman and the French societies in terms of entertainment, participation of women in public social life, architecture, technology, and manners.32 The most known and discussed part of his embassy report is the attendance to the performance of Quinault’s lyric tragedy Thesée at the opera house. In his words, “there was a special place in Paris, called opāre, where strange arts [‘acāyib san‘atlar] were performed.”33 By mentioning the opera, the embassy report happened to be the earliest Ottoman Turkish text in which the word “opera” (opāre) was used.34 Later on he attended the opera house in the palace where, according to his accounts, “there was an operatic company which performed a ­spectacle by doing strange and wondrous mimicking” (ve opāre halkı takımıyle orāda olmākla ‘acāyib ve garā’ib taklidler edüb oyunlar oynādılar).35 As a matter 30 Namık Sinan Turan, “Osmanlı Diplomasisinde Batı İmgesinin Değişimi ve Elçilerin Etkisi (18. ve 19. Yüzyıllar),” Trakya Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi 4, no. 2 (2004): 81–82. 31 Enver Ziya Karal, “Tanzimattan Evvel Garplılaşma Hareketleri,” in Tanzimat I (Istanbul: Maarif Vekaleti Yayınları, 1940), 19; Turan, “Osmanlı Diplomasisinde Batı İmgesinin Değişimi ve Elçilerin Etkisi,” 61. 32 Göçek, East Encounters West, 25. 33 Ibid., 47; Rado, ed., Yirmisekiz Mehmet Çelebi’nin Fransa Seyahatnamesi, 51; Hüner Tuncer, “Yirmisekiz Mehmet Çelebi’nin Fransa Sefaretnamesi,” Belleten 60, no. 199 (1987): 131–51; Suna Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs: Opera and the Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Envoys and Their Sefâretnâmes,” in Ottoman Empire and European Theatre, vol. 2: The Time of Joseph Haydn. From Sultan Mahmud I to Mahmud II (r. 1730–1839), ed. Michael Hüttler and Hans Ernst Weidinger (Wien: Hollitzer, 2014), 83–141. 34 Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 84. 35 Rado, ed., Yirmisekiz Mehmet Çelebi’nin Fransa Seyahatnamesi, 55.

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of fact, the second performance was not operatic, but ballet and it seems that, quite naturally, Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi was not able to distinguish opera from ballet.36 Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi’s embassy set a precedent and most of the following Ottoman ambassadors reported their attendance to European theaters and operas. Suna Suner’s study on opera experiences and accounts in the eighteenth-century Ottoman sefāretnāmes is a good illustration of how these arts were perceived. According to her survey of fourteen reports of Ottoman envoys to Vienna, Paris, Berlin, London, and St. Petersburg who attended opera and theater performances, nine of them include accounts of such attendances.37 The early ones still describe the European theater and opera as a “strange art” as in Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi’s account, while in the later reports one can observe that the Ottoman envoys were not only amazed by these “strange arts” but enjoyed the performances and were aware of their moralizing power as well.38 In the recently discovered and released report of his embassy to the Polish crown between December 1736 and February 1737, İbrahim Müteferrika describes the festivities organized in his honor at the country palace of the Great Hetman Józef Potocki (1673–1751) in Załoźce (Galicia). According to Müteferrika a play (lū’b) was performed by female dancers who made entertaining movements by means of “strange art” (san‘at-ı garībe ile cūş ve cünbüş ederek).39 Mustafa Hatti Efendi, who was ambassador to Vienna in 1748, describes in his report entertainments such as opera and comedy (komādiye), performed in playhouses (lū’bet-hāne), where “wondrous, astounding arts and skills are demonstrated by both dancing and singing” (gāh raks-künān izhār-ı san‘āyi-i ‘acībe ve gāh pāy-guyān ibrāz-ı efā’il-i garībe eyledüklerini . . .).40 Ottoman envoys such as Şehdi Osman Efendi (St. Petersburg, 1757– 58), Ahmed Resmi Efendi (Vienna, 1758; Berlin, 1763–64), Silahdar Necati (St. Petersburg, 1771–75), Abdülkerim Pasha (Moscow, 1775–76), Ahmed Azmi Efendi (Berlin, 1790–91), Ebubekir Ratib Efendi (Vienna, 1791–92), Mustafa Rasih Efendi (St. Petersburg, 1793–94), Yusuf Agah Efendi and 36 Göçek, East Encounters West, 48; Korkut, Osmanlı Elçileri Gözü İle Avrupa, 162. 37 Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 90–91. 38 Asiltürk, Osmanlı Seyyahlarının Gözüyle Avrupa, 325–39. 39 Erhan Afyoncu and Ahmet Önal, “İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Lehistan Elçiliği ve Bilinmeyen Sefaretnâmesi,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 48 (2016): 126. 40 Ali İbrahim Savaş, ed., Mustafa Hattî Efendi, Viyana Sefâretnâmesi (Ankara: Tütk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1999), 35; Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 104–5.

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Mahmud Raif (London, 1793–97), Moralı Seyyid Ali Efendi (Paris, 1796–97), İsmail Ferruh Efendi (London, 1797–1800), Ahmedi Galib Efendi (Paris, 1802), Seyyid Mehmed Emin Vahid Efendi (Paris and Warsaw, 1806), and Abdürrezzak Bahir Efendi (Paris, 1845) attended operatic and theatrical performances and most of them provided more or less detailed accounts of them.41 During his 1791–92 embassy to Austria, Ebubekir Ratib Efendi attended and enjoyed opera and theater performances several times in Sibiu, Temesvár, and Baden.42 As Namık Sinan Turan43 and especially Suna Suner point out, “it seems that Ebubekir Ratip Efendi himself was an ambassador who was highly interested in theatre and obviously enjoyed it.”44 Thus, in the course of the eighteenth century, the general perception of European arts, opera, and theater in particular among the Ottoman elite underwent a significant development from being considered “curious” and “strange” to arts that deserve a special attention as a way of entertainment. It is no ­surprise, then, that in 1797 operatic performance was staged by foreign actors at the sultan’s palace in Istanbul.45 Nevertheless, even in the early nineteenth century there still were some Ottoman envoys who perceived the European theatrical arts as strange. In the sefāretnāme accounting his 1802 embassy to Paris, for instance, Ahmedi Galib Efendi describes the comedy as a “strange” and even “ordinary performance” (levh-i ‘ādī).46 This observation was true also for the European musical instruments, which were unfamiliar for the Ottomans. The welcoming banquet, organized in honor of İbrahim Müteferrika’s embassy to the Polish crown in 1736–37, was accomponied by a band that played music with “strange instruments” (ālāt-ı garībeler).47 Moralı Seyyid Ali Efendi, sent as ambassador to Paris in 1796–97, provides an account of an organ he saw in an old church in Sens. According to him, the gigantic organ was “completely 41 Unat, Osmanlı Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri; Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 110–18; Turan, “Batı İmgesinin Değişimi ve Elçilerin Etkisi,” 67; Korkut, Osmanlı Elçileri Gözü İle Avrupa, 170–71. 42 Cahit Bilim, ed., Ebubekir Ratip Efendi, Nemçe Sefaretnamesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1990), 261–97; Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 118–35. 43 Turan, “Osmanlı Diplomasisinde Batı İmgesinin Değişimi ve Elçilerin Etkisi,” 74. 44 Suner, “Of Messengers, Messages and Memoirs,” 135. 45 Refik Ahmet Sevengil, Opera San’atı İle İlk Temaslarımız, 2nd ed. (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1969), 16. 46 İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, “Ahmedi Galib Efendi’nin Murahhaslığı ve Paris’ten Gönderdiği Mektuplar,” Belleten 1, no. 2 (1937): 357–448; Belkıs Gürsoy, “Ahmedi Galib Efendi Sefaretnamesi,” Erdem 27 (1997): 911–41; Korkut, Osmanlı Elçileri Gözü İle Avrupa, 170. 47 Afyoncu and Önal, “İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Lehistan Elçiliği,” 125.

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strange” (cümle-i ‘acāyibden) and produced “strange sounds” (garīb sadālar), which he found to be unpleasant.48 However, later nineteenth-century Ottoman ambassadors or members of embassy delegacies were not only astonished by the western European achievements in science, society, and culture, but did recommend their adoption for the sake of the Ottoman state’s prosperity. This attitude is seen in Mustafa Sami’s Europe Essay (Āvrupā Risālesi), which includes the observations of his 1838 travel to Paris through Rome, Florence, Vienna, Prague, Berlin, Frankfurt, Brussels, Anvers, and London as a member of an embassy delegacy, as well as Sadık Rifat Pasha’s account of his 1837 journey to Italy while being Ottoman ambassador to Vienna.49 Shortly before these recommendations were given the Ottoman authorities had already undertaken such changes. Sultan Mahmud II (b. 1785, r. 1808–39), who in 1826 abolished the Janissary corps and organized a new army along modern European lines (called ‘Asākir-i Mansūre-i Muhammediye), replaced the traditional military band called Mehterān with a new one, the so-called Muzika-i Hümāyūn.50 Gaetano Donizetti’s elder brother Giuseppe Donizetti (1788–1856) was invited in 1828 to conduct the new band and to compose new polyphonic Ottoman music.51 The Beyoğlu performance of Lucrezia Borgia in 1844 was the first opera staged for a wider public, and Sultan Abdülmecid I (b. 1823, r. 1839–61) established a small theater nearby the newly built Dolmabahçe Palace; its first operatic performance took place in 1859.52 It is obvious that the Ottomans encountering the West became gradually more accustomed to western culture, particularly printing and performing arts. It is probably appropriate to draw the attention to Fatih Kerimi’s narrative describing his 1899 travel to Europe. Although Fatih Kerimi was Kazan Tatar by origin, and therefore a Russian and not an Ottoman ­citizen, he studied at Mülkiye53 in Istanbul in the period of 1896 to 1898 and his mind was deeply affected by the then Ottoman elite’s mentality. After graduation from Mülkiye, he became a teacher and a journalist. In 1899, he traveled to Europe 48 Korkut, Osmanlı Elçileri Gözü İle Avrupa, 171–72. 49 Niyazi Berkes, Türkiye’de Çağdaşlaşma, ed. Ahmet Kuyaş (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2002), 201–2. 50 Haşmet Altınölçek, “Askeri Musiki Geleneği ve Mehterhanenin Bir Kurum Olarak Yerleşme Süreci,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 10 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 1999), 751–55. 51 Refik Ahmet Sevengil, Türk Tiyatrosu Tarihi, IV. Saray Tiyatrosu (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1970), 5. 52 Sevengil, Opera San’atı İle İlk Temaslarımız, 27, 64. 53 A state school, opened in 1859 to provide training for Ottoman administrative p­ ersonnel of high rank.

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together with the rich Tatar entrepreneur Shakir Remiyev and the two visited Moscow, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Cologne, Brussels, Paris, Nice, Monte Carlo, Milan, Vienna, Budapest, Istanbul, and Bakhchisaray (Crimea). During their journey, they attended a lot of theatrical and operatic performances. However, when Fatih Kerimi mentions their first such attendance, which happened to be to a performance staged at Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, he explains that he will not be very comprehensive in accounting their theater experiences during the journey since, in his words, “the time for accounting such things to our people has not yet come, and there are more important and more necessary issues.” Nonetheless, he is convinced that press and theater (with its three variants, which, according to him, are opera and ballet, tragedy, and comedy) are as necessary and needed as water and air for the civilized peoples because of their moralizing strength.54 And contrary to his initial statement that he will avoid any detailed accounts of their theater experiences, he does actually provide many such accounts. As a person of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Fatih Kerimi was not simply accustomed to theater. Sometimes he happened to be a disappointed and unpleased spectator, as in Berlin’s theater. The decorations and ladies’ dresses there, according to him, were not “extraordinary” (fevkal‘āde).55 Sometimes he was quite pleased with the performance, and during his attendance to the Grand Opera in Paris, he proclaimed that it was one of Europe’s most impressive wonders (hārika).56 However, one can find in Fatih Kerimi’s accounts clues that he was not very well aware of the difference between the theater forms of the late nineteenth-century Europe. While in Vienna he and his fellow traveler attended a place which he calls “Ruhanor Theatre.”57 It seems that was actually a variety playhouse since, as he recounts, it was a combination of restaurant and theater (temāşāhāne) where heavy athletes and female singers and dancers performed their skills.58 Nonetheless for him the arts they performed were not strange anymore, as they had been for Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi in 1721. One can see in Fatih Kerimi’s travelogue that, for him in the end of the nineteenth century, “strange” were the “skills and arts” performed by the trained animals in the circuses,59 as well as the “strange things” (‘acāyib ve garīb şeyler) of the five continents exhibited Fatih Kerimi, Avrupa Seyahatnamesi, ed. Fazıl Gökçek (Istanbul: Çağrı Yayınları, 2001), 20. Ibid., 57. Ibid., 82. The place in question was obviously Reichenau an der Rax, which in the nineteenth century became a summer resort of the Viennese nobility. 58 Kerimi, Avrupa Seyahatnamesi, 113–14. 59 Ibid., 20. 54 55 56 57

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at Berlin’s wax museum, the so-called Panopticum.60 As a matter of fact, it was these late nineteenth-century western freak shows that were extremely popular and advertised as presenting “marvelous” creatures and “curiousities” for “amusement,” among them whirling dervishes as well.61 The European “strange” arts were adopted by the Ottomans only through the personal efforts of westerners who due to various circumstances happened to implement services in the Ottoman court, such as İbrahim Müteferrika, a Transylvanian-born Hungarian, who established the first Ottoman Turkish press in 1726, as well as Giuseppe Donizetti, the Italian who was invited by Sultan Mahmud II to serve as conductor of the first European-style Ottoman military band. As in the case of printing, in which Ottomans reported about the development of this art in other nations but did not recommend its adoption, likewise the Ottoman ambassadors who first had the opportunity to watch European opera did also not recommend its application on Ottoman soil. It took more than a century until Ottomans embraced fully the two arts and considered them no more “strange” but customary, useful, and entertaining.

THE “STRANGE” ABSENCE OF OTTOMAN TURKISH PRINTING While the Ottoman encounters of non-Ottoman world were amazed by the strangers’ “strange” arts, including the art of printing, for many European travelers to the Ottoman domain it was “strange” that the Ottomans did not print their books as their European counterparts did. The Austrian envoy to Istanbul, Ogier Ghislain de Busbecq (1522–91), who shared in a number of letters the impressions from his stay there in the period of 1555–62, writes that the Turks had adopted from Europe neither the printing press nor the clock towers because of the fears for committing disrespect for their holy books and for the service of the müezzins who are charged with inviting the faithful for religious service by crying from the minaret.62 At least two western travelers, André de Thevet (1516–90), who traveled to the Orient in 1549, and Paul Rycaut (1629–1700), who was in Istanbul in the 1660s, suggest that printing was forbidden by the Ottoman rulers. André Thevet claims that Sultan Bayezid II (b. 1447, r. 1481–1512) issued a decree in 1483, stipulating the death penalty for those who dare to print books, and 60 Ibid., 61. 61 See İrvin Cemil Schick, “19. Yüzyıl Amerika’sında ‘Acâib ve Garâib’ Sergileri: Sirkteki ‘Derviş,’” Toplumsal Tarih 283 (2017): 32–39. 62 Ogier Ghislain de Busbecq, Ambassades et voyages en Turquie et Amasie (Paris: Pierre David, 1646), 343; Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 103.

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that in 1515 the succeeding sultan Selim I (b. 1470, r. 1512–20) confirmed the previous decree.63 As a matter of fact, the scholars are reluctant to consider these claims historically correct because no documentary confirmation has been found so far.64 Such claims may have something to do with the restrictions given to non-Muslim printing houses operating on Ottoman soil about printing books with Arabic script.65 Paul Rycaut, on the other hand, claims that the Ottoman sultans banned printing because it would bring in-depth knowledge that could threaten their tyrannical rule. Rycaut, however, pointed out still another reason, namely, the concerns about manuscript copyists’ livelihoods and the possible decline of calligraphy, an art in which the Turks were— according to him—superior over other nations.66 Giovanni Battista Donado (1627–99), who was assigned as Venetian bailo to Istanbul in the years of 1680–84 and whose accounts on the literature of the Turks were published in 1688, supports Rycaut’s claims by pointing out that the Ottoman sultans had banned printing in Oriental languages in order to secure the copyists’ livelihoods. Donado adds, however, that the Turks regarded the printing press as a Christian invention and the printed books to be “blasphemy,” although the latter attitude was not outspoken.67 The Italian nobleman Luigi Ferdinando Conte di Marsigli (1658–1730), who visited Istanbul in the late 1670s and early 1690s, agrees only partly with Rycaut and Donado. In his book on the military state of the Ottoman Empire, published in 1732, Marsigli claims that the Turks do not print their books because of any prohibition but because of their concern for the livelihoods of the numerous copyists.68 In other words, Rycaut and Donado speak of official prohibition 63 André Thevet, Histoire des plus illustres et scavans hommes de leurs siècles, vol. 2 (Paris: Manger, 1671), 111. Cf. Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 86. 64 See Efdaleddin, “Memālik-i ‘Osmāniye’de Tıba‘atın Kadīmi,” Tārīh-i ‘Osmāni Encümeni Mecmu‘ası 40 (1332/1916): 242–49; Jeltyakov, Türkiye’nin Sosyo-Politik ve Kültürel Hayatında Basın, 20; Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 88; Kathryn A. Schwartz, “Did Ottoman Sultans Ban Print?“ Book History 20 (2017): 1–39. 65 John-Paul Ghobrial, “Diglossia and the ‘Methodology’ of Arabic Print,” paper presented at the 2nd International Symposium History of Printing and Publishing in the Languages and Countries of the Middle East, November 2–4, 2005, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (unpublished). 66 Paul Rycaut, The Present State of the Ottoman Empire (London: John Starkey and Henry Brome, 1668), 32. 67 Giovanni Battista Donado, Della Litteratura de’ Turchi (Venice: Andrea Poletti, 1688), 43–44; Cf. Franz Babinger, “18. Yüzyılda İstanbul’da Kitabiyat,” in Müteferrika ve Osmanlı Matbaası, ed. Nedret Kuran-Burçoğlu and Machiel Kiel (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 2004), 9. 68 Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Stato militare dell’Imperio Ottomanno incremento e decremento del medesimo (Haga: Pietro Gosse et al., 1732), 40; Gyula Kaldy-Nagy, “Beginnings of the ArabicLetter Printing in the Muslim World,” in The Muslim East, Studies in Honour of Julius Germann,

The Strange Arts: Printing and Other “Oddities”     Chapter 1

of printing, while Marsigli speaks of nonofficial abstention from printing. In the 1780s, Ignatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson (1740–1807) also holds the copyists responsible for the delay of Ottoman printing.69 Christoph Gottlieb von Murr, the editor of Journal zur Kunstgeschichte und zur allgemeinen Litteratur, published in its fourteenth issue (1787) a list of the Müteferrika prints and commented that the recently restored press (1784) had to overcome the zeal of the “Turkish” priests and copyists and that the case was similar to the reluctance to print musical notes in eighteenth-century Italy.70 Manuscript copyists were certainly unhappy to face the competition of printing and, according to the accounts of a contemporary of İbrahim Müteferrika, the Swiss nobleman César de Saussure (1705–83), his intention to launch printing met severe reaction by the religious men and the copyists who appealed to the grand vizier to stop such an undertaking that would threaten their livelihood.71 To summarize, manuscript copying tradition in the Ottoman Empire, or broadly speaking in the world of Islam, seemed to be quite satisfying the need for written materials. If there were any psychological, cultural, religious, and social concerns that made the Ottomans refrain from printing, one might equally admit that they did not have such a vital need for printing, at least to such a degree that made them overcome the alleged concerns. Scholars dealing with Ottoman history point out that there was never an “iron curtain” between the Ottoman elite and the European counterpart to prevent the exchange of new ideas, but make it clear that the Ottomans adopted foreign cultural ­patterns only if really needed.72

Loránd Eötvös, ed. Gyula Kaldy-Nagy (Budapest: Loránd Eötvös University, 1974), 204–5; Binark, “Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Geç Girişinin Sebepleri Üzerine.” 69 Ignatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson, Tableau général de l’Empire Othoman, vol. 1 (Paris: L’imprimerie de Monsieur, 1787), 298. 70 Christoph Gottlieb von Murr, “Von der türkischen Buchdruckerey in Constantinopel,” Journal zur Kunstgeschichte und zur allgemeinen Litteratur 14 (1787): 329. I would like to thank Klaus Kreiser for drawing my attention to this source. Cf. Babinger, “18. Yüzyılda İstanbul'da Kitabiyat,” 9–10. 71 Coloman de Thály, ed., Lettres de Turquie (1730–1739) et Notices (1740) de César de Saussure (Budapest: Académie hongroise des sciences, 1909), 94. 72 Abou-el-Haj, Formation of the Modern State, 68; Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, “Ottoman Science in the Classical Period and Early Contacts with European Science and Technology,” in Transfer of Modern Science & Technology to the Muslim World, Proceedings of the International Symposium on “Modern Sciences and the Muslim World” Science and Technology Transfer from the West to the Muslim World from the Renaissance to the Beginning of the XIXth Century (Istanbul 2–4 September 1987), ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1992), 25, 29.

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CHAPTER 2

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set “İbrahim Müteferrika, un de ces personnages hors du commun que l’histoire ottomane produit de temps en temps.”1 Sinan Kuneralp

A

recent publication concerning an early eighteenth-century female Ottoman subject raises the question of personal identity and identification. The publication reveals a court case dating from May 1700, in which the kadi of Adana had to clarify the real identity of a certain Ayşe Hatun, whose second husband, after divorcing her, had sold her as a slave. Ayşe Hatun was resold as a slave twice before she managed to be set free by pretending to be Fatma Hatun, the late wife of the then governor (vali) of Adana. The real identity of the poor impostor Ayşe/Fatma Hatun was confirmed through her own confession and t­ he testimony of 136 witnesses.2 This case is a good illustration of how a given person could be forced by unfavorable circumstances to change or forge her identity. It also demonstrates that identity is a matter of dichotomy and confirmation. That is, one’s identity is a combination of two simultaneous processes of self-­ identification and identification by the others. These two identifications sometimes converge, but sometimes they do not. Furthermore, one’s self-portraits and the portraits drawn by the others could be the same as well as totally different. The current chapter will deal with the identity issue of İbrahim Müteferrika as an intellectual who became famous in Ottoman cultural history as the founder of the first Ottoman Turkish printing house. I intend to 1 “İbrahim Müteferrika, one of those unusual characters that Ottoman history produces from time to time.” Quote from Kuneralp, “Les débuts de l’imprimerie à Istanbul au XVIIIe siècle,” 3. 2 Işık Tamdoğan, “La fille du meunier et l’épouse du gouverneur d’Adana ou l’histoire d’un cas d’imposture au début du XVIIIème siècle,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 127 (2010): 143–55.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

reveal Müteferrika’s portrait and self-portrait by dwelling not only on the few available narratives dealing with it but also on those aspects of Müteferrika’s post-Transylvanian activities in which one could see some important idiosyncrasies of his pre-Ottoman identity. The narratives provide a basis for different and even controversial interpretations of the following more or less unclear issues: How did Müteferrika exactly become an Ottoman subject? What was his religious affiliation before his conversion to Islam? And how did he convert to Islam: of his own free will or under the pressure of unfavorable circumstances? My main hypothesis is that Müteferrika himself likely created a far more favorable self-image through mystifying the circumstances that led to his conversion. This story could have also served as an act of servility before his new Muslim rulers.3 In other words, one may assume that Müteferrika had created an alternative and fictitious self-portrait, which seems to have been much more accepted than the real one.

THE TRANSYLVANIAN PAST In the late 1680s, the Ottoman protection of Transylvania was terminated when it was occupied by Austrian troops. Later, in the early 1690s, the local Hungarian notables, led by Imre Thököly and in alliance with the Ottoman army, unsuccessfully tried to restore the independence of the Transylvanian principality. During the turmoil of the Hungarian revolt, a young Hungarianborn Protestant whose original name is unknown went through the major shift of his life. He left his hometown Kolozsvár (today’s Cluj-Napoca), took refuge in the Ottoman Empire, and converted to Islam, gaining a new Ottoman and Muslim identity under the name İbrahim Müteferrika. This is what we know for sure about the origin of this man. Still unknown are Müteferrika’s original name, social background, postgraduate activities, his behavior during Imre Thököly’s revolt, as well as the way he became an Ottoman subject and converted to Islam. This is due to the lack of documentary or narrative evidence dating from his pre-Ottoman period or from the years of the abovementioned turmoil. Even so, it is possible to get some general notion about Müteferrika’s portrait as a youth because a certain part of his pre-Ottoman identity was still visible in his post-Transylvanian personality. 3 See also Vefa Erginbaş, Forerunner of the Ottoman Enlightenment: İbrahim Müteferrika and His Intellectual Landscape (MA thesis, Sabancı University, 2005), 88.

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For the time being, three narratives revealing Müteferrika’s p­ re-Ottoman period are known, namely, those of Müteferrika’s contemporaries César de Saussure (1705–83) and Charles de Peyssonnel (1700–1757), as well as of Müteferrika himself, all from his Ottoman period. Given this peculiarity, one should be careful in judging their reliability. As will be seen below, despite their ultimate truth claims, some of these narratives could be considered later interpretations, and need to be used with caution. Even so, the very fact that we have Saussure’s and Peyssonnel’s portraits, on the one hand, and Müteferrika’s selfportrait, on the other, allows a critical cross-examination of the emerging images. César de Saussure, who was a Swiss nobleman, met Müteferrika on Ottoman soil, when the former followed Prince Ferenc Rákóczi during his exile to the Ottoman Empire from 1717 onwards. Müteferrika was appointed liaison officer to the prince on behalf of the Ottoman government. The two must have become at least good acquaintances, and Saussure’s narration of Müteferrika’s life, provided in a letter written in French on February 21, 1732, and addressed to a Swiss friend, claims to be as trustworthy as possible. Saussure’s account reads as follows: He was an 18–20-year old young Hungarian who had studied to become a Calvinist minister one day. Due to unhappy concurrence of circumstances the Turks enslaved him in 1692 or 1693 during the war led by Thököly. He happened to live quite long a time in the house of a hard-hearted and cruel master and became a Muslim since he was unable anymore to submit himself to the fate as a slave. İbrahim, this is the name he took, was smart and clever; he spent many years in learning the language and the law of the Turks, making huge progress and becoming a capable effendi. He was lucky to get to know the Grand Vizier İbrahim Pasha, who was later on killed during the 1730 revolt that led Mahmud I to the throne. This vizier had successfully used İbrahim Effendi in various state affairs. [İbrahim Effendi] had soon displayed his great and manifold talent and intimated his desire to introduce the arts and sciences to the Turks. To this end he had suggested to set up a printing shop in Constantinople.4 4 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 93–94. (“Un jeune Hongrois âgé de 18 à 20 ans, qui avait fait ses études pour un jour Ministre Calviniste eut le malheur être pris et fait esclave par les Turcs en 1692 ou 1693 dans la guerre de Tököly. Il traîna pendant longtemps une vie assez misérable, étant tombé entre les mains d’un Maître dur et cruel, jusqu’ à ce que ne pouvant plus supporter la servitude, il se fit Musulman. İbrahim, c’est le nom qu’il prit, avoit de l’esprit et du génie ; il s’appliqua pendant plusieurs années à l’étude de la langue et de la Loi Turque ; il y fit de si grands progrès qu’il devint un habile Effendi. Il eut le bonheur

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

Müteferrika himself provides autobiographical notes in an untitled treatise written in 1710, that is, after he had already spent nearly twenty years in an Ottoman/Muslim milieu. Scholars are convinced that this unique manuscript—which is, in fact, not only untitled but also unsigned—is Müteferrika’s autograph, and entitle it conditionally Treatise on Islam (Risāle-i İslāmiye) since it defends the creed of Islam and criticizes strongly the papacy and its doctrine. In this treatise, Müteferrika provides autobiographical details that differ from Saussure’s version. Müteferrika notes that he was born in the Transylvanian town of Kolozsvár, and that since his childhood he had been learning the contents and the interpretations of the Torah, the Psalms of David, and the New Testament. However, when he graduated and became competent in preaching, he had to read and explore the Torah secretly since his lecturers banned its study. Müteferrika claims that in the course of this exploration he had come across a line predicting Muhammad’s prophecy, and thus he had clearly seen that Islam is the right faith. Then he had gone to his former lecturers, with the Old and the New Testament in hand, and argued with them about their doctrinal teachings.5 In other words, Müteferrika claims that soon after his graduation from the college and certainly before his passage to Ottoman milieu he had found himself inclined to believe in Muhammad’s prophecy rather than in Christian doctrine. However, he is completely silent about when and how he had become an Ottoman subject and an educated Muslim. Saussure’s narrative, therefore, remains the only source that the scholars used for the story of his conversion. The Hungarian Catholic priest Imre Karácson was the first interpreter of these two sources. He tried to make the accounts more comprehensible and coherent through filling in the gaps with allegedly outright inventions. Karácson’s version of Müteferrika’s biography is as follows: Müteferrika was born in 1674 in Kolozsvár into a poor Calvinist Hungarian family; when he was eighteen years old, during the Thököly revolt of 1690–91, he was captured by

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de se faire connaître d’İbrahim Pacha Grand Vizir qui fut étranglé en 1730 à l’occasion de la Rébellion qui mit sur le trône Mahmoud I. Ce Vizir employa avec succès en différentes affaires İbrahim Effendi, qui connut bientôt le grand et vaste génie du premier Ministre, et le désir qu’il avait d’introduire parmi les Turcs les Arts et les Sciences. Pour cet effet, il lui proposa d’établir à Constantinople une Imprimerie. Le Vizir approuva son dessein, lui donna charge de l’exécuter, et lui fit les avances nécessaires pour cela.”) Halil Necatioğlu, Matbaacı İbrahim-i Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiye. Tenkidli Metin (Ankara: Elif Matbaacılık, 1982), 6, 12–14, 56–58.

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Turkish soldiers who held him to ransom. Since their hopes failed, they took him to Istanbul and sold him at the slave market.6 In an extensive article, the Turkish scholar Niyazi Berkes criticizes strongly both Saussure and Karácson. According to Berkes, the incomprehensibility of Saussure’s account suggests that he either did not know Müteferrika well enough or presumably intentionally failed to reveal the whole truth about Müteferrika’s past.7 As for Karácson, Berkes stresses that his writing is often accepted uncritically by other scholars,8 and reveals Karácson’s intentional inventions. Berkes questions the claim that Müteferrika had been captured by Turkish soldiers and reminds scholars that Imre Thököly’s revolt against the Habsburgs was supported by the Ottoman sultan. Instead, Berkes supposes that Müteferrika had been taken captive by the Ottomans not as their enemy, but as one of Thököly’s supporters who needed protection after the revolt was suppressed by the Austrians.9 In 1687, the Habsburgs occupied Transylvania and favored Catholicism at the expense of the Protestant denominations. According to Berkes, Müteferrika’s claims that his former ­lecturers banned the study of the Old Testament at his college are plausible under these circumstances. Yet Berkes assumes that Müteferrika had studied at a Unitarian college and that the so-called Treatise on Islam reveals that his author had been not simply Protestant, but Unitarian, although Müteferrika himself does not specify his pre-Muslim religious affiliation.10 Berkes suggests that, like many other Unitarians who escaped the persecutions of Counter-Reformation through converting to Islam,11 Müteferrika, too, had converted to Islam of his own free will.   6 Imre Karácson, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” Tārīh-i ‘Osmāni Encümeni Mecmuası 3 (1326/1910): 178–85.   7 Niyazi Berkes, “İlk Türk Matbaası Kurucusunun Dinî ve Fikrî Kimliği,” Belleten 26, no. 104 (1962): 715–37.   8 See, for instance, T. Halasi Kun, “İbrâhim Müteferrika,” in İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 5/2 (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1965): 896–900.   9 In another article, Berkes draws attention to an Ottoman document from July 1690 published in Ahmet Refik, Türk Hizmetinde Kıral Tököli İmre, 1683–1705 (Istanbul: Muallim Ahmed Halit Kütüphanesi, 1932), 13–14. According to it, the Ottoman authorities put a mill on the river Mures in Transylvania into the possession of a certain İbrahim, who was a scribe in service of Imre Thököly. The latter himself asked his Ottoman ally to do so because of İbrahim’s numerous services rendered to him. Berkes suggests that the said scribe could be associated with İbrahim Müteferrika; see Niyazi Berkes, “104 Sayılı Belleten’de Çıkan ‘İlk Türk Matbaası Kurucusunun Dinî ve Fikrî Kimliği’ Adlı Yazı İçin Bir Not,” Belleten 28, no. 109 (1964): 183. 10 Coşkun Yılmaz, “Hezarfen Bir Şahsiyet: İbrahim Müteferrika ve Siyaset Felsefesi,” in İstanbul Armağanı, 4. Lâle Devri, ed. Mustafa Armağan (Istanbul: İstanbul Büyükşehir Belediyesi Kültür İşleri Daire Başkanlığı Yayınları, 2000), 262. 11 Lajos Fekete, “Osmanlı Türkleri ve Macarlar 1366–1699,” Belleten 13, no. 52 (1949): 663–743.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

In his monograph on the Development of Secularism in Turkey, Berkes repeats once again that Saussure’s accounts of Müteferrika’s biography could not be considered trustworthy. Yet, according to Berkes, Saussure deliberately invented the story of Müteferrika’s capture in order to excuse his apostasy.12 Berkes holds the same opinion in other works as well.13 Berkes’s suggestions, especially about Müteferrika’s Unitarianism, had great influence over later studies on Müteferrika.14 Some scholars, however, do not share his assumption that Müteferrika’s conversion was of his own will, and not under the pressure of unfavorable circumstances. A. D. Zheltiakov, for instance, considers Berkes’s assumption plausible but yet unproven.15 Ahmet H. Rafikov rejects firmly Berkes’s claims and holds the opinion that Saussure’s account is trustworthy.16 The Hungarian scholar Lajos Hopp also prefers Saussure’s version at the expense of Berkes’s assumption.17 12 Niyazi Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1964), 36–39. 13 Niyazi Berkes, “İbrāhīm Müteferrik  . a,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 3, ed. B. Lewis, V. L. Ménage, Ch. Pellat, and J. Schacht (Leiden: Brill and Lusac & Co, 1986), 996–98; Berkes, Türkiye’de Çağdaşlaşma, 50–53. 14 See, for instance: William J. Watson, “İbrāhīm Müteferrika and Turkish Incunabula,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88 (1968): 435–41; Halil Necatioğlu, Matbaacı İbrahim-i Müteferrika, 8–15; Lajos Hopp, “İbrahim Müteferrika (1674/75?–1746). Fondateur de l’imprimerie turque,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 29, no. 1 (1975): 107–13; Jale Baysal, “II. Rákóczi Ferenc’in Çevirmeni Müteferrika İbrahim ve Osmanlı Türklerinin İlk Bastıkları Kitaplar,” in Türk–Macar Kültür Münasebetleri Işığı Altında II. Rákóczi Ferenc ve Macar Mültecileri Sempozyumu/Symposium on Rákóczi Ferenc II and the Hungarian Refugees in the Light of Turco–Hungarian Cultural Relations (Istanbul: İ. Ü. Edebiyat Fakültesi, 1976), 217–25; Michael W. Albin, “Early Arabic Printing: A Catalogue of Attitudes,” Manuscripts of the Middle East 5 (1990–91): 114–22; Binark, “Matbaanın Türkiye’ye Geç Girişinin Sebepleri,” Yeni Türkiye 12 (1996): 1614; Ahmet Usta, İbrahim-i Müteferrika’nın Risâle-i İslâmiyesi, Eserin Dinler Tarihi Açısından Tahlili ve Günümüz Türkçesine Çevirisi (PhD diss., Ondokuz Mayıs Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü, 1991), 5; Erhan Afyoncu, “İbrâhim Müteferrika,” in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 21 (Istanbul: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, 2000), 324–27; Erhan Afyoncu, “İlk Türk Matbaasının Kurucusu Hakkında Yeni Bilgiler,” Belleten 65, no. 243 (2001): 607–62; Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika, 4–5; Fikret Sarıcaoğlu and Coşkun Yılmaz, Müteferrika: Basmacı İbrahim Efendi ve Müteferrika Matbaası/Basmacı İbrahim Efendi and the Müteferrika Press (Istanbul: Esen Ofset, 2008). 15 A. D. Zheltiakov, “Nachalnyĭ ėtap knigopechataniia v Turtsii,” in Blizhniĭ i Sredniĭ Vostok (istoriia, kul’tura, istochnikovedenie). Sbornik stateĭ v chest’ 70-letiia professora I. P. Petrushevskogo (Moscow: Nauka, 1968), 47–60. 16 Rafikov, Ocherki, 90–93. 17 Hopp, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 112.

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On the other hand, in a recent publication, Baki Tezcan challenges Berkes’s claim that Müteferrika’s Treatise on Islam reveals his allegedly pre-Muslim Unitarian affiliation.18 According to Tezcan’s careful scrutiny, the main concern of the treatise is to assert Müteferrika’s pre-Ottoman Muslim enlightenment by suggesting an intentional interpretative “translation” of some biblical passages from Latin into Ottoman Turkish rather than stigmatizing of Trinity at the expense of Unitarianism. In doing so, as Tezcan assumes, Müteferrika seems to have tried to please his new Ottoman/Muslim masters.19 As Tezcan demonstrates, Müteferrika’s Treatise on Islam may not be the ultimate evidence of his pre-Muslim Unitarian affiliation (as Berkes claims), but there are other sources which still justify Berkes’s assumption. Müteferrika’s affiliation to Unitarianism seems to be confirmed by a German newspaper, Neue Zeitungen für Gelehrten Sachen (Leipzig), a source unknown to Berkes and only recently revealed by the Turkish scholar Kemal Beydilli. On July 31, 1727, the newspaper informs us that the convert who is running the press in Istanbul was formerly a Transylvanian Socinian or Unitarian.20 Another German source, the first part of the ninth volume of Andreas Lazarus von Imhof ’s The Newly Opened Historical Picture-room (Des Neu-eröffneten historischen BilderSaals), published in 1735 and providing an account of the historical events that occurred between the years 1724 and 1728, also points out that the press was run by “a Socinian renegade /Jacobin from Transylvania/” (“ein abgefallener Socinianer /Jacobin aus Siebenbürgen/”) (see fig. 1).21 The very same information is repeated in other later eighteenth-century German books.22 18 See Baki Tezcan, “İbrâhîm Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiyye,” in Kitaplara Vakfedilen Bir Ömre Tuhfe: İsmail E. Erünsal’a Armağan, ed. Hatice Aynur, Bilgin Aydın, and Mustafa Birol Ülker, vol. 1 (Istanbul: Ülke Armağan, 2014), 515–56. 19 Tezcan, “İbrâhîm Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiyye,” 551. 20 Sarıcaoğlu and Yılmaz, Müteferrika, 37, 115, n. 12. 21 Andreas Lazarus von Imhof, Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals, vol. 9, part 1 (Nuremberg: Johann Leonhard Buggel and Johann Andreas Seitz, 1735), 835. Here the adjective “Jacobin” might be interpreted in several ways, namely, it may more plausibly refer to the so-called Jacobites (after Jacob Baradaeus, d. 578, the founder of the Syriac Orthodox Church or the “Jacobite” Church, one of the Oriental churches that hold the Council of Nicaea’s declaration that Jesus Christ is God, and dispprove the Council of Chalcedon’s declaration that Jesus Christ has two natures (divine and human); or to the Jacobin order, as the Dominican order (Catholic) was known in France; or to the Jacobites, the followers of the English Calvinist clergyman Henry Jacob (1563–1624); or to Müteferrika’s support of Thököly’s revolt by the analogy of the Jacobite revolts in Great Britain in the late seventeenth and the the first half of the eighteenth century that aimed to restore the rule of the Stuart king James II of England and his heirs. 22 Eugen von Savoyen-Carignan, Des Grossen Feld-Herrns Eügenii Hertzogs von Savoyen und

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

Figure 1  Engraving depicting the Müteferrika Press in Istanbul. Andreas Lazarus von Imhof, Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals, vol. 9, part 1 (Nuremberg: Johann Leonhard Buggel and Johann Andreas Seitz, 1735), 835.

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Socinianism, a non-Trinitarian (in other words, Unitarian) doctrine which was developed in Poland in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, was embraced also by the Unitarian Church of Transylvania.23 Even so, as Tezcan reminds, there were yet other claims according to which Müteferrika was a Franciscan monk (that is Catholic) or Jew, leading Tezcan to the conclusion that there have been various and contradictory speculations about Müteferrika’s pre-Muslim affiliation even among his contemporaries.24 While Tezcan considers these contradictory claims unreliable, Bekir Harun Küçük renders a reconciliation between them by suggesting—without referring to any source—that Müteferrika was an ex-Catholic, who became Socinian only at a later stage.25 The French scholar Gérald Duverdier has published a source dating from 1738 that could also serve as evidence about Müteferrika’s Unitarian past. It is a report written by Charles de Peyssonnel, who was assigned French liaison officer to the Ottoman grand vizier during the 1737–39 war of the Ottomans (supported by France) against Austria and Russia. The report, released after Berkes’s claims, portrays İbrahim Müteferrika as follows: On the other side my neighbor is İbrahim Effendi. You probably know him, he is the founder of the Turkish printing press, Hungarian by nationality, ­formerly a [Unitarian] minister, [and] now [he is] Turkish. He is a very good man and I don’t know how he changed religion. Working hard rather than being [really] skillful, he is the spirit of the project. He has retained some ability to speak Latin, therefore I conversate with him without an interpeter.26

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Käyserlichen General-Lieutenants Helden-Thaten (Nuremberg: Bey Christoph Riegel, 1739), 451; Johann Caspar Funckens, Allgemeine und Neueste Welt-Beschreibung, ­vol. 2 (Ulm: Johann Daniel Bartholomäi und Sohn, 1753), 4184; Yahya Erdem, “Müteferrika Matbaasının Erken Dönemde Yapılmış Bilinmeyen Bir Resmi,” Müteferrika 39 (2011): 222. Earl Morse Wilbur, A History of Unitarianism, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), 121–22. Tezcan, “İbrâhîm Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiyye,” 546–48. Bekir Harun Küçük, Early Enlightenment in Istanbul (PhD diss., University of California, 2012), 163. Gérald Duverdier, “Savary de Brèves et İbrahim Müteferrika: deux drogmans culturels à l’origine de l’imprimerie turque,” Bulletin du Bibliophile 3 (1987): 353–54. (“J’ai d’un autre côté pour voisin Ibraïm effendi, vous le connaissez sans doute, c’est le fondateur de l’imprimerie turque, Hongrois de nation, jadis ministre [unitarien], aujourd’hui Turc. C’est un fort bon homme et je ne sais à propos de quoi il a changé de religion. C’est un esprit à projet, plus laborieux que savant. Il a conservé quelque teinture de la langue latine, ce qui me met à portée de converser avec lui sans interprète.”)

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

It is uncertain whether the square brackets, specifying Müteferrika’s pre-­ Muslim denomination, had been put by Charles de Peyssonnel himself or by Gérald Duverdier, who refers to Berkes’s 1962 publication in Belleten as “an essential article that explains İbrahim’s open mindedness by his Unitarian training.”27 Peyssonnel’s report suggests that during these conversations Müteferrika had probably revealed his pre-Muslim denomination, but not the reason of his conversion to Islam. This is rather suspicious a reminder of what he wrote and passed over in silence in his Treatise on Islam: a lot is written against the papacy, but nothing about the circumstances that made him change religion. One could think that he was deliberately abstaining from revealing the mystery of the major shift of his life! Yet Müteferrika’s Treatise on Islam creates no impression that the change of faith and destiny was dramatic for him. There are several possible explanations of that. First, it could be indeed a change of his free will. As a Unitarian/Socinian, if he was indeed one, he probably was not hopeful about his Transylvanian future, although the Habsburgs promised freedom for all the existing denominations, and preferred to become an Ottoman subject and Muslim. Second, if Saussure’s account is correct, the period comprising twenty years between the early 1690s, when Müteferrika was allegedly captured, and 1710, when he wrote the treatise, supposedly alleviated the drama/trauma of his eventually unwilled conversion. And third, Müteferrika himself maybe created a much more favorable self-image through mystifying the circumstances that led to his conversion. If Saussure’s interpretation is correct, Müteferrika’s claims in 1710 that he had believed in Muhammad’s prophecy while still living in Kolozsvár could be eventually considered an attempt to present his conversion in a favorable light as an act, which was not caused by prosaic reasons to improve the conditions of his life, but prepared on mental level before the early 1690s. This story could also express his servility before his new Muslim rulers. In other words, Müteferrika probably created an alternative and fictitious self-portrait, which is far more useful than the real one. As Tijana Krstić plausibly claims, he saw this treatise as a “convenient means to jumpstart” his career as a müteferrika since only one copy of it survived, a fact that leaves the impression that the treatise was written for the sultan’s eyes only.28 27 Duverdier, “Savary de Brèves et İbrahim Müteferrika,” 358, n. 49. I had some discussions with Baki Tezcan (University of California, Davis) on this issue. According to Tezcan the brackets in question were put by Duverdier. See also Tezcan, “İbrâhîm Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiyye,” 545–46 (especially n. 77). 28 Tijana Krstić, “Illuminated by the Light of Islam and the Glory of the Ottoman Sultanate: Self-Narratives of Conversion to Islam in the Age of Confessionalization,” Comparative

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Müteferrika’s Treatise on Islam confirms that as an “educated border crosser”—in Suraiya Faroqhi’s words29—his adaptation to the new milieu was quite successful. This adaptation, however, did not mean breaking with his pre-Ottoman and pre-Muslim past. The very fact that after twenty years of his conversion to Islam he wrote a treatise dealing with biblical issues is quite indicative of his intellectual portrait as a man who continued to commit himself to such issues, although in a framework considering Islam as a superior religion. In his Treatise on Islam, Müteferrika appears to have a claim on being a rigid Muslim. Some accounts, however, reveal him as not a very strict observer of the Muslim dogmas and who did not abandon some non-Muslim habits, such as wine drinking, for instance. In a report of 1737, Jean-Raymond Delaria, who was interpreter at the French Embassy in Istanbul, relates that Müteferrika did not observe strictly all Islamic rules, despite his conversion, and that wine made talks with him more cordial.30 However, he must have been drinking only privately since, during his embassy to the Polish crown in the late 1736 and early 1737, he had especially warned his hosts not to serve him wine (şürb-i hamr) for being “forbidden by Sharia and yet not practiced outwardly” (şer‘an memnū‘dur ve zāhirde dahi ‘ādet olmāmışdır).31 Another excuse for his wine drinking could have been his activity as a printer since in those ages wine was the only known antidote to the oil-based printing ink. A connection with Müteferrika’s pre-Ottoman and pre-Muslim life could be found in some claims that he was one of the first Ottoman Freemasons. Although hitherto almost completely neglected in the historiography on Müteferrika, such claims reveal at least another possible nuance of his portrait. Only recently did the Turkish author Orhan Erdenen quote the assertions of some prominent twentieth-century Turkish Freemasons like İlhami Soysal that Müteferrika was connected with the Ottoman branch of Freemasonry.32 According to Soysal, after the establishment of the first lodge in London in 1717 and the approval of its statutes in 1723, a French lodge was established in Istanbul, Müteferrika being among those pro-western Ottoman dignitaries

Studies in Society and History 51, no. 1 (2009): 61; Tijana Krstić, Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Ottoman Empire (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011), 203. 29 Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan, 92–94. 30 Rafikov, Ocherki, 138; Tezcan, “İbrâhîm Müteferrika ve Risâle-i İslâmiyye,” 551. 31 Afyoncu and Önal, “İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Lehistan Elçiliği,” 125. 32 Orhan Erdenen, Lale Devri ve Yansımaları (Istanbul: TDAV, 2003), 99.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

who joined it.33 As a matter of fact, Soysal’s claims are entirely based on earlier assertions made by Kemalettin Apak, another prominent twentieth-century Turkish Freemason.34 Apak, however, does not provide any evidence in support of his claims. Thierry Zarcone’s careful studies on Ottoman Freemasonry show that the first Ottoman lodges were established in 1738 in Smyrna and Aleppo. The earliest evidences about such lodges in Istanbul are dating from 1748, that is, one year after Müteferrika’s death. As for Müteferrika’s alleged Freemasonry, Zarcone makes no further references except for Apak’s book.35 In this respect, there is no evidence that Müteferrika was a Freemason. However, it is not impossible that he was, especially in the light of Müteferrika’s pre-Ottoman Protestant past. In contrast to their attitude toward Catholicism, Freemasons were much more tolerant toward Protestantism and considered it even “semi-masonry.”36 Despite Müteferrika’s disputed Freemasonry, it is obvious that conversion did not delete his former identity. Rather, conversion brought to him a coexistence of two identities: a former pre-Ottoman and pre-Muslim identity and a new Ottoman and Muslim one. Müteferrika’s intellectual portrait was certainly a symbiosis of his former Christian affiliation and subsequent Islamic proselytism. As a matter of fact, such a cultural and psychological dichotomy is normal for the converts, and especially for the educated ones.37 Due to such a cultural dichotomy Müteferrika was able to be, in Gérald Duverdier’s words, a “smuggler of ideas” (passeur d’idées).38 In other words, Müteferrika remained a person connected on equal levels with two worlds and two cultural contexts, 33 İlhami Soysal, Dünya ve Türkiyede Masonlar ve Masonluk (Istanbul: Der Yayınlar, 1980), 192–94. 34 Kemalettin Apak, Ana Çizgileriyle Türkiye’deki Masonluk Tarihi (Istanbul: Türk Mason Derneği, 1958), 18. 35 Thierry Zarcone, Mystiques, Philosophes et Franc-Maçons en Islam: Rıza Tevfik, penseur ottoman (1868–1949), du soufisme a la confrérie (Paris: Institut français d’études, 1993), 187–96; Thierry Zarcone, Secret et sociétés secrètes en Islam: Turquie, Iran et Asie centrale XIXe–XXe siècles. Franc-Maçonnerie, Carboneria et confréries soufies (Milano: Archè, 2002), 7–8. 36 Jose Maria Ceardenal and Caro Y. Rodriguez, Tarih Boyunca Masonluk (Istanbul: Kayıhan Yayınları, 1999), 230–31. 37 See Cem Behar, Ali Ufki ve Mezmurlar (Istanbul: Pan Yayıncılık, 1990), 21–46; Suraiya Faroqhi, “Quis Custodiet Custodes? Controlling Slave Identities and Slave Traders in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Istanbul,” in Frontiers of Faith. Religious Exchange and the Constitution of Religious Identities 1400–1750, ed. Eszter Andor and István György Tóth (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2001), 121–136; Krstić, “Illuminated by the Light of Islam,” 35–63. 38 Duverdier, “Savary de Brèves et İbrahim Müteferrika,” 359.

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doing his best in contributing to the new Ottoman context his pre-Ottoman mental furniture and cultural luggage. In this respect, printing was his main contribution to Ottoman culture. His attempts at printing on Ottoman soil were quite persistent, but it is still unclear whether he was indeed proficient in printing. Here his pre-Ottoman past comes to mind again; in Transylvania, he was certainly accustomed with printed books and probably had some experience in the printing process itself. T. Halasi Kun suggests that Müteferrika must have known the famous Transylvanian printer and punch-cutter Nicholas (Miklós) Kis (1650–1702).39 In the 1680s, Kis was involved in printing activities in Amsterdam, but in 1689 he came back to Kolozsvár and revived the local Protestant printing.40 In that year, Müteferrika was still there and may have been one of Kis’s apprentices. Müteferrika himself was not proficient in punch-cutting because, for his printing house in Istanbul, he resorted to the help of a local experienced Jewish punch-cutter. The abovequoted report by Peyssonel claims that the forerunner of the printing project, Müteferrika, was hardworking rather than skillful. However, Müteferrika must have been more or less experienced in printing technology since he was quite keen on introducing printing to the Ottomans. At his printing shop, which was officially set up in 1727, Müteferrika printed four separate maps between 1719 and 1729 and eighteen titles in sixteen books of twenty-two volumes between 1729 and 1742. Müteferrika was inclined to print books dealing with history, geography, and physics. This inclination had much to do with his western and Protestant educational and ideological background. In the seventeenth and eighteenth century, history, geography, and natural philosophy became an important part of the curriculum of western universities.41 Müteferrika’s Protestant background is visible not only in his printing efforts, but also in his intellectual activities as a writer and translator of works on specific historical, astronomical, physical, military and dogmatic issues. In the abovementioned Treatise on Islam he discusses at length the Holy Trinity, a topic of fiery controversy between the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Church 39 Kun, “İbrâhim Müteferrika,” 898. 40 See György Haiman, Nicholas Kis: A Hungarian Punch-cutter and Printer 1650–1702 (Budapest: Akadémiai kiadó, 1983), 21–32. 41 See Peter Burke, Gutenberg’den Diderot’ya Bilginin Toplumsal Tarihi (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 2001), 81–103; Rosemary O’Day, Education and Society 1500– 1800: The Social Foundations of Education in Early Modern Britain (London: Longman, 1982), 106–12, 125–27, 271–75; Houston, Literacy in Early Modern Europe, 23–77.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

authorities, as well as other Christian denominations, on the one hand, and between Christian and Muslim theologians, on the other. Müteferrika also wrote a short but very influential treatise suggesting to the Ottoman authorities the virtue of pro-European military reforms. He printed this treatise in his printing house in 1732 under the title Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem (Reasonable Principles of Public Order). In the same year, he printed another treatise on magnetism Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye (Features of the Magnets), translated and compiled by him on the basis of European books on the subject. On the order of the sultan in 1733, he translated Andreas Cellarius’s astronomical work Atlas Coelestis under the title Mecmū‘a-i Hey’etü’l-kadīme ve’l-cedīde (Collection of Old and New Astronomy). This translation, however, was not printed. In 1729, Müteferrika printed his own translation of Juda Tedeusz Krusiński’s account of Iranian history, written in Latin under the title Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān (Traveler’s History about the Appearance of the Afghans and the Reasons for the Decline of the State of the Safavi Shahs). Müteferrika also edited all the texts he printed, sometimes doing his own interpolations, most significantly those titled Tezyilü’t-tābi‘ (Printer’s Addition) in Katib Çelebi’s famous geographical work Cihānnümā (Mirror of World), printed in 1732.42 Some scholars suggest that Müteferrika was the author of another proposal for military reforms, dating from the reign of Sultan Ahmed III (1703–30).43 All the translations Müteferrika made were from Latin into Ottoman Turkish. Thus, during the Ottoman period of his life, he successfully and effectively made use of his pre-Ottoman proficiency in the Latin language. What Müteferrika brought from Transylvania to Istanbul was not only his mental furniture and possible proficiency in printing but also probably a set of books. Among the goods listed in the probate inventory prepared soon after his death in the beginning of 1747, there are thirty-six Latin books, almost 42 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi, 2–8, 10, 15–16, 22–48, 64–65, 404–6, 422–698; See H. Hüsnü Koyunoğlu, “Kâtip Çelebi’nin Cihannümâ’sı ve bu Kitaba İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Yaptığı Eklemeler,” Dicle Üniversitesi İllahiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 9, no. 2 (2007): 147–66; Bilal Yurtoğlu, Katip Çelebi (Ankara: Atatürk Kültür Merkezi, 2009), 44; Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, “Introduction of Western Science to the Ottoman World: A Case Study of Modern Astronomy (1660–1860),” in Transfer of Modern Science & Technology to the Muslim World, Proceedings of the International Symposium on “Modern Sciences and the Muslim World” Science and Technology Transfer from the West to the Muslim World from the Renaissance to the Beginning of the XIXth Century (Istanbul 2–4 September 1987), ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1992), 67–120. 43 Faik R. Unat, “Ahmed III Devrine Ait bir İslâhat Takriri,” Tarih Vesikaları 1 (1941): 107–21; A. V. Vitol, Osmanskaia imperiia (nachalo XVIII v.) (Moscow: Nauka, 1987), 94.

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half of which deal with geography (mainly atlases), and the rest are about geometry, astronomy, astrology, philosophy, logic, medicine, military issues, as well as grammar books, dictionaries, and the Old and New Testament.44 It is difficult to speculate which of these books had been brought directly from Transylvania or in a broader sense Europe, and which ones had been acquired later. As a matter of fact, such a literature reflects Müteferrika’s interests not only as a reader, but also as an Ottoman diplomatic negotiator, a publisher, and an author.

THE OTTOMAN ADVENTURE According to César de Saussure’s account, after his conversion İbrahim Müteferrika acquired literacy in the Turkish language and Muslim culture. However, we do not know if he was educated at the palace school (enderun mektebi) or a theological college (medrese), or by means of private lessons. What we know about the Ottoman part of his life is that on April 18, 1716, he was elevated from the service of kapukulu sipahi, that is, member of the cavalry troop that was directly under the sultan’s command, to the post of müteferrika. While still being a cavalry soldier, Müteferrika’s wage was increased on May 7, 1715, as a reward of his competence in languages and translation of foreign books on astronomy into Ottoman Turkish.45 In 1716 he entered the müteferrika corps, whose members were especially attached to the person of the sultan and served in various public or political missions.46 Hence his nickname “Müteferrika.” Bekir Harun Küçük assumes—although no evidence is known that they were acquaintances—that it was Dimitrie Cantemir (1673–1723), a Moldavian nobleman who lived in exile in Istanbul between 1687 and 171047 and, as Küçük emphasizes, a sympathizer of Unitarianism, who was responsible for inducting İbrahim into the palace.48 By becoming müteferrika, İbrahim was mostly assigned to diplomatic missions as an ambassador, negotiator, and liaison officer, obviously due to his multilingual proficiency. In the same year (1716), he served as an Ottoman com44 See the list of these books in Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 369. 45 Erhan Afyoncu, “İbrahim Müteferrika Hakkında Önemli Bir Vesika,” Türk Kültürü İncelemeleri Dergisi 28 (2013): 51–56. 46 See Gustav Bayerle, Pashas, Begs, and Effendis: A Historical Dictionary of Titles and Terms in the Ottoman Empire (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 1997), 116–17. 47 See Mihai Maxim, “Dimitrie Cantemir,” in Historians of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Cemal Kafadar, Hakan Karateke, and Cornell Fleischer, https://ottomanhistorians.uchicago.edu/ en/historian/dimitrie-cantemir (published in March 2006). 48 Küçük, Early Enlightenment in Istanbul, 163, n. 2.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

missioner with the Hungarians, who were assembled in Belgrade to p­ romote their struggle for independence, which was supported by the Ottomans. In 1720, Müteferrika was appointed liaison officer to the Hungarian prince Ferenc Rákóczi (1676–1735), who, in the aftermath of his unsuccessful revolt (1703–11) against the Habsburgs, had left France for the Ottoman realm (1717) to continue his struggle against Austria. As already mentioned above, in late 1736 and early 1737 he was dispatched to the Polish Hetman Józef Potocki (b. 1673–d. 1751, g. 1735–43) for negotiations concerning the treaty between the Ottomans and the Poles. Between 1737–39, he served to promote a Turkish–French alliance against Austria and Russia. In that context, in 1738, he conducted negotiations on behalf of the Ottoman government with anti-Austrian Hungarians for the surrender of the fortress of Orsova to the Ottoman forces. Along with Comte de Bonneval, who later also converted to Islam and came to be known as Humbaracı Ahmed Pasha (1675–1747), Müteferrika played an active role in promoting Ottoman–Swedish cooperation against Russia. In addition to diplomatic missions, Müteferrika also served in the Ottoman bureaucracy, first as scribe at the Ottoman artillery (top arabacı;1738–43) and later at the imperial council (divan-ı hümayun; 1744–45). The last position he held was the directorship of the first Ottoman paper mill at Yalova, near Istanbul (1745–47). Müteferrika’s recently discovered probate inventory reveals that he passed away in January or February 1747 and not in 1745 or 1746, as previously thought. According to the same document, Müteferrika left behind a wife named Hadice, who was probably also a convert, and a minor daughter named Ayşe. While some scholars have argued that he had a son (known as “Little İbrahim”), or even five sons, there is no documentary evidence to prove these claims. There are also scholars who suggest that Müteferrika might have had a son, or sons, from a previous marriage. As a matter of fact, it has been recently discovered that before Hadice he was married a certain Zeyneb.49 49 Details on the biography of İbrahim Müteferrika are provided in: Kun, “İbrâhim Müteferrika”; Berkes, “İbrahim Müteferrika”; Erhan Afyoncu, “İbrâhim Müteferrika,” in Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 21 (Istanbul: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı), 2000, 324–27; Erhan Afyoncu, “İlk Türk Matbaasının Kurucusu Hakkında Yeni Bilgiler,” Belleten, 65, no. 243 (2001): 607–22; Erhan Afyoncu, “İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Yeni Yayınlanan Terekesi ve Ölüm Tarihi Üzerine,” Türklük Araştırmaları Dergisi 15 (2004): 349–62; Kemal Beydilli, “Müteferrika ve Osmanlı Matbaası. 18. Yüzyılda İstanbul’da Kitabiyat,” Toplumsal Tarih 128 (2004): 44–52; Sarıcaoğlu and Yılmaz, Müteferrika, 57; Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 93–109; Orlin Sabev, “İbrahim Müteferriqa,” in Historians of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Cemal Kafadar, Hakan Karateke, and Cornell Fleischer, https://ottomanhistorians.uchicago.edu/en/historian/İbrahim-muteferriqa ­(published in

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PORTRAIT AND SELF-PORTRAIT A gallery of self-portraits and portraits of İbrahim Müteferrika emerges from the names and attributes he preferred to use in his signatures, on the one hand, and the names and attributes, which the others used in order to designate him, on the other. In the colophon of all his prints he used the following signature: [ Printed by] İbrahim, [one] of the müteferrikas at the Imperial Court, who is in charge to print [books] at the printing shop in the beautiful city of Constantinople.50

A depiction of the celestial bodies and spheres after Ptolemy’s system, attached to the printed version of Katib Çelebi’s Mirror of World (1732), is signed as follows: [ Drawn] by the hand of the poor İbrahim the Geographer, [one] of the müteferrikas at the Imperial Court.51

An undated marginal note on the first page of a manuscript copy of Katib Çelebi’s Chronological Calendar (Takvīmü’t-tevārīh) dated 1093/1682—which I was lucky to come across during my research at Firestone Library, Princeton University, in 2006—consists of twelve lines that include the names of the provinces and states under Safavi rule, and is signed by İbrahim Müteferrika, a drawer and a geographer.52

A map of the Anatolian provinces İçil, Karaman, Anatolia, and Sivas, attached to the printed version of Katib Çelebi’s Mirror of World, is signed as follows: Drawn by İbrahim of Tophane.53

Fikret Sarıcaoğlu assumes that the latter could be, in fact, İbrahim Müteferrika himself.54 This assumption seems quite plausible, especially in light of İbrahim October 2011); Orlin Sabev, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam Three, ed. Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Everett Rowson, vol. 5 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 147–49. 50 “İbrāhīm min müteferrikān-ı dergāh-ı ‘ālī el-me’mūr bi-‘amelü’t-tab‘ be-dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’lma‘mūre fi beldetü’t-tayyıbeti’l-Kostantiniye.” 51 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi, between 25 and 26 (“‘Ala yedü’l-hakīr İbrāhīm el-Coğrafī ‘an müteferrikān-ı dergāh-i ‘ālī”). 52 Firestone Library (Princeton), Rare Books and Manuscripts Room, Manuscripts Division: Robert Garrett Collection, 3033 T (“İbrāhīm Müteferrika, ressām, coğrafī”). 53 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi, between 629 and 630 (“Resmuhu İbrāhīm Tophānevī”). 54 Fikret Sarıcaoğlu, “Osmanlılarda Harita,” in Türkler, ed. Hasan C. Güzel, Kemal Çiçek, and Salim Koca, vol. 11 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2002), 310.

Out of the Ordinary: İbrahim Müteferrika’s Mind-set    Chapter 2

Müteferrika’s probate inventory, according to which after his death all the unsold copies of the books he printed were stocked in a place called Tophane in the vicinity of the Sultan Selim Mosque in Istanbul. To summarize, with such signatures, İbrahim Müteferrika drew a selfportrait in which he described himself as a müteferrika, a printer, a geographer, and a drawer (or a mapmaker). The official Ottoman authorities, however, considered him exclusively a müteferrika. Ahmed III’s firman of 1727, providing state permission for setting up a printing shop, names him “İbrahim, one of the müteferrikas at my Imperial Court.”55 In the payment of bills given to İbrahim Müteferrika after he was appointed a liaison officer to Prince Ferenc Rákóczi and his suite, he is called Müteferrika İbrahim or Müteferrika İbrahim Ağa.56 On the other hand, in two documents issued by the financial department of the imperial court, dated 1727, which are related to the food supplied by the imperial kitchen to the staff of İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing shop during the printing of its first book, the printer is called “İbrahim Efendi, who is in charge to print the Vankulu dictionary.”57 It is worth noting that the title “efendi” was usually given to educated persons, and especially to scribes and medrese-graduates, who belonged to the learned religious class, the ‘ulema.58 Besides Muslim preachers and jurists, it also denoted the booksellers.59 Since İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing shop was a private undertaking, he had also the right to sell the books he printed. Formally, being the first Ottoman Muslim to execute the profession

55 Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri [Lugat-i Vankūlu] (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1141/1729), [4] (“Dergāh-i Mu‘allam müteferrikalarından İbrāhīm”). 56 Boris Nedkov, Osmanoturska diplomatika i paleografiia, vol. 2 (Sofia: Nauka i izkustvo, 1972), 157–59, 309; Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (Istanbul): Ali Emiri, III. Ahmed, 1791, 14755; Cevdet Hariciye, 5256, 6927, 7911. 57 İhsan Sungu, “İlk Türk Matbaasına Dair Yeni Vesikalar,” Hayat 3, no. 73 (1928): 14 (“İbrāhīm Efendi der hizmet-i basma-i Lugat-i Vankulu”). 58 See Bayerle, Pashas, Begs, and Effendis, 44. 59 See Mehmet Zeki Pakalın, “Sahhaf,” in Tarih Deyimleri ve Terimleri Sözlüğü, vol. 3 (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Basımevi, 1954), 92; İsmet Binark, “Eski Devrin Kitapçıları: Sahhâflar,” Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği Bülteni 16, no. 3 (1967): 155–162; Arslan Kaynardağ, “Eski Esnaflarımızla–Bu Arada Sahhaflıkla İlgili Bir Kitap: Letaif-i Esnaf,” Kütüphanecilik Dergisi 3 (1992): 67–72; Yahya Erdem, “Sahhaflar ve Seyyahlar: Osmanlı’da Kitapçılık,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 11 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 1999), 720–38; Ömer Faruk Yılmaz, Tarih Boyunca Sahhaflık ve İstanbul Sahhaflar Çarşısı (Istanbul: Sahhaflar Derneği, 2005); İsmail E. Erünsal, “Osmanlılarda Sahhaflık ve Sahaflar: Yeni Belge ve Bilgiler,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/ The Journal of Ottoman Studies 29 (2007): 99–146.

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of printer, in legal terms he must have been considered a bookseller rather than a printer. As a matter of fact, the early printers ended up also being booksellers. The nonofficial accounts of İbrahim Müteferrika’s personality tend to shift his public image from a müteferrika to a printer. In the very ­beginning of his printing undertaking, the official chronicler at the imperial court, Küçükçelebizade İsmail Asım Efendi (1675–1759), who took accounts for the period 1134/1721–22 to 1141/1728–29, names him “İbrahim the Interpeter, [one] of the müteferrikas at the Imperial Court.”60 A decade or so later, however, in the Grand Vizier Muhsinzade Abdullah Pasha’s (1661?–1749, g. 1737) statement of 1737, İbrahim Müteferrika is called “İbrahim Efendi the Printer.”61 It is significant that after ten years of officially allowed printing activity, Müteferrika deserved recognition as a printer. It is confirmed also by some foreign observers such as the abovementioned Saussure, for instance, who, in a letter of August 13, 1735, named him exactly in the same way: “İbrahim Efendi the Printer.62 It is quite obvious that Müteferrika’s printing activity won him a new recognition as a printer in the Ottoman intellectual milieu. Moreover, he became publicly known mainly as a printer. A late eighteenth-century manuscript copy of the printed version of his own work Reasonable Principles of Public Order (1732), preserved in the Oriental Department of the National Library in Sofia, Bulgaria, is titled Reasonable Principles of Public Order by İbrahim Efendi the Printer.63 Probably the most affirmative indication of Müteferrika’s public image is his probate inventory of April 1, 1747. Probate inventories usually point out the name of the deceased persons and their main personal characteristics: in the case of women, reference is usually made to their husbands’ or fathers’ name while, in the case of men, their profession, rank, or service is used as identification. In İbrahim Müteferrika’s case, disregarding the fact that he served as a müteferrika at the imperial court, his probate inventory names him simply “the late İbrahim Efendi the Printer.”64 Having in mind that probate inventories 60 Tārīh-i Çelebizāde Efendi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1153/1741), fol. 119b (“Dergāh-i ‘Āli müteferrikalarından Tercümān İbrāhīm Ağa”). 61 Ahmed Refik, Memālik-i Osmāniye‘de Krāl Rākoçi ve Tevābi‘ (1109–1154) (Istanbul: Tārīh-i ‘Osmāni Encümeni, 1333/1917), 8 (“Basmacı İbrāhīm Efendi”). 62 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 176. 63 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department, Оr 2296, fol. 1а (“Usūlü’l-Hikem fi Nizāmi’l-‘Alem li-İbrāhīm Efendi Basmacı”). 64 İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul): Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, defter 98, fol. 39a (“Basmacı merhūm İbrāhīm Efendi”).

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were official judicial documents, this is a quite remarkable indication of how İbrahim Müteferrika’s public image shifted in the course of time, in not only nonofficial Ottoman and non-Ottoman attitudes but also official Ottoman attitudes toward him. Hence, in the last years of his life and posthumously, İbrahim Müteferrika won public recognition neither as a geographer nor mapmaker, as his signatures imply, nor as a müteferrika, the state service he happened to execute during his lifetime. As a convert of Hungarian-Transylvanian origin, he was not recognized according to his ethnic or geographical origin either, as was the case with two other compatriots and namesakes, Peçevi İbrahim Efendi (1574–1650)65 and Zigetvarlı Köse İbrahim Efendi (second half of the seventeenth century),66 who happened to convert to Islam and become Ottoman subjects in the seventeenth century. What made İbrahim Müteferrika publicly recognizable were his activities as a printer, and his printing efforts became the main expression of his individuality in Ottoman society.67 He apparently never broke down fully the link with his pre-Ottoman and pre-Muslim past and managed to combine in some harmony two seemingly opposing identities. His conversion seems to be rearrangement of his consciousness rather than transformation since behind the mysterious smile of his Ottoman and Muslim image one could clearly figure out his Transylvanian and Protestant past.

65 See Ahmet Refik, Osmanlı Alimleri ve Sanatkârları (Istanbul: Timaş Yayınları, 1999), 91–105. 66 See Avner Ben-Zaken, “Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Kopernik Sistemi,” in Türkler, ed. Hasan C. Güzel, Kemal Çiçek, and Salim Koca, vol. 11 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2002), 289–302. 67 See Rhoads Murphey, “Forms and Expression of Individuality in Ottoman Society,” Turcica 34 (2002): 135–70.

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Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press “What gunpowder did for war, the printing press has done for the mind.”1 Wendell Phillips

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ne could hardly expect that the Ottomans would adopt printing just for the sake of an advantageous civilizational choice. In principle, there must have been specific reasons for introducing a new technology. There must have been a serious lack of a something, a vital need of a facility that could be solved by searching for new opportunities and applying new methods. As pointed out in the introduction, the seventeenth-century Ottoman men of letters were not outspoken about the need for printing, but the lack of a printing press must have been subconsciously felt. It suffices to recall Katib Çelebi’s (1609–57) complaint of being unable to attach more maps to his geographical work Cihānnümā (Mirror of World) because of the lack of available printing facilities.2 Printing, on the other hand, was not a p­ anacea for every kind of writing. Copyists seemed to be quite effective in multiplying shorter and plain texts. However, it must have been much harder to get a complicated structure such as a voluminous dictionary, for example, or an image copied by hand. In such particular cases, printing seemed a far more effective and much less expensive way (in terms of labor and spent time) for multiplying works like that. With regard to this, not for nothing were İbrahim Müteferrika’s earliest print outputs maps and a dictionary.

1 Quoted after A. D. Hall, ed., Selections from the Works of Wendell Phillips (Boston: H. M. Caldwell Co, 1902), 22–23. 2 Kitâb-ı Cihânnümâ li-Kâtib Çelebi, 55.

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TO PRINT OR NOT TO PRINT? In Müteferrika’s case, one should decipher two factors mingled together: his court career as a diplomat who was supposed to have excellent linguistic proficiency and wide geographical erudition and his knowledge (although supposedly basic) of printing technology that could be useful in these particular fields of competence. In this sense, one should not be surprised that Müteferrika’s first attempt at printing was related to cartography and happened long before the official opening of his printing house. In 1719, he prepared a woodcut block of a map of the Sea of Marmara, which was presumably presented to the grand vizier, Damad İbrahim Pasha.3 In his 1726 application to the grand vizier for state permission to run a printing house, Müteferrika points out that he had been attempting to print “for eight years,” that is, since 1719. İhsan Sungu is therefore absolutely right when he claims that it was not the 1720–21 Ottoman diplomatic mission to France that allegedly sparked Ottoman printing,4 as is generally accepted since there were obviously other reasons for the development. Before he turned to printing books, Müteferrika printed three more maps; they were of the Black Sea, Persia, and Egypt.5 Therefore one can agree with Gérald Duverdier, who emphasizes Müteferrika’s vital need of precise maps for his diplomatic missions.6 However, the personal need for maps is not the only reason for printing them. Müteferrika could easily obtain such maps printed in the West, and he did possess atlases, as his probate inventory reveals. His diplomatic career may have been a stimulus, but does not seem to be the only reason that made Müteferrika run a printing house. One should pay close attention to Müteferrika’s treatise on the usefulness of printing, Vesiletü’t-tıba’a (Utility of Printing),7 written in 1726. This appears to be the crucial year in which he did his best to defend his printing undertaking by trying to secure state support through this treatise and the abovementioned application to the grand vizier. These two texts provide valuable insights into 3 Sungu, “Yeni Vesikalar,” 10; Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 34–35; Ersoy, Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Girişi, 31, 37. 4 Sungu, “Yeni Vesikalar,” 10. 5 Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 35–38; Ersoy, Türkiye’ye Matbaanın Girişi, 37; Ulla Ehrensvärd and Zygmunt Abrahamowitz, “Two Maps Printed by İbrahim Müteferrika in 1724/25 and 1729/30,” Svenska Forskningsinstitutet i Istanbul Meddelanden 15 (1990): 46–66. 6 Duverdier, “Savary de Brèves et İbrahim Müteferrika,” 334–36. 7 Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri, [11]–[15].

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his motivation to print books, but I will confine myself to the treatise since it is far more detailed. Müteferrika insisted that printing is important for preserving mankind’s writings, especially for the correct duplication of voluminous dictionaries. According to him there were no copyists to make accurate copies of them, and that is why the number of the manuscript copies of basic dictionaries, such as those of Jawhari and Vankulu, as well as of the copies of historical and biographical works, was insufficient. Müteferrika insisted that printing would standardize the contents, increase the number of copies and the availability of dictionaries, as well as works in history, astronomy, physics, and geography. Then he pointed out that Christians had already printed books in Arabic (he mentions the late sixteenth-century output of Typographia Medicea) and that their sale proved unsuccessful in the Islamic world because they were corrupted with numerous errors. Müteferrika urged, however, that in future Christians could improve their Arabic prints and subsequently make their sale more profitable. Müteferrika was convinced that this should not be allowed. Instead, he suggested that Muslims themselves should begin to print their own books and thus prove their superiority over the Christian counterparts. Finally, Müteferrika claimed that the introduction of printing had previously been discussed by the Ottoman statesmen but it failed because of the lack of capable entrepreneurs.8 Müteferrika’s logic for the need of printing reveals very important reasons why the Ottomans should print books. First, there was a demand for standardized and correct copies of texts whose multiplication seems to have been difficult for the manuscript copyists because of their complicated structure and bulky content, as in the case of the voluminous dictionaries, or because they were neglected works, as in the case of the treatises on exact sciences. Manuscript copyists preferred to duplicate the most popular texts, such as the Qur’an and other religious texts, as well as treatises used in the medrese curriculum. Printing appeared to be a much more applicable and appropriate way for satisfying the need for voluminous books on less popular subjects. However, the scarcity of copies of such books was not a problem restricted only to the early eighteenth century. Such texts were rare long before Müteferrika’s time. Pietro della Valle (1586–1652), for instance, claims that no more than four copies of the Vankulu 8 See the Latin transliteration, as well as the translations into English and French, respectively, in Turgut Kut and Fatma Türe, eds., Yazmadan Basmaya: Müteferrika, Mühendishane, Üsküdar (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Kültür Merkezi, 1996), 34; George N. Atiyeh, ed., The Book in the Islamic World: The Written Word and Communication in the Middle East (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 286–92; Henri Omont, “Documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople au XVIIIe siècle,” Revue des bibliothèques 5 (1895): 193–200.

Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press    Chapter 3

dictionary could be found in Istanbul.9 The demand for more copies of certain texts is thus a good motivation for searching out faster and more effective ways of multiplication, but the real fulfillment of such a requirement depends on the availability of capable people. Müteferrika himself states the prerequisite of a capable printer in his treatise on the usefulness of printing. One may presume, however, that the demand for more copies of c­ ertain texts increased precisely in Müteferrika’s time. For instance, the History of Selaniki Mustafa (d. 1600) was multiplied through a number of manuscript copies by order of Grand Vizier Damad İbrahim Pasha.10 It seems that during the so-called Tulip Age (1718–30) among the Ottoman elite, there was a specific demand for historical works. Manuscript copying could only partly meet the demand for more copies, because it is a technology of multiplication sufficient for texts of average volume only. Demand for copies of voluminous and huge texts could be more easily met through the printing technology suggested by Müteferrika. Such texts can remain unpopular for centuries in manuscript form, while printing can make them much more popular. A good example is the abovementioned voluminous Travelogue of Evliya Çelebi (1611–82). Until 1898, when it was first printed, it remained almost totally unknown even among the Ottoman elite.11 Second, such a demand was partially satisfied by western presses, which printed not only scientific works in Arabic but also the Qur’an itself.12 However, modern scholars confirm Müteferrika’s claims that these prints were full of orthographical and grammatical errors.13 Third, if so, there were two options: western prints in Arabic could improve their quality and subsequently their sale figures or Muslims themselves could print their own books in a more accurate way. Here I would like to draw attention to a hitherto neglected aspect of Müteferrika’s motivation to print, namely, the commercial aspect.   9 Pietro della Valle, Viaggi di Pietro della Valle il Pellegrino (Venice: Paolo Baglioni, 1667), 191; Cf. Erdem, “Sahhaflar ve Seyyahlar,” 720–21. 10 Şeşen, Tarih-Coğrafya Yazıcılığı, 303. 11 Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan, 72; Pierre A. MacKay, “The Manuscripts of the Seyahatname of Evliya Çelebi,” Der Islam 52 (1975): 279. 12 See G. Oman, “Matba‘a. 1. In the Arab World,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, new ed., vol. 6, ed. C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, B. Lewis, and Ch. Pellat (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 795–96; Josée Balagna, L’imprimerie arabe en Occident: XVIe, XVIIe et XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Editions Maisonneuve & Larose, 1984). 13 See Muhsin Mahdi, “From the Manuscript Age to the Age of Printed Books,” in The Book in the Islamic World: The Written Word and Communication in the Middle East, ed. George N. Atiyeh (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 1–2.

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His logic implies that Muslims themselves should make money out of printing their books instead of the Christians through improving their prints in Arabic. After all, printing is an enterprise, and the commercial aspect is as important as the aspect of education and enlightenment. Let me recall that Müteferrika’s printing house was a completely private enterprise, although in the very beginning he enjoyed some direct financial support by Ottoman officials (Said Çelebi, who was the official cofounder of the Müteferrika press) and in-kind support by the state (by means of food provided for the workers in the printing­­house). Meanwhile, the Ottoman authorities had already been convinced of the permissibility of such an innovation. Grand Vizier Damad İbrahim Pasha; Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi, who headed the 1720–21 embassy to France; his son Said Çelebi; and the Grand Mufti Yenişehirli Abdullah Efendi (d. 1744) all encouraged and supported İbrahim with the official opening of the press in 1727. The official opening, however, appears to have been beset by obstacles set by the alleged opponents of printing, such as scribes, manuscript copyists, and men of religion. In order to convince the authorities of the benefit of his undertaking, in 1726 Müteferrika wrote the abovementioned treatise titled Vesīletü’t-tıbā‘a (The Utility of Printing). In it he pleaded the case of his printing enterprise by exposing its eventual benefits to the Muslims and the future of the Ottoman state.14 Besides this treatise, Müteferrika also submitted to the grand vizier an application for an official permit to run his printing house.15 In the application, probably also dating from 1726, he makes it clear that he intends to print dictionaries as well as books on astronomy, medicine, arithmetic, geometry, and geography. He writes that he has been attempting to print for eight years, while enjoying the support of the Istanbul-based Jewish printer and punch-cutter Yonah and the facilities of his printing house.16 Müteferrika adds that for two 14 The text is presented in transliteratıon in: Kut and Türe, ed., Yazmadan Basmaya, 34; Translation in English is provided in Atiyeh, ed., The Book in the Islamic World, 286–92. For the French translation, see Henri Omont, “Documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople,” 193–200. For analysis of the text see Stefan Reichmuth, “Islamic Reformist Discource in the Tulip Period (1718–30). İbrahim Müteferriqa and His Arguments for Printing,” in International Congress on Learning and Education in the Ottoman World. Istanbul, 12–15 April 1999, ed. Ali Çaksu (Istanbul: IRCICA, 2001), 149–161. 15 Sungu, “Yeni Vesikalar,” 11–13. 16 For Yonah ben Ya‘akov Ashkenazi (d. 1745) and the output of his printing house between 1710 and 1778, see Yaron ben Na‘eh, “Hebrew Printing Houses in the Ottoman Empire,” in Jewish Journalism and Printing Houses in the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, ed. Gad

Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press    Chapter 3

years he has enjoyed the financial support of Said Çelebi and now is applying not only for an official permit but also for financial aid to be granted by the state. Along with the application, Müteferrika presented a few sample pages from the Arabic-Turkish dictionary of Vankulu, which was printed by him, and asked for a permit to print 500 copies.17 The grand vizier approved the application,18 and the grand mufti then issued an official religious opinion (fetvā) permitting printing as a useful way of multiplying written materials.19 Finally, Sultan Ahmed III signed a firman, dated Evāsit-i Zilk‘ade 1139/the beginning of July 1727, which gave İbrahim Müteferrika and Said Çelebi an official permit to run the printing house. Four former high-level religious officials were appointed as proofreaders.20 Said Çelebi, however, relinquished the work in the early 1730s, leaving Müteferrika to run the enterprise alone. Given these administrative procedures, one might conclude that the official chronology of the opening of the first Ottoman Turkish printing house was not the real chronology of its beginning. In other words, the first Ottoman Turkish printing press received an official permit post factum.21 The authorities, however, reached a compromised solution whereby the printing house was only allowed to print books on secular matters, while the crowded army of

17 18 19

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21

Nassi (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2001), 82–83; Yasin Meral, “Yona ben Ya‘kov Aşkenazi ve Matbaacılık Faaliyetleri,” in Osmanlı İstanbulu IV: IV. Uluslararası Osmanlı İstanbulu Bildirileri 20–22 Mayıs 2016, İstanbul 29 Mayıs Üniversitesi, ed. Feridun M. Emecen, Ali Akyıldız, and Emrah Safa Gürkan (Istanbul: 29 Mayıs Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2016), 775–96. See Hasan R. Ertuğ, Basın ve Yayın Hareketleri Tarihi (Istanbul: Yenilik Basımevi, 1970), 96–101. Sungu, “Yeni Vesikalar,” 11; Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 52–57. The text is presented in transliteration in: Ahmed Refik, Hicrî Onikinci Asır’da İstanbul Hayatı (1100–1200) [Onikinci Asr-ı Hicrî’de İstanbul Hayatı (1689–1785)] (Istanbul: Enderun Kitapevi, 1988), 91–94. The text is presented in transliteration in Adil Şen, İbrahim Müteferrika ve Usûlü’l-hikem fî Nizâmi’l-ümem (Ankara: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, 1995), 56. Comments on the text are available in: Hidayet Y. Nuhoğlu, “Müteferrika Matbaasının Kurulması İçin Verilen Fetvâ Üzerine,” in Basım ve Yayıncılığımızın 250. Yılı Bilimsel Toplantısı, 10–11 Aralık 1979, Ankara, Bildiriler (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1980), 119–26. Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri, [4]; The text is presented in transliteration in: Refik, İstanbul Hayatı, 89–91; Şen, İbrahim Müteferrika ve Usûlü’l-Hikem, 57–59. Translation in English is provided in Atiyeh, ed., The Book in the Islamic World, 284–85. French translation is provided in: Omont, “Documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople,” 190–92. Alpay Kabacalı, Türk Kitap Tarihi, I. Başlangıçtan Tanzimat’a Kadar (Istanbul: Cem Yayınevi, 1989), 40; Yaşar A. Tonta, “Ahmet Rasim’in İbrahim-i Müteferrika ve Matbaacılık Üzerine Yazdıklarının İncelenmesi,” Hacettepe Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 3, no. 1 (1985): 163.

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manuscript copyists was left undisturbed to copy manuscripts predominantly on religious matters. Thus, İbrahim Müteferrika received the necessary state support by means of deus ex machina, so to speak, as in an old-Greek drama.

WHAT TO PRINT OR NOT TO PRINT? Müteferrika’s 1726 statement and application reveal his intention to print dictionaries and texts dealing with subjects such as history, astronomy, geography, and physics. There is no indication of an intention to print religious texts. The subsequent official statement of the grand mufti and the 1727 firman of Sultan Ahmed III confirmed Müteferrika’s application to be permitted to print such texts. They did not deal with printing of religious texts simply because no application had been made for such printing. Nevertheless, scholarship has previously focused on the question of why the first Ottoman Turkish printing press was not allowed to print religious books. Even lately there are some scholars who are groundlessly asserting that Müteferrika did print religious texts, and in particular, his own Treatise on Islam.22 However, the correct question is not why Müteferrika did not print religious texts, but what he had in mind in printing dictionaries and books on certain topics: whether he intentionally restricted himself to such topics and, if so, why. It is difficult to speculate whether Müteferrika decided himself not to apply for permission to print religious texts or whether he came under pressure from religious functionaries and the manuscript copyists. In other words, had he applied for what he was sure he would be permitted to print and refrained from applying for what he was sure that he would not be permitted? As a matter of fact, there is no evidence that the reported reaction of the religious functionaries and the manuscript copyists against Müteferrika’s printing enterprise was caused by any hypothetical intention of him to print religious books or by his intention to print at all. Instead of focusing on religion, the publishing policy of İbrahim Müteferrika challenged the traditional Muslim and Ottoman concept of science and its circulation among a wider range of societal strata. By printing nonreligious books, especially in the field of history and geography, he placed 22 Süheyl Ünver, “İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Bilimsel Yönü ile Yayınlarındaki Özellikler,” in Basım ve Yayıncılığımızın 250. Yılı Bilimsel Toplantısı, 10–11 Aralık 1979, Ankara. Bildiriler (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1980), 2; Mustafa Armağan, “Ah Bir Matbaa Erken Gelseydi!,” Toplum ve Düşünce 6 (2003): 19. See the critical analysis of these claims in Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 220–22.

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unprecedented emphasis on the need for more secular knowledge that was accessible to more people. Müteferrika printed sixteen editions in twenty-two volumes, including eighteen titles. The first output of his press was Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri [Lugat-ı Vankūlu] in two volumes, the celebrated Arabic-Turkish version of Mehmed bin Mustafa el-Vani (d. 1591) of the Arabic thesaurus of Abu Nasr Ismail bin Hammad al-Jawhari (d. 1010). It appeared in 1729 in 500 copies. In the same year (1729) he printed two more books: Tuhfetü’l-kibār fī Esfāri’lbihār (Select Gift in Voyages) of Katib Çelebi, in 1,000 copies, and Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān (Traveler’s Accounts about Afghans’ Appearance and the Reasons for the Decline of the State of the Safavi Shahs) of Juda Tedeusz Krusiński (1675–1751), in even more copies—1,200. In the next year (1730) Müteferrika printed five books, four of which appeared in 500-copy editions: Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī el-Müsemmā bi-Hadīs-i Nev (History of West Indies Called the New World) of Muhammad al-Suudi (d. 1591); Nazmizade Hüseyin Murtaza’s (d. 1720) Turkish translation of Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān (History of Tamerlane) of Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Abd Allah Ibn Arabshah (d. 1451); Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm (History of New Egypt; History of Ancient Egypt) of Ahmad ibn Hamdam, known as Suhaili (Süheyli) Efendi (d. 1632); and Gülşen-i Hulefā (Rosary of Caliphs) of the abovementıoned Nazmizade Hüseyin Murtaza. The fifth book that year and the eighth edition, Grammaire turque ou Méthode courte & facile pour apprende la langue turque (Turkish Grammar or A Concise and Easy Method of Learning the Turkish Language) by Jean-Baptiste Holdermann (1694–1730), had a print run of 1,000 copies. In 1732, Müteferrika printed another three books: his own treatise Usūlü’lhikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem (Reasonable Principles in Public Order); Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye (Features of Magnets), a work on the magnetic features of the earth, compiled and translated by him; and Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā (Mirror of World) of Katib Çelebi—each of them in editions of 500 copies. The last book was the most spectacular one because of the attached forty geographical and astronomical maps. Takvīmü’t-tevārīh (Calendar of Histories) of Katib Çelebi, the twelfth book to be printed at the first Ottoman printing press (1733), was put out in an edition of 500 copies. The thirteenth edition, Tārīh (History) of Mustafa Naima (d. 1716) in two volumes, appeared in 1734 in 500 copies. The total print of Müteferrika’s fourteenth edition (1741), Tārīh (History) of Mehmed Raşid

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Efendi (d. 1735) in three volumes is unknown, as is the output of its appendix (zeyl) Tārīh (History) of Küçükçelebizade İsmail Asım Efendi (d. 1760). Unknown also are the total print runs of the last two editions: Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna (The State of Religious Wars in the Province of Bosnia) of Ömer Bosnavi (first half of the eighteenth century), printed in 1741, and the Persian-Turkish dictionary Lisānü’l-‘Acem or Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī in two volumes by Hasan Şuuri (d. 1693), which appeared in print in 1742. One can assume, however, that the last three editions were also print runs of 500 copies since that obviously became at some point the standard total print run of Müteferrika’s editions. One of the titles, the manual of the Turkish language, was not intended for the Ottoman Turkish but for the Francophone reading public and hence will be excluded from the current analysis. Two out of the other seventeen titles were dictionaries, ten titles dealt with history, another two combined historical and geographical accounts, one title was a completely geographical work, one was on physics, and one on political and military issues. By printing books on such topics, Müteferrika not only offered to the public (actually, to a rather limited segment of that public) a remedy for the scarcity of relatively current information, but also challenged the traditional Ottoman or Islamic concept of science. A detailed description of the Ottoman concept of science could be found in the sixteenth-century Ottoman author Taşköprülüzade Ahmed İsameddin Efendi’s (d. 1561) Miftāhü’s-sа‘ādet (Key to Felicity). It was a revision of the works of fourteenth-century author (Şeyhoğlu Sadreddin Mustafa, d. before 1409) and fifteenth-century author (Hocazade Musliheddin Mustafa, d. 1488) originally written in Arabic and later translated into Turkish by his son Kemaleddin Mehmed under the title Mevzū‘atü’l-‘ulūm (Regulation of Sciences). According to Taşköprülüzade, the multitude of the sciences made it impossible to learn all of them to the same degree. Therefore, criteria were to be set to estimate their usefulness or disutility. The useful sciences were considered good and praiseworthy (mahmūd) and the key to achieving eternal felicity after life, while the useless ones were considered bad and blameworthy (mezmūm). In principle, all the religious branches of learning were considered useful, whereas only some of the rational sciences were considered useful— medicine, mathematics, state government, agriculture—and others useless, such as witchcraft. Taşköprülüzade advises not all but a reasonable number of Muslims to learn the useful rational sciences. Some sciences were considered

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both useful and useless depending on the purpose of their application, as in the case of the science of stars (nücūm) and its two branches: astronomy (considered useful) and astrology (considered useless and harmful). Some sciences were considered neither useful nor harmful, but permissible (mubāh), such as poetry and history. Taşköprülüzade neither recommends nor condemns deep involvement in them due to their harmless nature.23 Fahri Unan, who explores in detail Taşköprülüzade’s concept of knowledge, underlines that Islamic Weltanschauung was mainly con­ cerned about afterlife and knowledge was therefore approached in order to serve this view. This was in contrast to European Humanism and the Enlightenment, which were more concerned with earthly existence and therefore much more positive learning.24 Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Ottoman intellectuals such as Katib Çelebi,25 Saçaklızade Mehmed (d. 1737),26 and Erzurumlu İbrahim Hakkı (d. 1780)27 followed more or less Taşköprülüzade’s concept of science. However, over the course of time, this traditional concept was moderated in favor of some secular branches of knowledge considered to be useful. For instance, in his Tertībü’l-‘ulūm (Classification of Sciences), written in 1716, the abovementioned Saçaklızade Mehmed insisted that every Muslim should possess medical books like Yādigār fī’t-tıbb (A Medical Reminder) by İbnü’ş-Şerif Ali Çelebi et-Tabib (d. 1461) and Tezkire-i Uli’l-elbāb ve’l-cāmi‘ li’l-‘Acebi’l-‘ucāb (An Essential Reminder and a Compendium in the Most Wonderful of the Very Wonderful) by Şeyh Davud bin Ömer el-Antaki (d. 1599).28 El-Antaki’s work, in particular, was among the most popular medical books, preserved in Ottoman public libraries.29 23 See Fahri Unan, “Taşköprülü-zâde’nin Kaleminden XVI. Yüzyılın ‘İlim’ ve ‘Âlim’ Anlayışı,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 17 (1997): 149–264; Fahri Unan, “Osmanlı Medrese Ulemâsı: İlim Anlayışı ve İlmî Verim,” in Türkler, ed. Hasan C. Güzel, Kemal Çiçek, and Salim Koca, vol. 11 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2002), 436–445. 24 Unan, “Taşköprülü-zâde’nin Kaleminden,” 174, n. 15. 25 See İlhan Kutluer, “Kâtip Çelebi ve Bilimler: Keşfü’z-zunûn’un Mukaddimesinde “el-İlm” Kavramı,” Marmara Üniversitesi İlâhiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 18 (2000): 79–99. Miri SheferMossensohn, Science among the Ottomans. The Cultural Creation & Exchange of Knowledge (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2015), 34–37. 26 See İbrahim Çetintaş, Saçaklızâde ve İlimleri Sınıflandırması (PhD diss., T.C. Ankara Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü, 2006). 27 See Şükran Fazlıoğlu, “Ta‘lim İle İrşad Arasında: Erzurumlu İbrahim Hakkı’nın Medrese Ders Müfredatı,” Dîvân. İlmî Araştırmalar 10, no. 18 (2005): 50–66. 28 Cevat İzgi, Osmanlı Medreselerinde İlim, vol. 1 (İstanbul: İz Yayıncılık, 1997), 65. 29 See Orlin Sabev, “Medical Books in Private and Public Ottoman Libraries,” in Proceedings

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Müteferrika’s inclination to print books on history, geography, and physics was an apparent step forward in challenging the traditional Ottoman and Muslim concept of science by putting emphasis on the need for a deeper involvement in the rational branches of learning. Moreover, Müteferrika challenged the traditional concept not only by the topic of his prints but also by offering a lot of copies that could reach many more people than had previously been possible. The traditional concept insisted that not everybody should read and learn everything about earthly life, while Müteferrika’s concept of printing implied that even rational knowledge should be accessible to everyone. Müteferrika’s contemporary Saussure, for instance, relates that the opposition of the copyists and efendis to printing was motivated not only by concern for their livelihood but also by their fear that printing would produce more books than were needed.30 One can trace the same concern in the narration of the French traveler Vincent de Stochove (1610–79), who visited Cairo in 1630. When he asked a local physician why the Muslims are reluctant to use printing to increase their book production, the latter replied that more books would be harmful rather than useful. The doctor insisted that everybody should be engaged with his own business and is supposed to learn only what is necessary for that business, and no censorship could prevent curious people from reading the “bad” books produced by the printing press.31 These examples provide another important insight into the question of why the Ottomans or the Muslims were reluctant to adopt printing technology. Besides the psychological, ideological, socioeconomic, aesthetic, technical, and personal reasons, some consideration must also be given to the effect of the traditional Islamic concept of science and its appropriate circulation, which put certain restrictions on the branches of learning to be studied and on the number of people who should be involved in their study. Nevertheless, one could immediately object that learning of religious knowledge was incumbent upon every Muslim and that printing could facilitate it by increasing the number of the books a­ vailable. Muslims, however, had other concerns about the printing of religious texts. Obviously, it was unusual for the Muslims to see the Qur’an, especially in a printed form, though some western Qur’anic prints already existed in the sixteenth century, simply because Qur’an is considered the ultimate divine of the 38th International Congress on the History of Medicine, ed. Nil Sarı, Ali Haydar Bayat, Yeşim Ülman, and Mary Işın (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 2005), 615–28. 30 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 94. 31 Vincent de Stochove, Voyage du Levant, 2nd ed. (Brussels: Hubert Anthoine Velpius, 1650), 439–440. Cf. Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 110; Orhan Koloğlu, Takvimi Vekayi Türk Basınında 150 Yıl, 1831–1981 (Ankara: Çağdaş Gazeteciler Derneği, 1981), 54–55; Babinger, “18. Yüzyılda İstanbul’da Kitabiyat,” 7.

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revelation, fixed in a manuscript form (mus .h  . af). Neither its sacred text nor its sacred form could be changed. For Muslims, the Qur’an is eternal and every word between its two covers is literally a divine word.32 Thomas Francis Carter is inclined to suggest that conservatism bred the Muslim bias against printing since the Qur’an was in manuscript form; not only its text but also its form is considered sacred and unchangeable.33 Such an explanation could seem sensible, but the late nineteenth-century findings in the Fayyum oasis in Egypt of fragments of block-printed texts with Arabic script, among them amulets including verses from the Qur’an as well, dating from the tenth to thirteenth century,34 may prove at least that such conservatism was not always in force. Yet one should distinguish between printing of holy texts and printing of secular matters. If for the former there were in force some religious obstacles, the latter seems much more applicable since some sources suggest that in Muslim Spain there was an ocassional practice of distribution of printed edicts to the provincial governors.35 There is also evidence of printing paper money in late thirteenth-century Tabriz by the Ilkhanid ruler Gayhatu (1291–95) and— quite remarkably—of block-printed pilgrimage certificates with a high degree of technical and artistic sophistication dating from the eleventh to fourteenth century.36 Duplication of the Qur’an was expected to be faithful to the adopted norm in terms of contents and orthography not only because it is considered divine revelation, but also because since the very dawn of Islam the Holy Book has been recommended to be read and learned by heart by every Muslim man and woman.37 That is, correct copying of the Qur’an was of vital importance for its spread among the whole Muslim community. On the contrary, in Christendom 32 Johannes Pedersen, The Arabic Book (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 12. 33 Thomas Francis Carter, The Invention of Printing in China and Its Spread Westward (New York: Columbia University Press, 1931), 112. 34 See Paul Lunde, “Arabic and the Art of Printing,” Aramco World Magazine 32, no. 2 (1981): 26–27; Richard W. Bulliet, “Medieval Arabic Тarsh: a Forgotten Chapter in the History of Printing,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 107, no. 3 (1987): 428–430; Karl Schaefer, “Medieval Arabic Block Printing: State of the Field,” in Historical Aspects of Printing and Publishing in Languages of the Middle East. Papers from the Third Symposium on the History of Printing and Publishing in the Languages and Countries of the Middle East, University of Leipzig, September 2008, ed. Geoffrey Roper (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 4–7. 35 Bulliet, “Medieval Arabic Тarsh,” 436; Kaldy-Nagy, “Beginnings of the Arabic-Letter Printing,” 201; Schaefer, “Medieval Arabic Block Printing,” 13–14. 36 Schaefer, “Medieval Arabic Block Printing,” 6, 9, 13. 37 Abdul Latif Tibawi, Islamic Education. Its Tradition and Modernization into the Arab National Systems (London: Luzac, 1972), 24.

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the Roman Catholic Church was in principle against the direct and unlimited widespread access to the Bible from the common people, the message of the Scripture being disseminated to them only by the learned ecclesiastical hierarchy. That was why the church was much concerned about the spread of ­vernacular Bibles even before the invention of printing in Europe, not to speak about the printed versions of the Bible, whose text was corrupted by some disadvantages of the printing technology itself.38 In this respect, duplication of the Qur’an requires strict faithfulness to the norm since it would be read and learned not only by educated Muslim religious functionaries but also by the public. Moreover, according to the traditional Islamic concept, the e­ ducation of the children starts with reading and learning the Qur’an by heart.39 Accordingly, the main point here was the correctness of the text itself and the mode of duplication was expected to implement this irrevocable requirement. It seems that in the very beginning Muslim societies considered printing a technology that discredited itself through the corrupted western Qur’anic prints, and manuscript copying was still reliable and deserving far more trust.40 It is important also to contextualize Müteferrika’s print production in view of the contemporary reading public’s taste and preferences. Some notion about the Ottoman Muslim reading public can be arrived at by exploring those probate inventories that include titles of books. This approach, however, is partly problematic for several reasons. First, the documentary basis for such a study is selective because, in accordance with the requirements of Islamic inheritance laws, 38 See Diederick Raven, “Elizabeth Eisenstein and the Impact of Printing,” European Review of History – Revue européene d’Histoire 6, no. 2 (1999): 223–234. 39 Tibawi, Islamic Education, 26; İzgi, Osmanlı Medreselerinde İlim, vol. 1, 61–108; Ömer Özyılmaz, Manzume-i Tertib-i Ulûm, Tertibu’l-Ulûm, Kaside Fi’l-Kütübi’l Meşhure Fi’l Ulûm, Kevakib-i Seb‘a ve Erzurumlu İbrahim Hakkı’nın Tertib-i Ulûm İsimli Eserine Göre, XVII. ve XVIII. Yüzyıllarda Osmanlı Medreselerinin Eğitim Programları (Ankara: T. C. Kültür Bakanlığı, 2002). 40 I have had already dwelled on this argumentation in: Orlin Sabev, “Formation of Ottoman Print Culture,” 312–13. For further argumentation, see Dana Sajdi, “Print and its Discontents: A Case for Pre-Print Journalism and Other Sundry Print Matters,” The Translator 15, no. 1 (2009): 105–38; Michael Brett Wilson, Translating the Qur’an in an Age of Nationalism: Print Culture and Modern Islam in Turkey (Oxford: Oxford University Press and London: Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2014); Malissa Taylor, “The Anxiety of Sanctity: Censorship and Sacred Texts,” in Osmanlılar ve Avrupa: Erken Klasik Dönemden XVIII. Yüzyıl Sonuna Kadar; Seyahat, Karşılaşma ve Etkileşim, ed. Seyfi Kenan (Istanbul: İslâm Araştırmaları Merkezi, 2010), 513–40; James Clyde Allen Redman, “The Evolution of Ottoman Printing Technologies: from Scribal Authority to Print-Capitalism,” in Osmanlılar ve Avrupa: Erken Klasik Dönemden XVIII. Yüzyıl Sonuna Kadar; Seyahat, Karşılaşma ve Etkileşim, ed. Seyfi Kenan (Istanbul: İslâm Araştırmaları Merkezi, 2010), 495–512.

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the registers do not include inventories of all deceased persons, but only those who either left children under age, whose heirs sought the court due to a dispute over inheritance, or those who left no heirs at all, and thus, whose property would be sequestrated by the state treasury (beytülmāl). Second, the inventories reflect the situation at the time of death, so it is difficult to ascertain whether the deceased would have had more books than he or she left at the time of his or her death. Some book owners may have sold, given, or donated some or all of his or her books. There were cases of book theft, as well.41 Third, the number of book owners found in the probate inventories does not cover the number of actual readers, since many potential readers may not have owned books, like the medrese students who usually made use of public waqf libraries. Fourth, only a part of these registers now survives. Even though the number of the preserved registers is quite considerable, it is not possible for a single researcher to undertake the huge project of consulting all the available materials.42 Given these problems in the sources, the best that a researcher can do is to limit the scope of his study in terms of chronology, geographical scope, and items studied. Having this in mind, I sought to look for book owners in probate inventories of the time of the first Ottoman printing press, limiting the scope to the probate inventories of Istanbul. I chose to consult inventories related to people who did not pay taxes, enjoying the privileged askeri status, and who left at least four manuscripts or printed books among their possessions when they died. The reasons that I chose this sample are: first, since these individuals lived in Istanbul, where the press was established, they must have seen or heard of the press; second, as individuals belonging to the askeri class, they were the most likely to have been able to afford such relatively expensive books; and third, as individuals who possessed more than three books, they probably were more interested in books than those who owned less than three. In the Askeriye collection of the Mufti Archives of Istanbul, I was able to track down roughly 335 deceased persons with more than three books registered during the period 1137–38/1724–26 to 1160–61/1747–48, that is, from the years when Ottoman Turkish printing started to the years when its first stage came to an end. This figure does not refer, of course, to the real number of persons who had 41 See Orlin Sabev, “Tales of Ottoman Book Theft,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 29 (2007): 173–201. 42 İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul): Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi. This archival collection includes 2,144 registers of the period 1000/1591–92 to 1342/1924; see Ahmet Akgündüz, ed., Şer‘iye Sicilleri: Mahiyeti, Toplu Kataloğu ve Seçme Hükümler (Istanbul: Türk Dünyası Araştırmaları Vakfı, 1988), 100–116.

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askeri status and who were book owners since the inheritance registers do not include the inventories of all deceased persons, as I have already pointed out. The majority of the studied book owners, which also includes five booksellers, possessed predominantly religious literature, mainly in Arabic, and samples of poetry, mostly in Persian43 but also in Arabic and Turkish. Among the religious books the most popular were, naturally, the Qur’an; a small collection of the most popular Qur’anic chapters (sura), titled En‘ām-i Şerīf after the sura En‘ām (The Camel); the religious poem Muhammediye, written by Yazıcıoğlu Mehmed (d. 1451) in 1444, which is a biography of the prophet Muhammad in verse; and Vasiyetnāme (Testament) of Mehmed Birgivi (1522–73), a book in religious dogma and practice. The last two writings belonged to Ottoman Turkish authors, whose popularity—as Hakan Karateke demonstrates—was to a great extent due to the accessibility of the Turkish language in which they were written.44 As for books on history and geography, the most popular were again those related to Islamic history: the History (Tārihü’r-rüsül ve’l-mülūk)45 of al-Tabari (839–923), relating the life of Muhammad and the emergence and development of the early Islamic state, and travelogues written by pilgrims to Mecca.46 Firdousi’s (d. 1020) pre-Islamic Iranian historical poem Şāhnāme and Hamzavi’s (late fourteenth century) legendary poem Hamzanāme were also among the favorites. Dictionaries, on the other hand, are very seldom listed in these inventories, even in those of the booksellers we had come across. As for the demographics of the reading public itself, it was mainly men of religion (‘ulema), both scholars and students, administrative and military officials, and sometimes traders and craftsmen. In terms of gender, men considerably prevailed over women as readers. What the men of religion normally owned were texts related to religious subject matter (Muslim jurisprudence, dogmat43 For the place and importance of Persian language among the Ottoman literati, see Jan Schmidt, “The Importance of Persian for Ottoman Literary Gentlemen: Two Turkish Treatises on Aspects of the Language by Kemal Pashazade (d. 1536),” in Kitaplara Vakfedilen Bir Ömre Tuhfe: İsmail E. Erünsal’a Armağan, ed. Hatice Aynur, Bilgin Aydın, and Mustafa Birol Ülker, vol. 2 (Istanbul: Ülke Armağan, 2014), 851–64. 44 See Hakan Karateke, “Seyahatname’deki Popüler Dinî Eserler,” in Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi’nin Yazılı Kaynakları, ed. Hatice Aynur and Hakan Karateke (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 2012), 200–239. 45 See Al-Tabari, The History of al-Tabari: Biographies of the Prophet’s Companions and Their Successors, trans. Ella Landau-Tasseron (New York: The State University of New York Press, 1998). 46 See Menderes Coşkun, “Osmanlı Hac Seyahatnamelerinde Hac Yolculuğu,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 4 (Ankara: Yeni Yürkiye, 1999), 506–11; Menderes Coşkun, “The Most Literary Ottoman Pilgrimage Narrative: Nabi’s Tuhfetü’l-Haremeyn,” Turcica 32 (2000): 363–88.

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ics, theology, Qur’anic reading rules), as well as to Arabic grammar, rhetoric, logic, etc.—that is, books pertaining to branches of traditional learning. More specifically, the Sharia judges (kadı) had usually at their disposal collections of legal opinions (fatwa/fetva) and document samples (sakk); the mosque ­astronomers (muvakkit) possessed astronomical tables (zic), and the physicians consulted medical treatises. In their case books proved to be—in Jacques le Goff ’s wording—“tools rather than objects of worship.”47 The Ottoman bureaucrats, on the other hand, owned books mostly for reading pleasure. In contrast to the religious scholars, their private book collections were more varied in terms of branches of learning, poetry and history being the most preferred genres.48 Some of them, most remarkably grand viziers, possessed expensive calligraphical masterpieces.49 The same reading profile is detectable also in the Balkan, Anatolian, and Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire.50 Besides the abovementioned most popular titles, in Anatolia, North Africa, Caucasus, and South Asia the collection of prayers Delā’il al-Hayrāt (Waymarks of Benefits) by

47 Jacques le Goff, Medieval Civilization 400–1500, trans. Julia Barrow (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 81. 48 See also the similar findings of M. Şükrü Hanioğlu based also on probate inventories of Istanbul citizens but of the period 1750–1800: M. Şükrü Hanioğlu, A Brief History of the Late Ottoman Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 30–33, 38–40. 49 See Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 241–42, 257, 275–77; Henning Sievert, “Verlorene Schätze – Bücher von Bürokraten in den Muh allefāt-Registern,” Buchkultur im Nahen Osten des 17. und ˘ 18. Jahrhunderts, ed. Tobias Heinzelmann and Henning Sievert (Bern: Peter Lang, 2010), 237–39; Murat Yıldız, “Bir Osmanlı Veziriazamının Mal Varlığı: Amcazâde Hüseyin Paşa’nın Muhallefatı,” Türk Kültürü İnceleme Dergisi 26 (2012): 67–106; Tülay Artan, “El Yazmaları Işığında Bir Çevre ve Çehre Eskizi: Kadızâdeliler, Müceddidiler ve Damad İbrahim Paşa (1730),” Müteferrika 50 (2016): 51–143. 50 See Orlin Sabev, “Private Book Collections in Ottoman Sofia, 1671–1833 (Preliminary notes),” Études balkaniques 1 (2003): 34–82; Orlin Sabev, “Okuyan Taşralı Bir Toplum: Rusçuk Müslümanlarının Kitap Sevgisi (1695–1786),” in Balkanlar’da İslam Medeniyeti Uluslararası Üçüncü Sempozyum Tebliğleri, Bükreş, Romanya/1–5 Kasım 2006, ed. Ali Çaksu, vol. 2 (Istanbul: IRCICA, 2011), 575–607; Orlin Sabev, “18. Yüzyıl Diyarbakır’ında Kitap Sahipliği,” in Osmanlı’dan Cumhuriyet’e Diyarbakır/Diyarbakir in the Ottoman Era, ed. Bahaeddin Yediyıldız and Kerstin Tomenendal (Ankara: Diyarbakır Valiliği, Türk Kültürü’nü Araştırma Enstitüsü, 2008), 153–57; Meropi Anastassiadou, “Livres et “bibliothèques” dans les inventaires après décès de Salonique au XIXe siècle,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 87–88 (1999): 111–41; Meropi Anastassiadou, “Des défunts hors du commun: les possesseurs dе livres dans les inventaires après décès musulmans de Salonique,” Turcica 32 (2000): 197–252; Colette Establet and Jean-Paul Pascual, “Les livres des gens à Damas vers 1700,“ Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 87–88 (1999): 143–75.

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the Maroccan Islamic mystic and scholar Muhammad Sulaiman al-Jazuli (d. 1465) had also gained enormous popularity.51 Increased demand for books and hence for developing a technology such as printing that increases the number of copies and shortens the time of their production was directly related to the nature of reading. Until the end of the eighteenth century, even in those western countries which experienced early introduction of printing, the intensive mode of reading dominated—that is, a limited number of people read a limited number of books repeatedly for ­devotional and educational purposes. But beginning in the late eighteenth ­century, there was a shift to the extensive mode—far more people began reading books on a much greater variety of topics and genres, and not only for devotional or educational purposes, but also to acquire more information and practical knowledge or for entertainment. In other words, it was the nineteenth century when people in countries with a developed print culture began reading extensively. The shift from an intensive to extensive mode of reading, however, proved possible only through printing, which facilitated the availability of a wider variety of books in terms of topic and genre.52 Let me turn to Müteferrika’s concept of publishing. One should keep in mind that he converted to Islam only after graduating from a Protestant college in his Transylvanian hometown of Kolozsvár. His college was no doubt similar to other western universities in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, where history, geography, and natural philosophy were becoming an important part of the curriculum. The western Protestant educational and ideological background that he garnered there was clearly important to Müteferrika’s personal concept of knowledge dissemination. Müteferrika printed, for instance, no historical works whatsoever, but works which differed by subject and purpose from those historical texts that were popular or recommended by rigid moralists. A late seventeenth- or early eighteenth-century anonymous Ottoman treatise on morality indicates a concept of what should be read and what kind of literature was considered problematic. It condemns those “habitual liars” (kezzāb) who instead of reading

51 See Sabev, “18. Yüzyıl Diyarbakır’ında Kitap Sahipliği,” 156; Nelly Hanna, In Praise of Books: A Cultural History of Cairo’s Middle Class, Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2003), 94–96. 52 See Tim C. W. Blanning, The Culture of Power and the Power of Culture. Old Regime Europe 1660–1789 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 132–54.

Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press    Chapter 3

the Qur’an, treatises, and al-Tabari’s History are amusing themselves in reading epical poems such as Şāhnāme and Hamzanāme.53 The historical works printed by Müteferrika were neither explicitly religious and didactical nor entertaining. Instead, they suggested mostly accounts of political events. The last of these accounts—that of Küçükçelebizade İsmail Asım Efendi, ending up with the year 1141/1728–29—even includes the story of founding the Müteferrika press itself in 1139/1726–27 under the subtitle “The Appearance of the Art of Printing and Rendering Books on Linguistics and Sciences in Anatolia”!54 The chronological description of the Ottoman political agenda mainly could serve as a useful reference book but equally ­contained an implicit didactical purpose, based on the axiom that the past is full of lessons. For the 1730 publication of Nazmizade’s Gülşen-i Hulefā (Rosary of Caliphs), a historical work narrating the history of Muslim rulers from the Abbasid period up to the time of Ahmed III, Müteferrika composed a preface focusing specifically on the utility of historical knowledge, especially for members of imperial ruling elites.55 Müteferrika’s understanding of history as a science appears to have been influenced most significantly by Katib Çelebi and Naima, themselves influenced by Ibn Khaldun’s (1332–1406) philosophy of history as revealed in his Muqaddimah (Introduction).56 In his Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem (Reasonable Principles of Public Order), a treatise on the necessity of military reforms, Müteferrika not only emphasizes once again the importance of history as a science which provides insight and considered it a compulsory guide for governors, but dwells especially on the importance of geography for the improvement of the state rule and the army. He is convinced that the Muslims should know well the geographical specificities and topography of their Christian enemies. According to him, this is a must and prerequisite in the Muslims’s Holy War (cihād) and reminds the reader that the geographical discoveries (Christopher Columbus’s discoveries, 53 Hayati Develi, ed., XVIII. Yüzyıl İstanbul Hayatına Dair Risâle-i Garîbe (Istanbul: Kitabevi, 2001), 32. 54 Tārīh-i Çelebizāde Efendi, fol. 119a–120b (“Zuhūr-ı san‘at-ı tab‘ ü temsīl-i kütüb-i edebiye ve hikemiye der-diyār-ı Rūm”) . 55 Gülşen-i Hulefā li-Nazmīzāde Efendi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1143/1730), fol. [2b]–[3a]. 56 Şen, İbrahim Müteferrika, 77, n. 18; 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),” Archivum Ottomanicum 13 (1993–94): 277–311; Zeki Arslantürk, Naîma’ya Göre XVII. Yüzyıl Osmanlı Toplum Yapısı (Istanbul: Ayışığı Kitapları, 1997), 45, 48; Erginbaş, Forerunner of the Ottoman Enlightenment, 47.

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in particular) made the Christian countries stronger and more prosperous. Besides, the more the Muslim states know each other, the better their cooperation would be. Geography, according to Müteferrika, would be helpful in such a process of mutual acquaintance. Thus geography, and cartography (by means of printing maps), in particular, is destined to play a crucial role in the improvement of state order. In addition, geographical works are helpful for the better understanding of history.57 Given such an understanding of the purpose of the geographical knowledge, it is not surprising that—as in the case of history—the geographical works which Müteferrika chose to print had nothing to do with the traditional geographical texts that were most popular among the Muslim reading public, namely, those describing the lands alongside the pilgrimage routes to Mecca. On the other hand, it is noteworthy that except for one edition (Calendar of Histories, in Persian) all the books printed by Müteferrika were in Ottoman Turkish, thus being much more accessible to a potentially wider reading public. These books could be read not only by Muslims but also by Turkish-speaking non-Muslims. In this way, the printer practically went beyond the scope of the traditional Ottoman Muslim reading public. Western sources reveal that westerners had great expectations from Müteferrika’s press, hoping that many rare books, hidden in the sultan’s palace, would be printed.58 The western newspapers paid close attention to it and published up-to-date information about its activity and new releases.59 Moreover, some German historical books, relating the first steps of Ottoman Turkish printing in 1728, published an engraving depicting the Müteferrika press. The earliest known publication of such gravure is to be found in the abovementioned Andreas Lazarus von Imhof ’s The Newly Opened Historical Picture-room (Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals), published in 1735 (see fig. 1),60 while the same gravure is reproduced in another German book dating from the 1750s.61 On the contrary, there is no available evidence of the expectations of the Ottomans themselves. However, Müteferrika’s press 57 See İbrahim Müteferrika, Milletlerin Düzeninde İlmi Usüller, ed. Ömer Okutan (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1990), 63–72. 58 See Omont, “Documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople,” 186. 59 See, for instance: Ünal Araç, “18. Yüzyıl İngiliz Gazetelerinde Osmanlı Kültürü: 1718– 1730,” Hacettepe Üniversitesi Türkiyat Araştırmaları Dergisi 22 (2015): 22; Sarıcaoğlu and Yılmaz, Müteferrika, 37, 115. 60 Imhof, Des Neu-eröffneten historischen Bilder-Saals, vol. 9, part 1, 835. 61 Erdem, “Müteferrika Matbaasının Erken Dönemde Yapılmış Bilinmeyen Bir Resmi,” 222.

Deus ex Machina: The Müteferrika Press    Chapter 3

provoked their interest with respect to the new form of the book, not only in terms of physical appearance but also in terms of the method of dissemination. Manuscripts were duplicated and disseminated mainly at the will of a certain reader or benefactor, while printed books were produced at the printer’s discretion and offered to and disseminated among a number of potential ­readers. Manuscripts could be purchased at the booksellers’ shops, while the first Ottoman printed books were available mainly at the Müteferrika press. For instance, a marginal note, written in a copy of the first volume of the Vankulu dictionary, preserved in the Oriental Department of the National Library in Sofia, and dated 1143/1730–1731, reads that the copy had been bought by a certain El-Hac Mehmed son of Ago [sic] Mustafa es-Samakovi at Müteferrika’s printing house.62 In conclusion, it seems that the introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing exactly in the first half of the eighteenth century was due to Müteferrika’s personal enthusiasm in responding to an increasing demand of the Ottoman elite for books on certain topics. However, once his prints became artifacts in a world dominated heretofore by the manuscript tradition they provided an alternative method of text multiplication, revising and transforming the Ottoman and Muslim concept of science. Müteferrika’s western-formed mind-set inspired the printing of books in Ottoman Turkish. In his publishing policy, Müteferrika was much more inclined to print historical and geographical books: nine out of all the sixteen editions are related to history, two others combine historical and geographical accounts (Tuhfet and History of West Indies), and the most eminent outcome of his printing house was Katib Çelebi’s geographical work Mirror of World. However, he printed texts that were not in line with the traditional religious or the epic literature popular at the time. By printing Ottoman maritime history or political history of Persia, the Caliphate, and the Ottoman Empire, as well as geographical books, Müteferrika seems to have attempted to provide books that would be useful to those involved in government by offering historical works of didactic value. Indeed, as William Watson states, İbrahim’s printing philosophy seems to be completely utilitarian.63 His publication policy was justified by his conviction that knowledge is useful in everyday life and should therefore be accessible to all those interested. 62 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: О II 175, [1] (“Temellük-tu’l-‘abdi’l-fakīr be-şirā-yi şer‘i min tāb‘at-ı İbrāhīm Efendi ve ene’l-fakīr El-hāc Mehmed bin Agō Mustafa es-Samākovī gafrullah lehimā, li-sene sālis ve erba‘in ve mi’e ve elf”). 63 Watson, “İbrāhīm Müteferrika and Turkish Incunabula,” 436.

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Keeping in mind that the Enlightenment as “a movement in thought” is lacking a common notion in scholarship,64 Müteferrika’s printing enterprise proved to have been an important part of the contested notion of “Islamic Enlightenment”65 or “Ottoman Enlightenment,”66 or what some scholars call “early Enlightenment in Istanbul” during the reign of Sultan Ahmed III (1703–30), a “moderate” enlightenment, reconciling rationalism with faith (as formulated by Jonathan Israel), or in Bekir Harun Küçük’s words, “enlightenment movement with a small ‘e.’”67 The press, as Küçük points out, “served to ­valorize new learning.”68 By sharing the idea of multiple Enlightenments varying more or less from the absolutized French version, Vefa Erginbaş holds the same opinion by pointing out that “the Ottoman Empire’s early Enlightenment” of the eighteenth century had developed a unique understanding of progress based on the “importance of faith and religious law,” the “extension of the disciplines of history and geography to a wider readership, and the creation of a military structure on modern lines.”69

64 See Dorinda Outram, The Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 1–13. 65 See Reinhard Schulze, “Das islamische achtzehnte Jahrhundert. Versuch einer historiographischen Kritik,” Die Welt des Islams 30 (1990): 140–59; Reinhard Schulze, “Was ist die islamische Aufklärung?”  Die Welt des Islams 36 (1996): 276–325; Rudolph Peters, “Reinhard Schulze’s Quest for an Eighteenth-Century Islamic Enlightenment,” Die Welt des Islams 30 (1990): 160–62. 66 See Ali Yaycıoğlu, Partners of the Empire: The Crisis of the Ottoman Order in the Age of Revolutions (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016), 35. 67 Küçük, Early Enlightenment in Istanbul, 2–3. 68 Ibid., 162. 69 Vefa Erginbaş, “Enlightenment in the Ottoman Context: İbrahim Müteferrika and His Intellectual Landscape,” in Historical Aspects of Printing and Publishing in Languages of the Middle East. Papers from the Third Symposium on the History of Printing and Publishing in the Languages and Countries of the Middle East, University of Leipzig, September 2008, ed. Geoffrey Roper (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 59.

CHAPTER 4

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure? “Success has been defined as the ability to go from failure to failure without loosing enthusiasm.”1 David Guy Powers

I

n the final scene of Jale Baysal’s play script, İbrahim Efendi in Paradise (Cennetlik İbrahim Efendi), İbrahim Müteferrika is found on his deathbed complaining to the court poet Nevres, “There will be in my inheritance piles of unsold books. They hadn’t read my prints . . . .”2 Perhaps expectedly, as a literary adaptation meant for performance, the play constitutes a mixture of fact and fiction, whereby fictive elements are utilized to “fill in the gaps” of the factual details of the narrative, rendering it, in the term of Christine Brooke-Rose,3 a “history palimpsest.” In “history p­ alimpsest,” fiction tends to overwrite real historical events presenting an alternative version that is perhaps more entertaining and attractive for the reading public/ audience, but not as satisfying for the historian. In these instances, fiction obfuscates “what really happened.” This is to discuss neither the historical accuracy nor the artistic merits of Jale Baysal’s script, but to take the final episode of her play as a starting point for this chapter. Baysal’s depiction of İbrahim Muterferrika’s desperate final words

1 David Guy Powers, How to Say a Few Words (New York: Doubleday & Company, 1953), 109. 2 Jale Baysal, Cennetlik İbrahim Efendi (İbrahim Müteferrika Oyunu) (Istanbul: Cem, 1992), 89 (“Terekemden yığınla satılmamış kitap çıkacak. Bastıklarımı okumadılar…”). 3 Christine Brooke-Rose interprets Salman Rushdie’s and Umberto Eco’s novels in this way. See Christine Brooke-Rose, “Histoire Palimpseste,” in Interprétation et surinterprétation, ed. Stefan Collini (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1992), 115–27.

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reporting the failure of his printing enterprise is one instance of a ­“history palimpsest.”

IBRAHIM MÜTEFERRIKA’S COMMERCIAL BALANCE Strikingly, the impression of the failure of Müteferrika’s effort does not originate in semifictitious literary works such as Baysal’s, but in the first academic study of İbrahim Müteferrika’s biography: Imre Karácson’s article published in 1910.4 Karácson cites the aforementioned letter of César de Saussure, dated February 21, 1732. In this letter the latter stated that Müteferrika’s profits were rather moderate,5 and Karácson took Saussure’s remark at face value, presenting Müteferrika as a disappointed pioneer who was not able to reap the fruits of his labor.6 Until very recently, Saussure’s 1732 letter was the only source available that gave some idea about the commercial balance of the first Ottoman Turkish printing enterprise. According to Saussure, Müteferrika’s press was unsuccessful due to insufficient sales, which he attributed to the limited number of literate Turks, the lack of interest in reading, and the relatively high price of the printed books. The author mentions the apprehension that after İbrahim Müteferrika’s death the enterprise would be suspended, as no Turk would resume an undertaking with such low profits.7 Much later (in fact, later than 1759), Saussure added to his 1732 letter a note that İbrahim Müteferrika had died in 1738 and left nothing but piles of books. He added that such a legacy only made his descendants feel an aversion to resume the enterprise.8 The exact date of the appended note is unknown, but the year of İbrahim Müteferrika’s death given by Saussure is incorrect. Rather than 1738, Müteferrika actually died eight or nine years later (he died in the early 1747). Given this error, the fact that we are unsure whether Saussure himself was an eyewitness to Müteferrika’s death and the consequent situation of his printing house, we may legitimately ask the following question: Is Saussure’s version another “history palimpsest” that overwrites the real events? Given the paucity of sources on the subject, scholars and litterateurs alike had no option other than referring to Saussure’s “observations,” while in the   4 Karácson, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 178–85.  5 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 195.   6 Karácson, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 184–85.  7 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 95, 194–95.   8 Ibid., 95–96, 195. (“Ce qui a tellement dégoûté ses successeurs ou héritiers qu’ils ont entièrement abandonné son imprimerie.”)

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

process giving his version credibility. The first was the abovementioned Imre Karácson,9 followed by others.10 Since Karácson’s article of 1910, scholars have accepted the claim that İbrahim Müteferrika’s enterprise was rather unsuccessful and invested their efforts in searching for, and speculating about, the reasons for this alleged failure. Niyazi Berkes points out three main conditions conducive to the successful development of any printing undertaking: technological development, the production of the quantity of paper appropriate for the requirements of printing, and the existence of the necessary reading public. According to Berkes, these three conditions were absent in the Ottoman milieu. He also mentions the relatively high price of the first Ottoman Turkish printed books and the nature of their subjects. He argues that the latter rendered the books not attractive enough for the majority of the reading public, whose education was most likely attained through Islamic religious learning, such as the medrese students. Berkes concludes that the limited technical and restrictive economic conditions were responsible for the weak influence of the first Ottoman Turkish printing enterprise.11 A similar view is shared by A. D. Jeltyakov, who attributes the alleged failure of Müteferrika’s venture to cultural and technological underdevelopment. Not only does he see the illiteracy prevalent in Ottoman society as an obstacle to the success of printing, but also conjectures that the literate elements of the population were not interested in topics in the exact sciences of the kind Müteferrika printed.12 A combination of the abovementioned views can also be found in J. S. Szyliowicz’s article on the subject, where Müteferrika’s printing enterprise is considered in view of the different social, economic, and cultural conditions in Western Europe and in the Ottoman Empire, respectively. According to Szyliowicz, in contrast to Western Europe, the Ottoman social realities were not suitable for such an undertaking. Two of the reasons that he suggests are mass illiteracy and the opposition of the numerous professional manuscript copyists, who viewed the printing press as a threat to their profession.13

  9 Karácson, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 185. 10 Hopp, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 112; Baysal, “II. Rákóczi Ferenc’in Çevirmeni Müteferrika İbrahim,” 221; Jale Baysal, Kitap ve Kütüphane Tarihi’ne Giriş (Istanbul: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1991), 75; Nuhoğlu, ”Müteferrika Matbaası ve Bazı Mulâhazalar,” 222. 11 Berkes, Türkiye’de Çağdaşlaşma, 61–63. 12 Jeltyakov, Türkiye’nin Sosyo-Politik ve Kültürel Hayatında Basın, 29–31. 13 J. S. Szyliowicz, “Functional Perspectives on Technology: The Case of the Printing Press in the Ottoman Empire,” Archivum Ottomanicum 11 (1986): 249–59.

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Hüseyin Gazi Topdemir stresses the same reasons: the paucity or the prohibitively high cost of printing paper, the low output of Müteferrika’s printing press, the availability of printed books only for select individuals, the topics of the books not meeting the public’s expectations, and finally their relative high cost in comparison with that of manuscripts.14 Topdemir’s reference to the high prices of the first Ottoman Turkish printed books comes from Osman Ersoy’s article, which is especially devoted to that issue. Ersoy, who is a prominent scholar of the history of Ottoman printing, concludes there that the prices of the books, printed in Müteferrika’s typography, were quite high relative to the average Ottoman standard of living in the first half of the eighteenth century. According to Ersoy, along with the constant paucity of printing paper and well trained printers, high prices must have been a significant reason behind the alleged failure of the Müteferrika press.15 Ersoy’s article was published in a volume on the proceedings of a symposium dedicated to the 250th anniversary of Turkish book printing, which was held in Ankara in December 1979. The volume includes the comments by the symposium participants on the papers presented. Ersoy’s paper seems to have sparked a lively discussion. One of the participants, Şerafettin Turan, pointed out a methodological flaw in Ersoy’s paper, stating that rather than measuring the prices of the first Ottoman Turkish printed books against the average standard of living, they should be compared to manuscript prices as found in the probate inventories of deceased Muslims. Turan’s implication is that printed book prices should be seen in the context of the book market in general, whether manuscript or printed. Thus, the cost of printed books should be measured against standard of living of those who owned manuscript books, that is, the reading public. Turan added also that the first Ottoman printed books must have had a public with specific reading interests and higher standard of living.16 Şerafettin Turan’s remarks are insightful in their insistence on empirical research and the utilization of the rich and massive Ottoman sources of the probate inventories. Oddly enough, although these documents have been vastly utilized for exploring social and economic aspects of the history of Ottoman 14 Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika, 52–56. 15 See Osman Ersoy, “İlk Türk Basımevi’nde Basılan Kitapların Fiyatları,” in Basım ve Yayıncılığımızın 250. Yılı Bilimsel Toplantısı, 10–11 Aralık 1979, Ankara. Bildiriler (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1980), 69–77. 16 Basım ve Yayıncılığımızın 250. Yılı Bilimsel Toplantısı, 10–11 Aralık 1979, Ankara. Bildiriler (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1980), 77–78.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

everyday life in various periods,17 except for a few early studies, dealing only partially with the presence of books in probate inventories,18 they have only recently drawn the attention of students of Ottoman book ­history.19 This attention, however, has been overwhelmingly devoted to the study of manuscript circulation rather than that of printed books. And if Turan did significantly point to the importance of probate inventories in Ottoman book history, it seems that he neglected to consider the probate inventory related to the most important personality of Ottoman printed book history: that of İbrahim Müteferrika, dating from April 1, 1747. Since the document represents an inventory of the possessions of Müteferrika upon his death, it gives a relatively accurate number of the unsold copies of printed books left in his possession. An interpretation of these figures of unsold copies and their juxtaposition with the total number of initial prints made not only allows us to gauge the degree of success or failure of Müteferrika’s printing project but also, subsequently, to see the extent to which the discussions and the speculations around the “failure” of the first Ottoman Turkish printing press have been warranted. Thus, a statistical analysis with regard to the Müteferrika printing venture is in order. Through the analysis, I propose to explore the following issues: 1) a juxtaposition of print figures to sale figures in order to judge the commercial outcomes of the Müteferrika press, 2) an assessment of the popularity of the titles, and 3) a contextualization of the findings by relating them to the book market and the reading public. But before I get to the subject, there are several issues to be considered. The first has to do with what is meant by the term “success” when used in reference to the Müteferrika press. If we are speaking of commercial success, then the term implies not only good sale figures but also a good turnover of the investments made. However, if we use the term in a broader sense, it requires considering the printing press as a cultural product and the extent to which the technological innovation is adopted or rejected by society at large. The latter question will be treated in the fifth chapter of this book, but as for the issue of 17 For a detailed bibliography on this topic see Orlin Sabev, “Osmanlı Toplumsal Tarihi İçin Değerli Kaynak Teşkil Eden Tereke ve Muhallefat Kayıtları,” in Osmanlı Coğrafyası Kültürel Arşiv Mirasının Yonetimi ve Tapu Arşivlerinin Rolü Uluslararası Kongresi 21–23 Kasım 2012 İstanbul, Bildiriler, ed. Mehmet Yıldırır and Songül Kadıoğlu, vol. 1 (Ankara: T. C. Çevre ve Şehircilik Bakanlığı Tapu ve Kadastro Genel Müdürlüğü, Arşiv Dairesi Başkanlığı, 2013), 259–72. 18 Lajos Fekete, “XVI. Yüzyılda Taşralı Bir Türk Efendisinin Evi,” Belleten 29, no. 116 (1965): 615–38; Mihaila Stajnova, “Ottoman Libraries in Vidin,” Études balkaniques, 2 (1979): 54–69. 19 See Sabev, “Osmanlı Toplumsal Tarihi,” 264.

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commercial success, it is difficult to assess to what extent the net proceeds of the sale actually covered the investments made by Müteferrika.20 For now, it would be reasonable to turn our attention to sale figures, because they reflect the printing process as a mutual process, in which the printer/seller and the reading public/customers are involved. Another issue has to do with problems related to the sources used for this research. The abovementioned inventory provides the numbers of printed book copies left upon Müteferrika’s death; however, it does so partly by listing individual titles, and partly in groups of titles. Given this taxonomical inconsistency, it is impossible to calculate the number of unsold copies for each of the publications; calculations can be made only for those that have been listed by individual titles, which is roughly half of the whole output. Thus, although I will be unable to assess the individual popularity of each of the Müteferrika prints, I will be able to include these titles in the total figures, which will be relevant for gauging the overall success/failure of Müteferrika’s printing enterprise. It is obvious that book sale figures would be almost meaningless if not juxtaposed with figures for the total number of initial printed copies. Fortunately, we may find the relevant information in a book printed at the Müteferrika press: El-Cildü’s-sāni min Tārīh-i Na‘īmā (Second Volume of History of Naima).21 This book happens to be the thirteenth of the Müteferrika press editions, and provides the number of copies for each previous title published by the press except for one book (1730): Grammaire turque of Holdermann. Figures of the initial print number of the latter, however, are provided by the author himself. Unfortunately, we have no documentation for the total print of the last three of Müteferrika’s sixteen editions, namely, Tārīh (History) of Raşid Efendi in three volumes, along with its appendix (zeyl) Tārīh (History) of Küçükçelebizade Efendi (printed in 1741), Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna (The State of Religious Wars in the Province of Bosnia) of Ömer Bosnavi (1741), and the Persian-Turkish dictionary Lisānü’l-‘Acem or Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī in two volumes (1742). However, one may suggest that the each had at least a run of 500 copies since it is the minimum number of copies of the initial prints found in the aforementioned list (indeed, ten out of the sixteen editions whose initial print number we know is at 500 copies). Thus, figures for both the total initial print and final numbers of the unsold copies exist for six of the Müteferrika press titles, namely, the Arabic-Turkish 20 For more elaborated analysis, see Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 311–19. 21 El-Cildü’s-sāni min Tārīh-i Na‘īmā (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1147/1734), 741.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

dictionary of Vankulu, Gülşen-i Hulefā (Rosary of Caliphs) of Nazmizade Efendi, Grammaire turque, Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā (Mirror of World) and Takvīmü’t-tevārīh (Calendar of Histories), both of Katib Çelebi, and Tārīh (History) of Naima. As for the category of books for which we know the initial total print but the number of their unsold copies is given in groups rather than individually, they fall into two groups: the first group includes Tuhfetü’l-kibār fī Esfāri’l-bihār (Select Gift in Voyages) of Katib Çelebi, Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān (History of Traveler about Afghans’ Appearance and the Reasons for the Decline of the State of the Safavi Shahs) of Juda Tedeusz Krusiński, Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī el-Müsemmā bi-Hadīs-i Nev (History of West Indies Called the New World), Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān (History of Tamerlane) of Nazmizade Efendi, and Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm (History of New Egypt; History of Ancient Egypt) of Suhaili (Süheyli) Efendi; while the second group includes Müteferrika’s own writings, such as Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’lümem (Reasonable Principles of Public Order) and Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye (Features of the Magnets), as well as Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna (The State of Religious Wars in the Province of Bosnia) of Ömer Bosnavi. Before turning to the numbers of the unsold copies, two observations are worth making. First, logically, the unsold copies of the earlier editions are less in number than the later ones since they were in the market for a longer period of time. Second, at the time of the inventory (April 1747), there seems to have been some books which had not yet been or were in the process of being prepared for sale, as in the case of Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā, Tārīh of Naima, Tārīh of Raşid Efendi, and Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī. Most of their copies were unbound (cildsiz), unpolished (mühresiz) and without margin lines around the pages (cedvālsiz). The unsold copies of Gülşen-i Hulefā, Tuhfetü’l-kibār, Tārīh-i Seyyāh, Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī, Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān, Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm, and Takvīmü’ttevārīh were sewn (dikilmiş), cut (kesilmiş) and partly bound. The books with few unsold copies—such as Grammaire turque, Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem, Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye, and Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna—were completely bound (tamām mücelled). It seems that there was some connection between the demand for certain books and the success of their sale, on the one hand, and the state of their preparedness for sale, on the other. By juxtaposing the numbers of unsold copies against the number of the initial print of each of the Müteferrika editions, one is able to find out the degree of popularity that each title enjoyed. As shown in the appended table 1, in which the number of copies left unsold is juxtaposed with the number of initial prints, among Müteferrika’s bestsellers were the Arabic-Turkish

63

Publication year

Volume/pages

Format Topic

3

2

1

Tuhfetü’l-kibār fī Esfāri’l-bihār Katip Çelebi [Mustafa bin Abdullah] (d. 1657) 1141/1729 7 + 75 fol. Quarto Maritime History Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān Juda Tedeusz Krusiński (d. 1751) 1142/1729 4 + 97 fol. Quarto History

Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri [Lugat-ı Vānkūlu] Abu Nasr Ismail bin Hammad al-Jawhari (d. 1010), trans. Mehmed bin Mustafa el-Vani (d. 1591) 1141/1729 Vol. I. 24 + 666 p. Folio Dictionary Vol. II. 755 (756) + 12 p. Total of no. 2 – 6

No.

Title Author

Table 1  Books printed by the Müteferrika Press (1729–42)

18

18

1 200

1 000

3 700

1 114 (30%)

1 114

Number Total Number Years of unsold Total number of unsold of incomprint of unsold complete sale plete copies copies copies 18 500 1 1 (0,2%)

3

3

35/40

Initial price (in piasters)

0,5

0,5

40

Price as of 1747 (in piasters)

64 Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture

8

7

6

5

4

Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī el-Müsemmā bi-Hadīs-i Nev Muhammad al-Suudi (d. 1591) 1142/1730 3 + 91 fol. Quarto History/ Geography Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān li-Nazmīzāde Efendi (‘Acāibü’lMakdūr fī Nevāib-i Tīmūr) Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Abd Allah Ibn Arabshah (d. 1451), trans. Nazmizade Hüseyin Murtaza (d. 1720) 1142/1730 3 + 129 fol. Quarto History Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd li-Süheylī Efendi; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm li-Süheylī Efendi Ahmad ibn Hamdam Suhaili [Süheyli] Efendi (d. 1632) 1142/1730 Vol. I. 4 + 65 fol. Quarto History Vol. II. 51 fol. Gülşen-i Hulefā li-Nazmīzāde Efendi Nazmizade Hüseyin Murtaza (d. 1720) 1143/1730 5 + 130 fol. Folio History Grammaire turque ou Méthode courte & facile pour apprende la langue turque Jean-Baptiste Daniel Holdermann (d. 1730) 1730 15 + 194 + 8 p. Quarto Grammar 17

17

17

17

17

1 000

500

500

500

500

84 (8,4%)

235 (47%)

84

205

30

3/2,5

3

3

3

3

(Continued)

0,25

2

0,5

0,5

0,5

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

65

12

11

10

9

No.

Volume/pages

Format Topic

1146/1733

13 + 247 p.

Quarto History

Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem İbrahim Müteferrika (d. 1747) 1144/1732 48 fol. Quarto Military Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye İbrahim Müteferrika (d. 1747) 1144/1732 23 fol. Quarto Phisics Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi Katip Çelebi [Mustafa bin Abdullah] (d. 1657) 1145/1732 26 + 698 p. Folio Geography Takvīmü’t-tevārīh li-Kātib Çelebi Katip Çelebi [Mustafa bin Abdullah] (d. 1657)

Publication year

Title Author

14

15

15

15

500

500

500

500

186

195

249 (49, 8%)

226 (45, 2%)

31

63

Number Total Number Years of unsold Total number of unsold of incomprint of unsold complete sale plete copies copies copies

Table 1  Books Printed by the Müteferrika Press (1729–1742)—Continued

3/5

30/44

1

1 (?)

Initial price (in piasters)

2

16

0,25

0,25

Price as of 1747 (in piasters)

66 Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture

Hasan Şuuri (d. 1693) Vol. I. 2 + 454 fol. 1155/1742 Folio Vol. II. 2 + 451 fol.

Lisānü’l-‘Acem [Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī]

Total of no. 1 – 16

16

15

14

13

Dictionary

Tārīh-i Na‘īmā (Ravzatü’l-Hüseyn fī Hulāsat-i Ahbāri’lHafikayn) Mustafa Naima (d. 1716) Vol. I. 23 + 701p. 1147/1734 Folio History Vol. II. 711 + 29 p. Tārīh-i Rāşid Efendi Mehmed Raşid Efendi (d. 1735) Vol. I. 14 + 277 fol. 1153/1741 Vol. II. 9 + 194 fol. Folio History Vol. III. 2 + 114 fol. Tārīh-i Çelebizāde Efendi Küçükçelebizade İsmail Asım Efendi (d. 1760) 1153/1741 5 + 158 fol. Folio History Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna Ömer Bosnavi 1154/1741 62 fol. Quarto History 5

6

6

13

9 700

[500]

2 981 [2 976] (30,7%)

409 344 (81,8%)

65

46

311 [500] [306] 260 (62,2%)

[500]

35

112 77 (22,4%)

500

?

?

30/40

?

20

0,25

16

15

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

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dictionary of Vankulu and Grammaire turque, followed by titles such as Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem, Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye, and Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna, as well as Tārīh of Naima. There are five other titles in history and geography—Tuhfetü’l-kibār, Tārīh-i Seyyāh, Tārīhü’l-Hindi’lgarbī, Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān, Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm— which also seem to have sold well, but since they are inventoried in one group it is difficult to make a distinction among them. Books such as Gülşen-i Hulefā, Takvīmü’t-tevārīh, and Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā seem to have enjoyed moderate commercial success. And only Tārīh of Raşid Efendi and Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī, which had been in the market for a good five years before the death of İbrahim Müteferrika, sold lower than 50 percent. The total number of unsold copies that Müteferrika left upon his death is 2,976 or 2,981. The insignificant difference is due to the fact that the numbers given for the fully prepared (tamām eczā) and the incomplete (nākıs) copies of Raşid Efendi’s Tārīh, 260 and 46, respectively, are calculated in the probate inventory as 311 instead 306. One cannot determine which of these figures is correct. Selim Karahasanoğlu had discovered a later document related to the Müteferrika prints and dated 1 Şaban 1160/Ağustos 8, 1747. According to that document, some ninety copies of the prints left after Müteferrika’s death were prepared for sale by means of putting margin lines, as well as polishing and binding. Twenty of those copies were sold: eight copies of Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī, four copies of Naima’s Tārīh, four copies of Gramatika (Grammaire turque), three copies of Raşid Efendi’s Tārīh, and a copy of Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā. It should be pointed out that Selim Karahasanoğlu incorrectly adds up the newly prepared and sold copies to the total number of the unsold copies listed in Müteferrika’s probate inventory of April 1, 1747, and groundlessly claims that the total number of the unsold copies was 3,087.22 As a matter of fact, one should regard the newly bound copies as being of those unsold and unbound copies listed some four months ago. The only possible calculation one could make is to deduct those twenty additional copies sold in August 1747 from the previous total number of 2,976 or 2,981 unsold copies as registered in April 1747 and to derive a lesser total number of 2,956 or 2,961 unsold copies.

22 See Selim Karahasanoğlu, “Osmanlı Matbaasının Başarısını/Başarısızlığını Yeniden Gözden Geçirmek ya da İbrahim Müteferrika’nın Terekesinin Tespitine Katkı,”  Journal of Turkish Studies/Türklük Bilgisi Araştırmaları 33, no. 1 (2009): 319–28.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

Having examined the number of unsold copies and the degree of popularity of the individual titles, let me now turn to the total figures in order to get an overall picture of the outcome of the Müteferrika press. There are different estimates: 12,000,23 12,500,24 12,700,25 or 13,200 copies26 in total. However, these figures seem to be overestimations. In my opinion, the safest way to reach a more accurate estimate is to turn to the aforementioned list in the Tārīh of Naima, which, as I mentioned earlier, gives the total initial print of twelve Müteferrika press editions (Grammaire turque is missing). The figure for these twelve editions could be calculated at 7,200.27 We know from the author of Grammaire turque, Holdermann, that the total print figure of the grammar was 1,000 copies.28 Thus, the cumulative figure of initial prints whose number of copies are known (as opposed to estimated) is 8,200. As for the books whose initial print numbers are not known, as I suggested earlier, an informed and conservative figure is 500 copies for each of the last three editions. If we add the estimated figure of 1,500 to the figure calculated for those books whose initial print numbers are known, the total number of copies of all the printed books would be 9,700. However, if we take a less conservative estimate of 1,000 instead of 500 for those editions whose initial print is unknown, then the total print of all Müteferrika’s printed books would equal 11,200 copies. While a definitive answer is impossible, one may opt to take settle on a median number between the conservative figure of 9,700 and the less conservative figure of 11,200 to suggest that the total number of printed copies was in the range of 10,000 to 11,000 printed copies. If one juxtaposes this figure with the number of unsold copies that Müteferrika left upon his death, which was nearly 3,000, we could infer that some 70 percent of his editions were sold. 23 Hopp, “İbrahim Müteferrika,” 108. 24 Joseph von Hammer, Geschichte des Osmanischen Reiches, vol. 7 (Pest: C. A. Hartleben Verlag, 1831), 585; Ersoy, “İlk Türk Basımevi’nde Basılan Kitapların Fiyatları,” 69, 76; Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri, 57; Babinger, “18. Yüzyılda İstanbul’da Kitabiyat,” 31. 25 Şefik Ergürbüz, Matbaacılık Tarihi (İzmit: Işıl Kitabevi, 1947), 46; Ertuğ, Basın ve Yayın Hareketleri, 116. 26 Watson, “İbrāhīm Müteferrika and Turkish Incunabula,” 436. 27 The source mentions, in fact, 8,200 copies. This calculation, however, takes into consideration the total print of each of the volumes of the Arabic-Turkish dictionary of Vankulu and Tārīh of Naima, both in two volumes. Thus, so if we calculate the figure of initial printed titles as opposed to printed volumes, the real total number of the printed copies of the editions decreases to 7,200. 28 Henri Omont, “Nouveaux documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople au XVIIIe siècle,” Revue des Bibliothèques 33 (1926): 6–7.

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These figures clearly show that İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing enterprise was far from the fiasco presented in scholarly and literary sources. Indeed, as we shall see later, as a first attempt in printing, Mutefrrika’s commercial balance was comparable to that of the early European printing presses. However, before we become euphoric about this new finding of “success,” these figures need to be qualified and inserted in different contexts before we declare a final judgment. First, not all of the printed books that were circulated in the market were actually sold books. Some of Müteferrika’s copies were presented as gifts by the printer himself or by the Ottoman court to different royal libraries in Europe such as Austria (1730),29 Russia (1731),30 Sweden (1735),31 and France (1741­–1742).32 Having said this, the number of book gifts could not have been so high as to prompt me to make adjustments to the sales figures that I have suggested. It is insufficient, however, to only consider the number of copies that Müteferrika may have sold in his lifetime; these figures must be related to the market in which they circulated: the book market. In view of any market, and the book market in particular, price is the most important issue, and has great implications for the success or failure of any commercial enterprise. As shown by Osman Ersoy, the first printed books were far more expensive than manuscripts, and they were unaffordable even for functionaries at the highest level.33 This confirms the remarks of Saussure that Müteferrika was not able to sell books due to their exorbitant prices. This apparently led the first Ottoman printer to reduce the initial prices, sometimes even twice, as Holdermann (1730),34 Müteferrika himself (1146/1733–34),35 and Edvard Carleson (1735)36 have pointed out. Such discounts of Müteferrika’s printed books are

29 Hammer, Geschihte des Osmanischen Reiches, vol. VII, 413; İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, Osmanlı Tarihi, vol. 4, part 2 (Ankara: Тürk Тarih Кurumu Yayınları, 1988), 516. 30 Mihail S. Meĭer, Оsmanskaia imperiia v XVIII veke. Cherty strukturnogo krizisa (Moscow: Nauka, 1991), 184. 31 Edvard Carleson, İbrahim Müteferrika Basımevi ve Bastığı İlk Eserler/İbrahim Müteferrika’s Printing House and Its First Printed Books, ed. Mustafa Akbulut (Ankara: Türk Kütüphaneciler Derneği, 1979), 8. 32 Taner Timur, “Matbaa, Aydınlanma ve Diplomasi: Said Mehmed Efendi,” Toplumsal Tarih 128 (2004): 59. 33 Ersoy, “İlk Türk Basımevi’nde Basılan Kitapların Fiyatları,” 76. 34 See Omont, ”Nouveaux documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople,” 9–10. 35 See İbrahim Müteferrika, “Osmanlı Matbaasının Kuruluşu ve Başlangıcı,” in Müteferrika ve Osmanlı Matbaası, ed. Nedret Kuran-Burçoğlu and Machiel Kiel (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 2004), 72–74. 36 See Carleson, İbrahim Müteferrika Basımevi ve Bastığı İlk Eserler, 9–12.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

further confirmed by the probate inventories of the time.37 It is worth noting that the prices of some of Müteferrika’s editions, such as Vankulu dictionary and Tārīh of Raşid Efendi, were cut down almost twice, but subsequently recovered in the late 1740s. Such discounts may have been a commercial policy implemented by Müteferrika as a sort of “promotion offer” to induce the sale of his books, which would later be priced at what was set initially. Thus, the relatively high prices of Müteferrika’s printed books must have affected their sale negatively, which were evidently not as promising as expected. We may safely conclude that Müteferrika’s enterprise was established at a high price for the printer himself. The commercial balance of Müteferrika’s enterprise, while not disastrous, was not staggeringly successful either. Aside from quantity of sales, we need to address yet another issue in evaluating the success/failure of the printing press: the quantity of printed books relative to the reading public’s market. Osman Ersoy has opined that İbrahim Müteferrika could hardly be hopeful about any commercial success because the total print of his editions was so insignificant that it was not even “a handful of sand thrown to the sea” or “a teaspoon of water given to a sick man dying of thirst.”38 To tackle this issue, one needs to consult the appropriate source documents and apply a reasonable methodology. Thus far, Turkish researchers of the Ottoman printing history have been unreasonably critical. They point out that the total prints of the first Ottoman Turkish printed books were much lower than those in Western Europe during the first half of the eighteenth century. Such a synchronic comparison, so to speak, is not very reliable because we are confronted with two identical processes, but at different stage of development. One should not forget that Müteferrika’s effort represented the very first introduction of the printing press in Ottoman/Muslim society, while in other parts of Europe, at the same time, print culture had already been centuries old. In my opinion, an accurate comparison would be between the initial stages of European printing (fifteenth century) and Ottoman Turkish printing (eighteenth century), respectively. This would represent a diachronic comparison between two processes, which developed in different ages and contexts, but which are, in fact, similar enough to warrant a comparison. In applying such a methodology, one could reach a more objective assessment of the real achievements and importance of the beginnings of Ottoman Turkish printing. 37 Details are provided in: Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 195–246, 295–300. 38 Ersoy, “İlk Türk Basımevi’nde Basılan Kitapların Fiyatları,” 76. (“İbrahim Müteferrika’nın bastığı bu 24 cilt kitap denizi doldurmak için atılmış bir avuç kum bile değildi. Yada susuzluktan yanan bir hastaya verilen bir çay kaşığı su kadar bile toplum üzerinde etkili olamazdı.”)

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In this respect, comparing the average total print of Müteferrika’s editions with the average total prints of European incunabula, one can see that they are identical. The early printing houses in Europe printed books amounting to a total of 150 to 1,500 copies, and a considerable number of presses failed after one or two books printed.39 Therefore, it is not only unfair but also incorrect to claim that Müteferrika’s total prints were insufficient. After all, the total print of a given book should be relative to the number of its potential buyers and readers. It would be also appropriate to make a comparison between Müteferrika’s sales balance and the outcomes of the most ambitious western printings with Arabic script, namely, those of the Medici Oriental Press (Typographia Medicea, 1584–1614) in Rome.40 In the late sixteenth century it printed three texts, which were extremely popular in the Islamic world: the famous geographical work (1592) of Muhammad al-Idrisi (1100–1165), the Canon of Medicine (1593) of Ibn Sina (Avicenna, 980–1037), and the Muslim interpretation of Euclid’s Elements of Geometry under the title Tahrīrü’l-Öklīdes fi Usūli’l-hendese (1594) by Nasireddin al-Tusi (1201–74). It has been reported that 3,906 unsold copies (1,129 of the Idrisi, 810 of the Avicenna, and 1,967 of the Euclid) had been stacked in wardrobes in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence and inventoried in the eighteenth century.41 The total print run of these editions was reported to be 6,350.42 So they succeeded to sell around one-third, or some 40 percent, out of the total print run at best. As the first European translator of One Thousand and One Nights, French orientalist Antoine Galland (1646–1715), who was in Istanbul in 1672–73, remarks in his preface to Barthélemy d’Herbelot de Mollainville’s (1625–1695) Bibliothèque orientale (Oriental Library), published in 1697, the western printings of Avicenna, Euclid, and a geographical work (he does not mention the name of al-Idrisi) had targeted not those westerners speaking Arabic, but the reading public in the Orient. However, according to Galland, trade in these books proved unsuccessful because Muslims still preferred manuscripts, though at a higher price, to the printed books.43 In his account of the utility of 39 See Lucien Febvre and Hanri-Jean Martin, L’apparation du livre (Paris: A. Michel, 1958), 307–12; Sigfrid H. Steinberg, Five Hundred Years of Printing (Middlesex: Penguin Press, 1977), 136; Richardson, Renaissance Italy, 25–26. 40 For the western prints with Arabic script see Josée Balagna, L’imprimerie arabe en Occident. 41 Paul Lunde, “Arabic and the Art of Printing,” 24. 42 Robert Jones, “The Medici Oriental Press (Rome 1584–1614) and the Impact of its Arabic Publications on Northern Europe,” in The ‘Arabick’ Interest of the Natural Philosophers in Seventeenth Century England, ed. Gül A. Russel (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 107–8, n. 71. 43 [Barthélemy] d’Herbelot, Bibliothèque orientale ou Dictionnaire universel ontenant généralement

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

printing, Müteferrika considers, in particular, his enterprise as a counteraction to the western printings in Arabic, mentioning the same printings of the Medici’s press.44 The comparison between Müteferrika, who sold nearly 70 percent of his output, and Typographia Medicea, which sold 35 percent of its Arabic/Muslim printings, leads one to conclude that Müteferrika’s press proved more successful than Typographia Medicea was in terms of sales. It is difficult to judge whether Müteferrika’s balance of trade was active or passive at all, as we do not know how much money was actually invested; but his balance of cultural challenge seems active when considered in the long term. In this sense, it is important to see how the Muslim reading public ­perceived his prints. Although the Ottoman/Muslim book market was not limited to Istanbul, given that it was the imperial capital city, one would still expect to have the largest concentration of the reading public there. Having said this, the figure of 335 book owners with more than three books found in Istanbul probate inventories dating from the period 1724–48, as already discussed in the previous chapter, implies that as a whole, both in absolute and relative terms, the Ottoman reading public seems to have been more or less limited. Saussure narrates in his 1732 letter that “the literate Turks are not so many in numbers; they are not fond of reading and they do not enjoy reading.”45 Holdermann had the same observation in 1730.46 Even the total printings of poetry collections, a favorite topic of urbane Ottomans, and the textbooks printed in the 1840s–1850s by the order of Istanbul booksellers (sahhāf) were usually at 1,200 copies.47 It was very rare that total print runs of an edition would reach 2,000 copies.48 In this respect, the allegation that Müteferrika’s prints were “a handful of sand thrown to the sea” seems to be incorrect. Given how limited the Istanbul reading public was in the eighteenth century, and the rather small tout ce qui regarde la connaissance des peuples de l’Orient (Paris: Compagnie des libraires, 1697), [25]; Cf. Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 18–19. 44 See Maurits H. van den Boogert, “The Sultan’s Answer to the Medici Press? İbrahim Müteferrika’s Printing House in Istanbul,” in The Republic of Letters and the Levant, ed. Alastair Hamilton, Maurits H. van den Boogert, and Bart Westerweel (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 265–91. 45 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 95. 46 Omont, “Nouveaux documents sur l’imprimerie à Constantinople,” 6. 47 See Yavuz Selim Karakışla, “Osmanlı Kitap Tarihinde Bir Katkı: Osmanlı Devlet Arşivi’nde Bulunan, Kitap ile İlgili Bazı Belgeler (1844–1854),” Müteferrika 14 (1998): 41–59. 48 Johann Strauss, “Les livres et l’imprimerie à İstanbul (1800–1908),” in Turquie. Livres d’hier, livres d’aujourd’hui, ed. Paul Dumont (Strasbourg–Istanbul: Centre de recherche sur la Civilisation ottomane et le domaine turc contemporain Université des Sciences Humaines – Les Éditions Isis, 1992), 5; Johann Strauss, “İstanbul’da Kitap Yayını ve Basımevleri,” Müteferrika 1 (1993): 5.

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demand for books even in the middle of the nineteenth century, Müteferrika’s output was not at all insufficient, but on the ample side, given the potential of the Ottoman/Muslim book market. Special attention should be paid to the social and professional profile of the people who bought Müteferrika’s prints. A cursory glance at the same Istanbul probate inventories in this regard is necessary. Although I was able to find Müteferrika editions in only sixteen probate inventories, one can immediately observe that the first printed Ottoman Turkish books appeared in probate inventories very soon after they were printed. Thus, their higher initial price seems not to have been a significant problem for the potential buyers. The same seems to be true also for the probate inventories held in the provinces.49 It is remarkable that those who possessed such printed and expensive books were not only Ottoman military and bureaucratic officials but also religious functionaries. The latter is significant, since it had been alleged that it was precisely religious functionaries who were the traditional opponents to the printing press. In conclusion, let me reiterate the question of whether the first Ottoman printing press was a success or a failure. İbrahim Müteferrika’s probate inventory leaves no impression that he had failed in his undertaking, though the unsold copies of the books printed by him constitute a large part of his assets: a situation that is probably normal for a tradesman and an enterprising person, as will be shown in the next paragraph. By the end of his life, İbrahim Müteferrika was able to sell about 70 percent of his prints, quite a sufficient result for the enterprise. Indeed, he seems to have been luckier than Johann Gutenberg, who lost his printing house due to a debt to his sponsor Johann Fust. As Sigfrid Steinberg has remarked, most of the early European printers seem to have been better printers than businessmen. They did not have sufficient commercial success due to their unawareness of a major problem in printing: it requires significant investment in advance, and the turnover is necessarily slow.50 In fact, Saussure seems to have been aware of these requirements by ­expressing concerns that the Müteferrika enterprise may cease with the printer’s death due to the impatience and the lack of enthusiasm of “the Turks” for delayed, long-term returns.51 49 More details are provided in: Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 295–301. 50 Steinberg, Five Hundred Years of Printing, 130. 51 Thály, Lettres de Turquie, 95.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

One should not exaggerate, however, the scope of Müteferrika’s printing enterprise. He was in service at the sultan’s court and the texts he printed were of immediate use to the higher officials in his environment. Most of his prints were in the field of political and maritime history, geography, and physics—and their potential readership was mainly limited to the ruling and wealthy segments of society. This explains why Müteferrika’s enterprise proved relatively successful despite his high prices. At the turn of the nineteenth century, there were more voices in favor of printing, raised by Ottoman intellectuals and soon backed by the Ottoman authorities themselves, who realized that political developments entailed an augmented role for printing in the formation of public opinion. Only then did Ottoman Turkish printing go beyond the egalitarian scope of the Müteferrika press and become an integral part of the wider society.

CAIN AND ABEL: MÜTEFERRIKA AND THE “RIVALS” “Are not the rich and poor brothers?” asked the young King. “Ay,” answered the man, “and the name of the rich brother is Cain.” Oscar Wilde, The Young King

It is an elementary truth that men of different occupations or social backgrounds do have different amounts of income and don’t enjoy the same standard of living. Besides, within a given social stratum, professional group, or even a family, there are financial differences among its members: some of them earn or dispose of more money than the others. Yet, during one’s lifetime there are sunny days, and rainy days too. Throughout history, there have been emerging and declining societies, states, social or professional groups, families, and individuals; and a lot of prosperity and poverty as well. Although such a difference seems to be more than natural, it has always been an important reason for jealousy, social clashes, and fratricides. The biblical parable of the two brothers Cain and Abel is perhaps the best-known example of that. Prosperity and poverty, however, have different meanings, understandings, and interpretation— as Oscar Wilde’s epigram suggests. What is common between them is that they could not be taken for granted. In the middle of the fifteenth century, the readers and book lovers in Western Europe enjoyed the birth of a new brother in the family of those involved in book production: the printer. Soon the newly emerged brother threatened the livelihood of all the traditional manuscript copyists and became one of the symbolic figures of the early modern times. The elder brothers,

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however, were not happy at all. At the initial stage of the introduction of printing, manuscript copyists and printers were competitors and rivals rather than brothers cherishing the best feelings for one another. In the Ottoman case, the booksellers were closely and vitally related to the manuscript copyists, and the early Ottoman printers were presumably nothing but unwelcome new players at the playground of book business. And business is almost all about money, whether making fortune or needing survival. From that point of view, it is interesting to see in a comparative way how Ottoman manuscript sellers, on the one hand, and Ottoman printers, on the other, made their living out of the book business during their coexistence in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. The inheritance registers provide a good opportunity to see the material condition and standard of living of a particular professional group, namely, that of the booksellers and printers. Comparison between the traditional booksellers, who until well into the middle of the nineteenth century were associated with the manuscript trade,52 and the printers could reveal the impact of print culture on the social status of those who were involved in the book business. Moreover, as of the middle of the nineteenth century, the Ottoman manuscript sellers also became printers or publishers, thus removing the boundary that had previously existed between the traditional booksellers and the printers. From this point of view, it is interesting to see whether there were changes, more or less significant, in the material condition of the manuscript sellers-turned-printers and, if so, how printing technology affected their business and in what way, whether positive or negative. It must be remembered, however, that we can hardly observe the exact state of affairs since we only have those probate inventories that luckily ­happened to survive throughout the vicissitudes of time. On the other hand, at the initial stage of such a study, it is appropriate to focus on the Ottoman capital for at least three major reasons. First, we have the rather rich collection of probate inventories of people who resided in Istanbul, as already pointed out. A special collection comprising the inventories of the people of askeri status exists 52 There were some pre-mid-nineteenth-century Ottoman booksellers, whose probate inventories—besides manuscripts—list also some of the Müteferrika or Medici prints. One might assume, however, that these cases were exceptional; such booksellers traded mostly manuscripts. With the development of Ottoman Turkish printing toward the mid-nineteenth century—especially with the spread of printed religious texts, as will be shown in the next chapter—printed books listed in booksellers’ probate inventories became far more abundant. See İsmail E. Erünsal, Osmanlılarda Sahaflık ve Sahaflar (Istanbul: Timaş Yayınları, 2013), 150–52; İsmail E. Erünsal, “A Brief Survey of the Book Trade in the Ottoman Empire,” Libri 65, no. 3 (2015): 217–325.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

because their inheritance cases were up before a special court (Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi). Since all Ottoman booksellers and most of the printers enjoyed the same status, it is safe to look at that collection, in which one could find for sure many registers of such people. Second, the Istanbul booksellers’ guild must have been the most populated as compared to other parts of the empire. According to Evliya Çelebi, in mid-seventeenth-century Istanbul there were 300 booksellers, whose guild disposed with fifty bookshops.53 These figures seem to be quite exaggerated, since Charles White (1793–1861), who spent three years in Istanbul (1842–44),54 mentions that the number of the officially recognized Istanbul booksellers was “limited to some forty.”55 According to an undated register of the Istanbul guilds, dating likely from the 1870s,56 there were forty-one bookshops and fifty-one booksellers, r­espectıvely.57 It seems that Evliya Çelebi’s figures are not to point out the exact number of the Istanbul booksellers in the mid-seventeenth century, but to emphasize their multitude. Mouradgea d’Ohsson observed the same multitude in the 1780s.58 Third, Ottoman Turkish printing was introduced first in Istanbul in the 1720s with the Müteferrika press and afterward the number of printing houses operating in the Ottoman capital increased first slowly and then so rapidly such that, after the reign of Sultan Mahmud II (b. 1785, r. 1808–39) and by the end of the nineteenth century, at least seventy-seven printing houses publishing in Ottoman Turkish were in operation.59 In other words, Istanbul housed more booksellers and printers than anywhere else in the then Ottoman Empire, and we have at hand a rather rich documentary basis to study their material condition and the degree of their well-being. 53 Evliyâ Çelebi b. Derviş Mehemmed Zıllî, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, vol. 1, ed. Robert Dankoff, Seyit Ali Kahraman, and Yücel Dağlı (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 1997), 245. 54 See Namık Erkal, “İstanbul’da Üç Yıl, Çarşıda Bir Gün: Charles White Seyahatnamesi,” Toplumsal Tarih 197 (2010): 26–34. 55 Charles White, Three Years in Constantinople or Domestic Manners of the Turks in 1844, 2nd ed., vol. 2 (London: Henry Colburn, 1846), 154. 56 See Milena Koleva-Zvancharova, “To the History of Guilds in Istanbul according to a 19th-Century Register,” in Osmanlı İstanbulu III, III. Uluslararası Osmanlı İstanbulu Sempozyumu Bildirileri, 25–26 Mayıs 2015, İstanbul 29 Mayıs Üniversitesi, ed. Feridun Emecen, Ali Akyıldız, and Emrah Safa Gürkan (Istanbul: İstanbul Büyükşehir Belediyesi, 2015), 655. 57 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: Tsg 26/5, fol. 2b. 58 d’Ohsson, Tableau général, 298. 59 See the list of these presses in Ahmed Negih Galiptekin, ed., Osmanlı Kaynaklarına Göre İstanbul. Cami, Tekke, Medrese, Mekteb, Türbe, Hamam, Kütüphane, Matbaa, Mahalle ve Selâtin İmaretleri (Istanbul: İşaret Yayınları, 2003), 974–83.

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Based on the study of the probate inventories of thirteen Istanbul booksellers (sahhāf) and printers (basmacı) that I had the chance to come across while exploring the Archive of the Grand Mufti of Istanbul, and the inheritance registers included in the collection of the so-called Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, I made some important findings.60 All the information I have had derived from them in relation to the topic of the present study is presented in the appended table 2. Five of the studied booksellers were contemporaries of the first Ottoman/Muslim printer, İbrahim Müteferrika. Their probate inventories are dated between 1730 and 1747, while the Müteferrika press operated officially between 1727 and 1747. We discuss also the probate inventory of İbrahim Müteferrika himself. The other three probate inventories belong to booksellers who died in the years 1804, 1805, and 1806, that is, when Ottoman printing— as will be shown in the next chapter—revived through a decisive state policy to avail and develop the printing facilities in service of important military, administrative, and social purposes. However, the then-booksellers still dealt mostly with manuscripts. And finally, we have at hand four more probate inventories of Istanbul booksellers, dating from the early 1880s and 1892, when all the Istanbul booksellers were already united in a common trade company (Şirket-i Sahhāfiye-i Osmāniye), which actively printed and distributed books.61 In other words, our last four cases have to do with booksellers-turned-printers, who represent one of the major developments in the nineteenth-century Ottoman Turkish printing. With regard to the abovementioned, I will try to conduct my comparative analysis from the point of view of four main perspectives. The first one will focus on an overall view of all the thirteen cases taken into consideration to trace the developments in material condition and standard of living that occurred throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The second analysis will deal with İbrahim Müteferrika and his contemporaries. Third, I will compare the traditional booksellers of the 1730s, 1740s, and early nineteenth century with the late-nineteenth-century booksellers-turned-printers. 60 İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul): Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, defter 56 (fol. 7b), 70 (fol. 9a), 93A (fol. 93b), 93B (fol. 25a), 98 (fol. 39a), 98 (fol. 74b), 802 (fol. 57b), 802 (fol. 55b), 820 (fol. 24b), 1879 (fol. 44a), 1879 (fol. 13a), 1934 (fol. 12a), and 1934 (fol. 28a). I would like to express my gratitude to Prof. Dr. İsmail E. Erünsal for his generosity to provide me with information about those of the said inventories which date from the nineteenth century. 61 For the so-called Şirket-i Sahhāfiye-i Osmāniye, see Fatmagül Demirel, “Osmanlı’da Bir Kitap Şirketi Şirket-i Sahafiye-i Osmaniye,” Müteferrika 25 (2004): 89–97; Mehmet Ö. Alkan, “Osmanlı’nın Bütün Sahafları Birleşiniz! ‘Şirket-i Sahafiye-i Osmaniye.’ Osmanlı Döneminde Sahaflar ve Yayınladıkları Kitaplar,” Müteferrika 29 (2006): 3–44.

5

4

3

2

1

No

Sahhaf El-Hac Hüseyin (1730) Sahhaf İbrahim Efendi (1734) Sahhaf Eş-Şeyh Mehmed Efendi (1745) Sahhaf Abdullah Efendi (1746) Basmacı İbrahim Müteferrika (1747)

Bookseller/ Printer year

Bookshop/Press Equipment

1168 4,5%

-

-

-

-

Number of Books

Total Value of the Books

507 45%

480 52% 350 97%

370 94%

7

3

3

6

Average Value of a Copy

2981 20422 7 [2976] 77%

74

115

151

62

Number of Goods 168 18% 12 3%

23 6%

258 1639 6 6%

5,5

1

3

2,3

Total Value of the Goods Average Value of a Good

114 622 55%

11

51

10

Value of House -

-

-

-

-

-

-

151 16% -

-

Loans Given and Re-funded

Cash

Value of Slave Possessed

2500 600 (3) 110 9,5% 2,5% 0,5%

-

133 14% -

-

Outlay: Court Fees and Debts Paid Back 1362 5%

467 41%

722 77% 190 52%

112 29%

Remainder 3

3

3

5

25077 2 95%

663 59%

210 23% 173 48%

280 71%

12538,5 [2327,5]

221

58

70

56

Average Sum for a Shareholder

(Continued)

Number of Shareholders

Table 2  Properties of Istanbul booksellers and printers (18th–19th Centuries) according to their probate i­ nventories

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

79

Es-Seyid ? El-Hac İsmail Efendi (18041805) Sahhaf Mustafa Efendi (1805) Sahhaf İbrahim Sadullah Efendi (1806)

7

9

8

Sahhaf El-Hac 150 Mustafa (1747) 29%

Bookseller/ Printer year

Bookshop/Press Equipment

6

No

32

43

?

51

Total Value of the Books

636 90%

240 57%

?

160 30%

Average Value of a Copy 20

6

?

3

Number of Goods 7

31

?

26

67 10%

184 43%

?

10

6

?

3

Total Value of the Goods Average Value of a Good 81 16%

-

-

?

-

Value of Slave Possessed -

-

65 (1/2) 12% ?

Cash -

-

?

40 8%

Loans Given and Re-funded 400 77%

Outlay: Court Fees and Debts Paid Back

-

-

665 95%

233 55%

1188,5 6044,5 5% 24%

25 5%

Remainder 2

39 5%

191 45%

2

2

19000 4 76%

121 23%

Number of Shareholders

Value of House

Number of Books

Table 2  Properties of istanbul booksellers and printers (18th–19th Centuries) according to their probate i­nventories —Continued

19,5

95,5

4750

60,5

Average Sum for a Shareholder

80 Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture

13

12

11

10

No

Sahhaf Es-Seyid Mehmed Kemaleddin Efendi (1882) Sahhaf Hafız Hasan Efendi (1883) Sahhaf Hafız Ahmed Efendi (1892) Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi (1892)

Bookseller/ Printer year

Bookshop/Press Equipment

6800 0,8%

-

-

-

Number of Books

64143

33997

354

1739

Average Value of a Copy

Total Value of the Books 13

715236 11 90%

12657 0,4 82%

4517 94%

22948 13 83%

Total Value of the Goods Average Value of a Good

Number of Goods

8

2817 39 18%

270 6%

430 7217 17 0,9%

72

33

163 4667 29 17%

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Loans Given and Re-funded

Cash 66090 8,3%

-

-

-

162046 20%

5708 37%

277 6%

Remainder 9766 63%

4510 94%

5

3

23068 3 84%

Number of Shareholders

633296 2 80%

Outlay: Court Fees and Debts Paid Back 4547 16%

Average Sum for a Shareholder 316648

1953

1503

7689

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81

Value of Slave Possessed

Value of House

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Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture

And finally, my fourth analysis will compare the first Ottoman printer’s material condition with that of his late nineteenth-century colleagues. The material condition of these booksellers and printers is studied, taking into consideration the following information provided in their probate inventories: 1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8. 

Bookshop or printing house equipment. Number, total value, and average value per copy of the books listed. Number, total value, and average value per item of the goods listed. Value of a real estate, that is, house, if any. Value of slaves, if possessed. Value of the loans given and refunded. Outlay, including burial expenses, dowries, debts paid, and court fees. Remainder, number of heirs, and average sum for each of them.

The latter does not represent the actual division of the remainder among the heirs because, in accordance with the stipulations of the Muslim law of inheritance (ferāiz), the heirs received not equal but different shares of the remainder depending on the nature of their relation to the dead person. For instance, if the heirs were a wife and a child, the remainder was shared in proportion 1:7.62 However, I preferred to recalculate the actual shares as stated in the inventories in averages in order to facilitate the comparison between the cases and to get some rough idea about the fortune that the dead booksellers and printers left to their heirs. In addition, again for the sake of comparativeness, I rounded off all the values in gurūş (piaster), the Ottoman monetary unit which became the leading currency by the middle of the eighteenth century.63 It must be pointed out that in our seventh case related to the bookseller Es-Seyyid El-Hac İsmail Efendi, we deal with the appendix (zeyl) of his probate inventory written down some eight months later and in which only the total value, the refunded loans, the outlay, the remainder, and the shares allotted to the heirs are given, but not the books and goods possessed. The latter were obviously stated in the original inventory, which I failed to find out. However, the appendix is worth considering because of the rather great amount of the remainder, according to which Es-Seyyid El-Hac İsmail Efendi appears to be one of the rich booksellers under the present study. 62 See Said Öztürk, Askeri Kassama Ait Onyedinci Asır İstanbul Tereke Defterleri (SosyoEkonomik Tahlil) (Istanbul: Osmanlı Araştırmaları Vakfı, 1995), 98–100. 63 See Şevket Pamuk, A Monetary History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 159–71.

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

When all thirteen cases are studied from the point of view of the abovementioned criteria, the striking finding is that, in terms of value in most cases, the books as a commodity and the bookshop or printing house equipment are the major part of the booksellers’ and printers’ property. In eight out of twelve cases (in which all five printers are included), they constitute more than 80 percent of all the property, while in the other four cases they are roughly half the whole property (between 45 and 59 percent). This proportion between the items related to the book business and the other goods and properties shows that usually the booksellers and printers made a lot of investments in their book business, and in eight cases these investments exceeded even the remainder to be shared by the heirs (cases 1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 12, and 13). In two other cases, the investments are almost the same as the remainder (cases 10 and 11), while in two cases the remainder is only a bit bigger then the investments (cases 4 and 5). As for the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century cases, in which the remainder surpassed the investments, the heirs enjoyed much bigger shares. In the late nineteenth-century cases, however, the picture is a bit varied since the value of the shares depended on the number of the heirs. It is normal to assume that the fewer the heirs, the bigger share they could enjoy. However, the amount they could receive depended not only on their number but also on the value of the remainder. Of the studied booksellers and printers, only three invested in equipment: İbrahim Müteferrika and Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi, who possessed their own printing houses, and Sahhaf El-Hac Mustafa, who had proportionally high investments in his bookshop. The other booksellers-turned-printers presumably printed at the printing house of their common company. However, the two printing house owners left the biggest remainders to be shared by their heirs, who as a matter of fact, were the fewest in number, that is, two, as compared to the other cases. In all studied cases, the overwhelming part of the investments was made in books.64 The calculation of the average value per copy shows that the studied booksellers dealt with books whose average value varied within similar boundaries, that is, between three and seven gurūş in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and around eleven to thirteen gurūş in the late nineteenth century. There are two exceptions. The first one is Sahhaf İbrahim 64 For another early twentieth-century example confirming this conclusion, see Mustafa Birol Ülker, “Gazeteci ve Matbaacı Selîm Fâris Şidyâk’ın Terekesi,” in Kitaplara Vakfedilen Bir Ömre Tuhfe: İsmail E. Erünsal’a Armağan, vol. 2, ed. Hatice Aynur, Bilgin Aydın, and Mustafa Birol Ülker (Istanbul: Ülke Armağan, 2014), 1133–53.

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Sadullah Efendi (1806, case 9), the average value of whose books was higher (twenty gurūş) simply because he apparently traded mainly expensive Qur’anic copies, as listed in his inventory. Actually, among the studied cases he left the smallest remainder, that is, only thirty-nine gurūş, and as a matter of fact this was the price of one of the Qur’ans listed. One might assume that Sahhaf İbrahim Sadullah Efendi’s book business was a complete fiasco, since he invested a lot of money in expensive Qur’anic manuscripts, on the one hand, and had a lot of debts, whose value even surpassed the value of his books (665:636 gurūş), on the other. The second one is Sahhaf Hafız Ahmed Efendi (1892, case 12), who had a lot of copies of inexpensive books printed at the printing house of the Istanbul Booksellers’ company so that the average value of his books is only 0.4 gurūş. As a whole, it seems that investment in cheaper books was less risky and more profitable since more could be sold because of their better affordability. All studied cases show that, in general, booksellers and printers were not inclined to live in luxury. Quite the contrary, most of them were people of modest substance. However, it must be pointed out that in ten of the thirteen cases the deceased left minor children, which could mean that they died relatively at young age. İbrahim Müteferrika is probably an exception since, although he left a minor daughter, he died well on in years. Being born in the early 1670s, he must have been over seventy years old while on his deathbed in early 1747. In other words, one may be confronted mostly with cases in which the deceased had no chance to live longer and to make more money, if it is true that the more you live, the more you earn. As a matter of fact, we enjoy the opportunity to discuss their probate inventories namely because, on their demise, they left minor children since it was one of the few cases in which someone’s property was to be inventoried by the Sharia court. A cursory glance of the household goods listed in their probate inventories shows a modest number of items and value. İbrahim Müteferrika possessed the highest number of goods, but the average value of them was comparable to that of his contemporary booksellers so that he was also rather modest in his lifestyle. The late-nineteenth-century booksellers-turned-printers also possessed a limited number of goods whose value was much higher simply because of inflation throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Only three of the studied booksellers and printers possessed their own houses: Sahhaf İbrahim Efendi (whose house seems to have been rather inexpensive and hence modest because of its price of 133 gurūş, case 2), İbrahim Müteferrika (whose house is valued at 2,500 gurūş, case 5), and Sahhaf

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi (the value of his house is not explicitly stated, case 13). Only in two of the studied cases do we find entries of the value of female slaves, who were used for housewifery. Again, İbrahim Müteferrika owned three expensive female slaves of Georgian origin, and his contemporary Sahhaf El-Hac Mustafa possessed a half-share of the value of a female slave (case 6). The two possessed also some ready money: upon his demise, İbrahim Müteferrika left 110 gurūş, and Sahhaf El-Hac Mustafa forty gurūş. However, although the latter had a half-share of a slave and some cash, he had a lot of debts to pay (77 percent of the value of his property); he left to his two heirs a property whose value was comparable to the other colleagues of his who were of modest substance. İbrahim Müteferrika left considerably more cash upon his demise but it was still insufficient to buy even a small and modest house, for instance. This sum would be problematic even if İbrahim Müteferrika wished to buy another press (yet not a brand new one) because the total value of his used six presses was estimated at 700 gurūş, that is, 117 gurūş per press. In this respect Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi, our last case, seems to have been the richest and luckiest of all the booksellers and printers taken into consideration in the current study. He left cash to his heirs at the considerable value of 66,090 gurūş, a sum that surpasses several times the total value of the property of the rest of his three contemporaries. This sum seems to have been enough not only to buy new presses, the price of one of which is estimated at 200 gurūş, but also large luxury houses. However, Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi had to pay off rather big debts valued at 129,325.5 gurūş so that, finally, the remainder to be shared between his two heirs was even less than the value of his books. His heirs must have been enormously lucky because all his books, as well as his other possessions, were sold and they were able to share the sum of 633,296 gurūş received after deducting the debts and court fees.65 It must be pointed out that Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi’s relatively good material condition has something to do with the legacy he received from his father, the prominent Ottoman printer Karahisari El-Hac Ali Rıza Efendi. Bookselling and printing seems to have been a family business, since Mustafa Esad Efendi’s son from his first wife, Mehmed Şevket Efendi, was also 65 Transliteration in modern Turkish orthography of Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi’s probate inventory is provided in: Orlin Sabev, “İki Örnek Işığında Osmanlı Matbaacılarının Maddi Durumu (İbrahim Müteferrika ve Seyyid Mustafa Esad Efendi),” in İkinci İktisat Tarihi Kongresi Bildirileri – 2 (Elazığ, 24–25 Haziran 2010), ed. Mustafa Öztürk and Ahmet Aksın (Elazığ: T. C. Fırat Üniversitesi İnsani ve Sosyal Bilimler Fakültesi, 2013), 735–55.

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a bookseller, as stated in the probate inventory. On the other hand, besides his book business, Sahhaf Es-Seyyid Mehmed Kemaleddin Efendi (case 10), who also left a considerable inheritance, had another source of regular income as a librarian at the prestigious library of the Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror in Istanbul, as stated in his probate inventory. In addition, it is unclear whether the considerable amount of the remainder left by Es-Seyyid El-hac İsmail Efendi (case 7), calculated at 19,000 gurūş and exceeding at least roughly ten times those of his early-nineteenth-century contemporaries, was due to his presumably outstandingly profitable book business or other reasons, such as, for instance, family legacy or other considerable sources of income. As a matter of fact, all the richer booksellers and printers in my study (cases 7, 10, and 13) appear to be seyyid, that is, people belonging to the group of those claiming to be descendants of the Prophet Muhammad. It could be just a coincidence. However, this fact could serve as an indication for a specific social background providing more opportunities for a prosperous life. Among the richer booksellers and printers, İbrahim Müteferrika is an exception since he was not seyyid, yet he was a Hungarian convert to Islam. In comparison with all the other studied booksellers and printers he had the least debts to pay, mainly monthly salaries for his workers at the printing house, but the books that remained unsold at his printing house were not auctioned or sold out. Instead, they were left as a legacy to his minor daughter. In other words, on her father’s demise, she got no money but only printed books, and she had the right to receive the money made of their sale. Even so, if the estimated value of these books (20,422 gurūş) is deducted from the value of the remainder (25,077 gurūş), the value of 4,655 gurūş remains to be shared between İbrahim Müteferrika’s two heirs: his wife and his minor daughter. So, if they were not able to sell the inherited printed books, they still could rely on the other property whose value in fact surpassed at least ten times the remainders of his contemporary booksellers studied here. It must be pointed out that in contrast to them, whose sources of income seems to be only their book business, İbrahim Müteferrika received a regular monthly salary for his service at the imperial court as a müteferrika, as well as for some additional services in the Ottoman army and by the year 1738 as a liaison officer attached to his Hungarian compatriots, who took refuge in the Ottoman Empire. As a müteferrika he received per annum 300 or 360 gurūş, and as a liaison officer even more: 600 gurūş. These sums are more than or roughly the same as the remainder left for sharing between the heirs of İbrahim Müteferrika’s contemporary booksellers. It seems, therefore, that the first Ottoman printer enjoyed much better material conditions and a higher

They Hadn’t Read My Prints: Success or Failure?     Chapter 4

standard of living than they did. However, it is still unclear whether and to what degree his relatively good well-being was due to his service to the Ottoman state or to his printing activities. More than likely it was due to the combination of the two, since he managed to sell before his death—as already shown—almost 70 percent of the books that came out of his printing house: a percentage that disproves the previous theories about İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing fiasco. It could be inferred from the comparative analysis of the studied thirteen booksellers and printers that, after their initial refusal of and opposition to printing, later on the Ottoman manuscript sellers accepted its facilities and it was for their good. The newly introduced and tested printing technology offered a new professional choice and created a new social behavior. The nineteenth-century Ottoman booksellers preferred to print the books they sold rather than to order their copying or to buy them from the inheritances of dead people or from book owners. This shift seems to be profitable. At least the cases studied here show that the late nineteenth-century booksellers-turned-­ printers’ material conditions and standard of living were much better than those of their colleagues who saw the introduction of Ottoman printing. Obviously, the traditional manuscript sellers could not resist any longer the changing situation and had no other choice but to use the weapon of their former “enemy.” In other words, their parable differed slightly from the biblical parable of Cain and Abel: in the case of the Ottoman book business, Cain did not kill Abel but adopted his know-how to become at least a bit richer.

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Virgin or Poison: The Making of Ottoman Print Culture “Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print.”1 Matthew Pearl

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late-fifteenth-century Dominican friar, Filippo de Strata, exclaimed that “the pen is a virgin; the printing press is a whore.”2 In the Middle Ages, manuscripts were copied for the sake of God and hence were believed to be an emanation of moral and as well as of orthographical purity. In other words, manuscripts were esteemed as virginally pure and perfect objects. In contrast, not only in the very beginning of European printing but also even centuries later printed books were considered a corrupted object because of the initial orthographical imperfectness of the printing technology itself. Thus, some people, especially those involved in manuscript copying, blamed the printed books for their being a devil’s product. Apparently, not everybody welcomed the coming of the printing press, and it is more than certain that printing did not replace the manuscript tradition immediately and without any resistance. The same was the situation long after the introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing in the 1720s. Even over a century later, it seems that printing still had a pejorative connotation. For example, Charles White observed in the early 1840s that the local booksellers “would fain induce strangers to believe that the transcribers of books have their seats near the gate of the seventh heaven, and 1 2

Matthew Pearl, The Last Bookaneer (New York: Penguin Press, 2015), quoted after: http:// www.goodreads.com/quotes/7165220-though-an-angel-should-write-still-tis-devilsmust-print (retrieved on July 6, 2017). Filippo de Strata, Polemic against Printing, ed. Shelagh Grier and Martin Lowry (Birmingham: Hayloft Press, 1986). Quoted after Sabrina A. Baron, “The Guises of Dissemination of Early Seventeenth-Century England. News in Manuscript and Print,” in The Politics of Information in Early Modern Europe, ed. Brendan Dooley and Sabrina A. Baron (London: Routledge, 2001), 41–56.

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that printing presses are made from the calcined wood of Al Zakkum, the dread tree of the lowest pit.”3 My intention in this final chapter is to elaborate on the nature and speed of formation of Ottoman Turkish print culture in light of the claims held in previous scholarship.

REVOLUTION OR EVOLUTION? It was Elizabeth Eisenstein, the prominent researcher in the field of book history, who put forward the idea that the printing press was an “agent of change” that resulted in a “communications revolution” and due to which the traditional scribal culture was replaced by print culture.4 In response to criticism, Eisenstein explains her use of the term “revolution.” Her particular notion of revolution is inspired by Raymond Williams’s oxymoronic expression “long revolution”5 in the sense that it is not about a fast change due to a single act, but a continuous, irreversible process whose effects become visible in the course of its development.6 Eisenstein’s “revolution” theory, however, is not shared by everyone. Robert A. Houston, for example, agrees with Eisenstein that printing undoubtedly changed the way of thinking and played an indirect role in economic, social, and political development in early modern Europe (1500– 1800), but he qualifies Eisenstein’s thesis by stating that the “impact [of the printing press] was neither immediate, nor direct, nor certain.” The changes were slow and contingent, depending on various social, economic and political contexts, and the printing “was arguably not fully developed until the eighteenth century.”7 Jacque le Goff also stresses the fact that after its i­ ntroduction in Europe, printing met the needs of only the literate elite, and it was not until 3 Charles White, Three Years in Constantinople, 2nd ed., vol. 2, 155; Cf. Yahya Erdem, “Sahhaflar ve Seyyahlar,” 725. 4 Elizabeth L. Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change. Communications and Cultural Transformations in Early-Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 44. 5 Raymond Williams, The Long Revolution (London: Hogarth, 1992). 6 Elizabeth Eisenstein, ”The Fifteenth Century Book Revolution, Some Causes and Consequences of the Advent of Printing in Western Europe,” in Le livre dans les sociétés pré-industrielles (Athens: KNE/EIE, 1982), 57–76; Elizabeth Eisenstein, ”From Scriptoria to Printing Shops: Evolution and Revolution in the Early Printing Book Trade,” in Books and Society in History, Papers of the Association of College and Research Libraries Rare Books and Manuscripts Preconference, 24–28 June, 1980, Boston, Massachusetts, ed. Kennets E. Carpenter (New York: Bowker, 1983), 29–42. 7 Houston, Literacy in Early Modern Europe, 160–163.

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the Counter-Reformation that this technology was used to educate the ­public.8 Finally, Brian Richardson concludes that “the transition from manuscript to printed book was in some respects, then, a process of evolution.”9 Thus, the latest scholarship in book history is reevaluating Eisenstein’s theory whether in radical10 or moderate ways.11 Some criticize her noncontextual approach whereby they posit print culture as existing side by side or competing with manuscript culture until well into the eighteenth century. As for printing in the Islamic world, most scholars are inclined to think that the same “print revolution” should have happened.12 However, there are voices that question the “revolution” theory and further hold the opinion that the printing press gave rise to a cultural “evolution” in the Ottoman Empire and the Islamic world in general.13 So, was Müteferrika’s printing enterprise an “agent of change”? Previous scholarship answered this question by referring to the supposed commercial failure of his enterprise, which was suspended after his death. But, in my opinion, İbrahim Müteferrika was an “agent of change,” though not an agent of immediate change. Indeed, the transition from scribal to print culture was a slow, gradual, and arduous process. In Brian Richardson’s words, old habits die hard.14 But at what stage of development of printing could one speak of a “print culture”? This leads us to the question of the definition of print culture. The traditional so-called “print-culture scholarship” considers printing technology with ­movable type as the beginning of print culture. However, for a print culture to dominate over scribal culture, there needs to exist a social conviction in the necessity of printed “agents” of knowledge and information. Thus, the establishment of a printing house is certainly a starting point in formation of a print   8 Jacques le Goff, Les intellectuels au Moyen Âge (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1985), 187.  9 Richardson, Renaissance Italy, 9. 10 See Raven, “Elizabeth Eisenstein and the Impact of Printing.” 11 See Nicholas Hudson, “Challenging Eisenstein: Recent Studies in Print Culture,” EighteenthCentury Life 26, no. 2 (2002): 83–95; Johns, The Nature of the Book; Briggs and Burke, A Social History of the Media. 12 See Eva Hanebutt-Benz, Dagmar Glass, and Geoffrey Roper, ed., Sprachen des Nahen Ostens und die Druckrevolution: eine interculturelle Begegnung (Mainz: Gutenberg Museum, Internationale Gutenberg-Gesellschaft, 2002); Ami Ayalon, The Arabic Print Revolution: Cultural Production and Mass Readership (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 13 See André Demeerseman, “Un mémoire célèbre qui préfigure l’évolution moderne en Islam,” Institut des belles lettres arabes (IBLA) 18 (1955): 5–32; Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe; Sean E. Swanick, “İbrahim Müteferrika and the Printing Press: a Delayed Renaissance,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada 52/I (2014): 270. 14 Richardson, Renaissance Italy, 77.

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culture, but the spread of print culture is contingent upon the particular social context. When speaking about the agents and the opponents of printing—that is, the printers and the copyists or other traditionalists, respectively—the “third party,” the reading public, remains a little bit neglected. The coexistence and correlation between manuscript culture and print culture depended not only on the spread and development of printing presses across Europe or the Ottoman Empire in particular, but on the reception of printed books by the traditional or newly emerging reading public. So far, little is known of how the various segments of that public considered the printed books, how far and how fast printed materials penetrated public and private spheres. The answers to these questions, however, could reveal a trend of reception of printing by the readers, which differs more or less from the speed of spread of printing as a technology. As a matter of fact, the starting point of formation of the Ottoman Turkish attitude toward printing does not coincide with the introduction of Ottoman Turkish printing, but rather with the dawn of European printing with movable type in the second half of the fifteenth century. In fact, this attitude was sometimes ambivalent, presenting a variation between the official and nonofficial attitudes, as both non-Ottoman and Ottoman sources reveal. It is interesting to take a look at the Ottoman Turkish sources revealing the Ottoman official and nonofficial attitudes towards printing. The printing of the Arabic commentary on Euclid’s Elements of Geometry by Nasireddin al-Tusi (1201–74), printed by Typographia Medicea in Rome in 1594, includes the text of a firman issued by Sultan Murad III (b. 1546, r. 1574–95) in 1588. The decree reveals that two European traders had imported to the Ottoman state goods as well as books printed in Arabic and Persian on the basis of a decree allowing them to do so. However, the two traders had complained that their stock had been plundered at the dock. The locals had been seriously offended by the fact that the two foreign traders had such books and plundered them, too. The decree of 1588 ordained that all the responsible Ottoman authorities should not allow in future such plunders that are contradictory to Sharia law and the contracts (capitulations) with Eurpean powers.15 The said firman is a good illustration of what is usually referred to as the two sides of the coin. On the one hand, the official Ottoman authorities allowed trade in Arabic books printed abroad, but on the other hand the wider public was, to a certain extent at least, hostile toward such printings. It must have been especially true for the European printings of the Qur’an. During the seventeenth 15 See the English translation of the text in Atiyeh, ed., The Book in the Islamic World, 283.

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century, a lot of these Qur’anic printings, imported by sea to the Ottoman shores by an Englishman, had been reportedly thrown out into the Sea of Marmara by the locals.16 For the common people, such printings might have been more or less offensive, but those who were in need of them were far more open-minded and secured copies of them. I am able to offer evidence in the copy of another printing of Typographia Medicea of 1593—namely, Avicenna’s Canon in Medicine—preserved in the Oriental Department of the National Library in Sofia. Its title page contains three ownership inscriptions: one dated 1049/1639–40 and pertaining to a ­certain Zeynulabidin son of Halil, who was a Muslim judge in Galata (today, part of Istanbul), and two more of a certain El-Hac Mehmed al-Garbi, who in 1107/1695– 96 purchased the copy from the inheritance of the late El-Hac Mahmud, mufti of Trabzon.17 In this particular case, one can see at least two representatives of the Ottoman religious class of relatively high rank who were not prejudiced toward printed books in Arabic, though an outcome of a western printing house. However, such western prints with Arabic script had not proved successful in trade in the Orient, as Antoine Galland admitted in his preface to d’Herbelot de Mollainville’s Bibliothèque orientale, printed in 1697.18 One may trust Galland’s claims. As shown above, these prints were indeed traded in the Ottoman book market. On the other hand, they had seemingly drawn less attention than ­initially expected, and one could easily detect this not in the lines but between the lines written by two prominent seventeenthcentury Ottoman intellectuals like İbrahim Peçevi (1574–1650) and Katib Çelebi (1609–57), as already discussed.

THE POST-MÜTEFERRIKA AGE Ottoman Turkish printing ceased immediately after Müteferrika’s death in early 1747 and glimmered in the mid-1750s thanks to, in fact, two Ottoman Muslim judges, İbrahim Efendi and Ahmed Efendi. They were Müteferrika’s 16 Franz Babinger, Stambuler Buchwesen im 18. Jahrhundert (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Haertel, 1919), 8. 17 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O II 160, Kitābü’l-Kānūn fī’t-tıbb li-Abu ‘Ali eş-Şeyh er-Reis İbn-i Sīnā (Rome: Tipographia Medicea, XCIII/1593). See the facsimile of the said page in Stoyanka Kenderova and Zorka Ivanova, ed., From the Collections of Ottoman Libraries in Bulgaria during the 18th–19th Centuries (Sofia: National Library Printing Press, 1999), 95. 18 d’Herbelot, Bibliothèque orientale, [25]; Cf. Gerçek, Türk Matbaacılığı, 18–19.

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former apprentices who were holding judicial positions when printing permission was given in 1747. However, they printed nothing until they got their permission confirmed by the new sultan, Osman III (b. 1699, r. 1754– 57), in early 1755. Using Müteferrika’s presses, they managed to reprint the two v­ olumes of the Vankulu dictionary in 1756 and 1757. It was the only book they printed. According to some late eighteenth-century authors of histories or memories of the Ottoman state—such as Voltaire’s nephew Vincent Mignot (d. 1791);19 Elias Abesci/Habesci (d. 1792), a Greek who served as a secretary to the grand vizier between 1757–74;20 and François Baron de Tott (1733–93), a French military officer of Hungarian origin who served for a while also to the Ottomans21— the guild of copyists and calligraphers, as well as the theologians, were responsible for the ceasing of Ottoman printing after Müteferrika’s death. Others, however, hold another view. Giambattista Toderini (1728–99), for example, who spent four and a half years in Istanbul during the period 1781–86 and who wrote three volumes on Turkish literature and writing culture, denies that the opposition of the copyists led the first Ottoman printing enterprise to an end, pointing out that it could not have threatened their livelihood at all, because it did not print religious books. According to Toderini, the only reason was the death of İbrahim Müteferrika himself.22 A contemporary of Toderini, Ignatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson (1740–1807), an Istanbul-born Armenian who served at the Swedish embassy, shares the same opinion in his Tableau général de l’Empire othoman.23 In other words, the vitality of the first Ottoman ­printing press depended completely on the efforts and activity of its founder. As Toderini states metaphorically, Müteferrika was the “soul” of the press.24 Or, in Gibb and Bowen’s ingenious simile, the first Ottoman printing house was a ­“one-man show.”25 19 Vincent Mignot, Histoire de’l-Empire ottoman, Depuis son origine jusqu’à la paix de Belgrade en 1740, vol. 4 (Paris: Le Clerc, 1773), 254–55; Cf. Raïa Zaïmova, Voyager vers l’“autre” Europe: Images françaises des Balkans ottomanes, XVIe-XVIIIe siècles (Istanbul: Les Éditions Isis, 2007), 220. 20 Elias Abesci, État actuel de l’Empire ottoman, trans. Joseph Gaspard Dubois-Fontanelle, vol. 1 (Paris: Lavillette, 1792), 151–52. 21 François Tott, Mémoires du Baron de Tott sur les Turcs et les Tartares, Nouvelle éditions revue, corrigée & augmentée, p. 1 (Maastricht: J. E. Dufour & Ph. Roux, 1786), 117–18. 22 Giambattista Toderini, De la Littérature des Turcs, trans. Abbé de Cournand, vol. 3 (Paris: Poinçot, 1789), 212–19. 23 d’Ohsson, Tableau général de l’Empire othoman, vol. 1, 301. 24 Toderini, De la Littérature des Turcs, vol. 3, 19. 25 Hamilton A. R. Gibb and Harold Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, vol. 1 (Islamic Society in the Eighteenth Century), p. 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), 153.

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Another late-eighteenth-century western traveler, Carsten Niebuhr (1733–1815), claims that neither the theologians nor the copyists and scribes hindered printing technology in the Arabic countries, as believed in Europe. According to him, İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing house was closed down because manuscripts were still surpassing in their elegance the texts printed with Arabic letters.26 As in early European printing, more precisely in the incunabula period, in his printing enterprise, Müteferrika introduced some ad hoc layout changes while paying tribute to the strong scribal culture. Early European printers strove to print books with a layout as similar to the manuscripts as possible. Müteferrika was no exception. Nonetheless, the first eight books he printed had no decoration (‘unvān or serlevha) on the introduction page, a page normally decorated in manuscripts.27 But as soon as a book printed by Müteferrika had been bought, it was illuminated by hand, as a number of preserved copies clearly show.28 During these times, the book, whether in manuscript or printed form, was considered an organic combination of a text and a physical form, that is, the codex, which constituted the “body” or the “home” of the writing itself. Apart from the binding, the text on each page was framed by margin lines, and the introduction page was illuminated by ornamentation resembling the gates of monumental public buildings from the world of Islam.29 These ornamentations suggested that the reader, when “entering” a given book, was entering a building or a temple, a sanctuary of knowledge. Müteferrika apparently noticed that his customers tended to have their printed copies illuminated, and as of the ninth edition (Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem, 1732) he began printing ornamentation on the introduction page (see fig. 2).30 26 Carsten Niebuhr, Beschreibung von Arabien (Kopenhagen: Nicolaus Möller, 1772), 215–16; Cf. Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri ve Sonuçları, 42. 27 See Çiçek Derman, “Osmanlılarda Tezhip Sanatı,” in Osmanlı Devleti ve Medeniyeti Tarihi, ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, vol. 2 (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1998), 487–91. 28 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: О II 175; IRCICA Library (Istanbul): 962/SÜ.T; 359./009561/КА. 29 See Derek Hill and Oleg Grabar, Islamic Architecture and Its Decoration A.D. 800–1500 (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 83. 30 For some comments about the layout changes in the Ottoman printed books, see Klaus Kreiser, “Causes of the Decrease or Ignorance? Remarks on the Printing of Books in the Ottoman Empire,” in The Beginnings of Printing in the Near and Middle East: Jews, Christians and Muslims (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001), 14; Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu and Hatice Aynur, “Yazmadan Basmaya Geçiş: Osmanlı Basma Kitap Geleneğinin Doğuşu (1729–1848),” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 22 (2003): 219–55; Hatice Aynur, “Arap Harfli Türkçe Basılı Kitaplarda İçkapağın Gelişimi: 1826–1923,” in Yücel Dağlı Anısına “Geldi Yücel, Gitti Yücel. Bir Nefes Gibi . . .”, ed. Evangelia Balta, Yorgos

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Figure 2  Introducing page of Takvīmü’t-tevārīh li-Kātib Çelebi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1146/1733). Courtesy of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O II 72, fol. 1b.

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However, the customers would have the ornamentation segments colored by hand, as we see in some of the preserved copies.31 Another change, this time in a break with manuscript tradition, can be seen in the inclusion of “title page” in Müteferrika’s last three editions. As a matter of fact, it was a quasi-title page, because its layout resembled a title page, but there was no title printed on it. Instead, it featured the honorable titles (elkāb) of the sultan, the grand vizier, and the grand mufti of the time, who gave official permission for the given print, as well as the place and year of printing (see fig. 3). In this approach, traditional and new features are combined to get the customers accustomed more quickly and easily to innovations—not unlike the so-called Horsey Horseless, invented by a certain Uriah Smith (1832–1903) of Battle Creek, Michigan, in 1899. In his model, a wooden horse head was attached to the front of an automobile to make it resemble a horse and carriage. In this way, Smith claimed, “the live horse would be thinking of another horse, and before he could discover his error and see that he had been fooled, the strange carriage would be passed.”32 Today considered one of the fifty worst cars of all time, this invention is nonetheless a good example of how the human (and not only human!) mind perceives new forms by using well-known old appearances. Indeed, even toward the turn of the nineteenth century, as Lucy Garnett (1849–1934) accounts, the Turks preferred elegant manuscripts to printed books, and copying of manuscripts was still practiced.33 Therefore, even later Ottoman printed books remained more or less faithful to the traditional ­manuscript layout. It is for this reason that Meral Alpay considers all Ottoman Turkish books printed in Arabic script incunabular.34 Niebuhr’s contemporary Baron de Tott also relates that Müteferrika’s press could not prove perfection in liaisons, it was held in contempt, and İbrahim Dedes, Emin Nedret İşli, and M. Sabri Koz (Istanbul: Turkuaz Yayınları, 2011), 79–101; Yasemin Gencer, “İbrahim Müteferrika and the Age of the Printed Manuscript,” in The Islamic Manuscript Tradition. Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections, ed. Christiane Gruber (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2010), 155–94. 31 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O  II  159; O II 150a; O II 17; IRCICA Library (Istanbul): 491./5539435/FA. 32 Uriah Smith quoted after Dan Neil, “The 50 Worst Cars of All Time”: http://time. com/4723114/50-worst-cars-of-all-time/ (retrieved on July 5, 2017). 33 Lucy M. Garnett, Turkey of the Ottomans (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1911), 234; Erdem, “Sahhaflar ve Seyyahlar,” 728. 34 Meral Alpay, “Türkçe Basma Kitapların Beşik (Incunabel) Devri,” İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Sanat Tarihi Yıllığı 5 (1972–73): 587–99.

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Figure 3  “Title” page of Tārīh-i Rāşid Efendi (Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’lma‘mūre, 1153/1741). Courtesy of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: O II 150a, fol. 1a.

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closed down the printing shop.35 Under “liaisons” Baron de Tott must have meant the liaisons between the Arabic types, which always were problematic in printing with movable type. Jean-Henri Abdolonyme Ubicini (1818–84) also draws attention to that problem, especially in terms of competition with the calligraphically executed manuscripts.36 Indeed, although Müteferrika succeeded in printing books with typeface that is much more legible and pleasing than the previous western editions of texts in Arabic, the liaisons between the type in the books he printed are not always perfect, and sometimes the link is visually missing due probably to the uncontrollable moves of the type during the repeated pressure while printing. It is much more visible in his later editions when the type seems to be already more or less spoiled. However, the quest for printing was still in force. In the second half of the eighteenth century, the idea of printing found its new promoters. Efforts were made by James Mario Matra (1746–1808) when he was a secretary to the English embassy in Istanbul. He relates in a 1779 letter addressed to the English botanist Sir Josef Banks (1743–1820) that he had applied to the Ottoman state officials—“Secretary of State” and “Head of the Chancery,” in his words—for printing permission. Matra intended to reprint a dictionary (the Kāmūs Dictionary) and Turkish translations of books dealing with astronomy and mathematics. Matra’s letter is the only source revealing this printing intention, and the results of his undertaking are unknown.37 However, as no book printed by him has survived, one can suppose that he never managed to print such books. The Ottomans themselves were also trying to revive printing. In a memorandum (titled Mecmu‘a) addressed to Sultan Abdülhamid I (b. 1725, r. 1774– 89) in the early 1780s, Süleyman Penah Efendi (d. 1786) suggested the revival of Ottoman printing for administrative and educational purposes. He meant the printing only of secular texts, not religious texts such as the Qur’an and the Hadiths.38 Süleyman Penah Efendi’s proposal is remarkable evidence of the increasing need in the Ottoman Empire for a faster multiplication and wider 35 Tott, Mémoires du Baron de Tott, 118 (“la Typographie ne pouvait atteindre à la perfection des liaisons; on la méprisa, İbrahim ferma boutique”). 36 Jean-Henri Abdolonyme Ubicini, Lettres sur la Turquie ou tableau statistique, religieux, politique, administratif, militaire, commercial, etc. de l’Empire ottoman, depuis le Khatti-Cherif de Gulhanè (1839). Première partie. Les Оttomans (Paris, Libraire militaire de J. Dumaine, 1853), 245. 37 Richard Clogg, “An Attempt to Revive Turkish Printing in Istanbul in 1779,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 10 (1979): 67–70. 38 Cahit Telci, “Bir Osmanlı Aydının XVIII. Devlet Düzeni Hakkındaki Görüşleri: Penah Süleyman Efendi,” in Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, vol. 7 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 1999), 178–88.

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dissemination of certain texts by means of printing toward the last quarter of the eighteenth century. It is not just a coincidence that Müteferrika’s treatise, printed in 1732 and proposing pro-European military reforms, was presumably widely copied by hand on the eve of Sultan Selim III’s (b. 1761–d. 1808, r. 1789–1807) reforms in the Ottoman army. At least two such copies, dating from the second half of the eighteenth century and preserved in the Firestone Library (Princeton, New Jersey)39 and in the Oriental Department of Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia),40 are good evidence that certain current issues such as, for instance, the apparent and vital need of military reforms created a need of more available copies of texts dealing with such issues. Although the need for more copies was met through copying by hand, some Ottoman intellectuals were convinced that printing was a better alternative. Süleyman Penah Efendi’s proposal was indeed reasonable since there was something in the air as far as printing was concerned. It is uncertain whether Süleyman Penah Efendi’s proposal had a direct effect on Abdülhamid I, but the latter himself initiated the revival of Ottoman printing. In 1784, the sultan appointed Raşid Mehmed Efendi (d. 1797), a head of the government chancery office, and Vasıf Efendi (d.1806), serving as an official annalist, to run a new printing enterprise. The sultan’s order stipulated that only secular books were to be printed. The two printers operated Müteferrika’s old presses once again, printing eleven books, six of which were handbooks to be used in the new European-style military units established by the next reformative sultan, Selim III. The other five books were also on secular subjects.41 This printing house operated until Raşid Mehmed Efendi’s death in 1797. Meanwhile, between 1787 and 1790, a printing house operated at the French embassy, which also printed military handbooks in Ottoman Turkish as well as a grammar of the Turkish language for the Francophone public. The printing equipment of the two aforementioned printing houses was merged in a newly opened printing house at the Engineering School (Mühendishāne), located in the neighborhood of Hasköy, Istanbul, and founded in 1793. The Mühendishāne press was established in 1797 as a consequence of a proposal made by the said Ignatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson (1740–1807) and Ebu Bekir Ratıp Efendi (d.1799), a former Ottoman ambassador to Vienna 39 Firestone Library (Princeton, NJ), Rare Books and Manuscripts Room, Manuscripts Division: Garrett Collection, Yahuda 5011, fol. 19b–75b. 40 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: Or 2296. 41 Jale Baysal, Müteferrika’dan Birinci Meşrutiyete Kadar Osmanlı Türklerinin Bastıkları Kitaplar (Istanbul: Edebiyat Fakültesi, 1968), 59–60.

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from 1791 to 1792. It published books on military and geographical topics, as well as dictionaries and legislative and propaganda brochures.42 Müteferrika’s permission to print only secular books, Süleyman Penah Efendi’s insistence that only secular books should be printed, and the completely secular output of the presses that operated by the end of the eighteenth century all clearly indicate that the Ottomans confronted not only the question “To print or not to print?” but also the perhaps even more important question of what to print or not to print. A recent publication provides for the first time very important evidence about the state attitude toward the printing and trading of religious books such as the Qur’an, Hadith collections, and treatises on Qur’anic exegesis and Muslim jurisprudence. The Turkish scholar İsmail Erünsal published an order addressed to the chief judge of Istanbul, dated 9 Safer 1212/August 3, 1797. The order urged booksellers not to abuse the heirs’ rights on an inherited legacy by intentionally underestimating the books they buy from these legacies. It warned that they would be severely punished in cases of misconduct and stressed that the booksellers would also be punished if they bought from such legacies and then sold printed Qur’ans, Hadith collections, exegeses, and books on Muslim jurisprudence, as the printing, buying, and selling of such books was “forbidden by the Sharia” (şer‘an memnū‘).43 In 1802, the Mühendishāne press was transferred to Üsküdar, a quarter on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus. The Üsküdar printing house functioned until 1824, when its presses were transferred to a printing house, located again in the European side of the city and known as the Istanbul Printing Press. More importantly, one is struck by the first-time printing of a religious text by the Üsküdar press in 1803: the sixteenth-century Ottoman author Birgivi’s (1522– 73) popular treatise on Islamic dogmas Vasiyetnāme (Testament), followed by Amentü (Confession of Faith), a small treatise on Islamic creed. It is worth mentioning that the Üsküdar press was directed by a certain Abdurrahman Efendi (d.1807), who graduated from an Ottoman theological and law school (medrese) and became known as the first teacher of geometry at the abovementioned Mühendishāne School.44 42 Kemal Beydilli, Türk Bilim ve Matbaacılık Tarihinde Mühendishâne, Mühendishâne Matbaası ve Kütüphanesi (1776–1826) (Istanbul: Eren, 1995), 15–17, 28–32, 99–261; Baysal, Osmanlı Türklerinin Bastıkları Kitaplar, 61–62. 43 Erünsal, “Osmanlılarda Sahhaflık ve Sahhaflar,” 115, 145; Erünsal, Osmanlılarda Sahaflık ve Sahaflar, 472–73. 44 Beydilli, Türk Bilim ve Matbaacılık Tarihinde Mühendishane, 136–37.

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Kemal Beydilli points out that the printing of religious texts at the Üsküdar printing house was directly linked with Mehmed Emin Behiç Efendi’s (d. 1809) suggestion. Yet the printing of such books, so popular with the reading public as to guarantee their bestseller status, was a breath of fresh air for the Mühendishāne press, which had been at a standstill prior to its transfer to Üsküdar.45 At the turn of the nineteenth century (1217/1802–3) Mehmed Emin Behiç Efendi wrote a critical memorandum, addressed to the Ottoman ruler and titled Sevānihü’l-levāyih (Inspired memorandums). In contrast to Süleyman Penah Efendi, he pleaded for instructive books on the Muslim religion, as well as Arabic textbooks, to be immediately printed in editions of 3,000 to 4,000 copies, to improve mass education in religion matters by providing pupils with cheaper textbooks. Behiç Efendi suggested printing regulations (nizāmnāme) for the Muslim religious functionaries in the provinces, as well textbooks for a school, which would be designed to train clerks for the imperial bureaucracy. He further insisted on the printing and disseminating of a penal code in accordance with the Sharia.46 What is important in Behiç Efendi’s view is the fact that he evaluated the vital role of printing in making religious education accessible to a wider social layer and in improving the work of bureaucracy and the implementation of the law. It was not only Behiç Efendi who called for strengthening of Islamic morals through a proper education in religious matters. Sultan Mahmud II (r. 1808–39) turned these more or less informal proposals into a state policy. The sultan was prompted to follow such a policy because of the vast demoralization of his Muslim subjects due to the failures in the wars against Russia and Austria, as well as the Serb and Greek wars for independence. These failures were considered not only political but religious as well, and a proclamation of Mahmud II, dated 21 Cemāziü’l-evvel 1225/June 24, 1810, is a good illustration of such an attitude. The sultan called all his Muslim subjects to defend the state and the Muslim faith from the Russian troops that then occupied what is now northeastern Bulgaria.47 In 1824, Sultan Mahmud II even issued a firman on the necessity of improving the elementary religious education of all Muslim children.48 The official newspaper Takvīm-i Vakāyī 45 Beydilli, Türk Bilim ve Matbaacılık Tarihinde Mühendishane,  136–137; Kemal Beydilli, “Küçük Kaynarca’dan Tanzimat’a Islahat Düşünceleri,” İlmi Araştırmalar 8 (1999): 43. 46 Beydilli, “Küçük Kaynarca’dan Tanzimat’a Islahat Düşünceleri,” 43, 46. 47 Précis historique des révolutions de Constantinople, en 1807, 1808 et 1826, trans. Mathieu Puscich (Marseille: Olive, 1830), 85–88 (“Appel ou Adresse du Sultan Mahmoud a tous les Musulmans”). 48 Hasan Ali Koçer, Türkiye’de Modern Eğitimin Doğuşu ve Gelişimi (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1991), 35–37.

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(Calendar of Events) in late 1831 and early 1832 called for printing of books of religious instructions that would serve the religious functionaries in the implementation of their duties and guide those whose ignorance in the field of religion threatened public order.49 In other words, printing was intentionally used for the multiplication of texts on religious matters, thus facilitating the dissemination of religious knowledge among the public. Religion seems to be a key instrument in the recovery of Ottoman statehood, with the newly created army that replaced the Janissary corps in 1826 being called ‘Asākir-i Mansūre-i Muhammediye (Mohammedan Victorious Armies). In 1831, the first Ottoman lithographic press was set up in Istanbul by the French cousins Henri and Jacques Caillol. Until 1836, they printed seven books, mostly instructive texts serving the newly created army.50 As Orhan Koloğlu points out, Ottoman printing (especially that of newspapers), was sparked by Sultan Mahmud II, who was deeply convinced of the utility of printing for propaganda purposes after the Greek national revolution broke out in 1821. Newspapers such as Vakāyī-i Mısrīye (1828), Vakāyī-i Girīdiye (1831), and Vakāyī-i ‘Askeriye (1831), as well as the abovementioned Takvīm-i Vakāyī defended Ottoman statehood.51 Undoubtedly, printing was considered to be of vital importance in implementing a certain policy. During Mahmud II’s reign, printing developed not only in the then Ottoman capital Istanbul but also in the provinces. In 1822, the renowned governor of the province of Egypt, Muhammad ‘Ali, founded in Cairo the so-called Bulaq press. Its first publication was an Arabic-Italian dictionary, which likely had something to do with the fact that some Italian typographers along with Egyptians were included in the press staff. During the period 1822–66, it published at least 147 titles covering a wide range of subject categories both traditional (Ottoman history, calendars, interpretations of dreams, traditional encyclopedias, administration, poetry, pilgrimage ritual, religion, morals, mysticism, biographies of the Prophet, belles lettres, rhetoric, education, Arabic grammar, language dictionaries, religious law) and modern (military, naval, medical issues, industry, mathematics, mechanics, engineering, geography, geology, botany, European history, ancient Egyptian history, natural history, veterinary, travel, history of philosophy, agriculture). 49 Koloğlu, Takvimi Vekayi, 155; Kabacalı, Türk Kitap Tarihi, 109. 50 See Selim Nüzhet Gerçek, Taş Basmacılığı (Istanbul: Maarif Vekâleti, 1939); Alpay Kabacalı, Başlangıcından Günümüze Türkiye’de Matbaa, Basın ve Yayın (Istanbul: Literatür, 2000), 41–45. 51 Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri, 96.

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A considerable number of titles were translations from western languages (mainly French). The main aim of the press was to provide the necessary instructive books (both in Ottoman Turkish and Arabic) for improving the local army and the agriculture of the province.52 The next sultan, Abdülmecid I (b. 1823, r. 1839–61), initiated a new trend in Ottoman mass education. In 1845, he issued a decree insisting that illiteracy must be combated not only in the field of religion but also in the field of secular knowledge. As a consequence of that decree, in 1846 a temporary committee was established to propose reforms in Ottoman education. These reforms, embodied later in the special Regulation of Public Education of 1869, stimulated mass education in history and geography, as well as the printing of relevant textbooks.53 Ottoman printing received a boost in the next decades through the permission given to the Ottoman booksellers to commission printing of books at the printing press of Takvīm-i Vakāyī. This allowed them to publish new genres of literature such as Arabic, Persian, and Turkish poetry, translations of western belles lettres, as well as legal, dogmatic, and grammatical treatises widely used in the medrese system. On booksellers’ orders appeared also the abovementioned al-Tabari’s History.54 As a matter of fact, printings on religious matters began gradually prevailing over those on secular matters. It was partly due to the printing of textbooks for the reformed school system that required greater numbers of books for the sake of mass education than ever before. Rifat Pasha’s textbook on Islamic ethics (Ahlāk Risālesi, printed lithographically in 1847), for instance, became a bestseller and had fifty-five editions.55 To summarize, it seems that toward the turn of the nineteenth century it was much easier to persuade the Ottoman society of the public utility of printing than ever before. The reason for that was not only the more visible need of printing but equally the earlier precedent set by İbrahim Müteferrika. In other words, due 52 See Richard N. Verdery, “The Publications of the Bulaq Press under Muhammad ‘Ali of Egypt,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 91, no. 1 (1971): 129–32; Günay Alpay Kut, “Matba‘a,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition, vol. 6, ed. C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, B. Lewis, Ch. Pellat (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 797–98. 53 See Ubicini, Lettres sur la Turquie, 205–206; Aziz Berker, Türkiyede İlk Öğretim. I. 1839– 1908 (Ankara: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1945), 8–12, 82; Koçer, Türkiye’de Modern Eğitimin Doğuşu, 40–43, 82–107. 54 Server İskit, Türkiye’de Neşriyat Hareketleri Tarihine Bir Bakış (Istanbul: Maarif Vekaleti, 1939), 32; Server İskit, Türkiye’de Matbuat Rejimleri (Istanbul: Matbuat Umum Müdürlüğü, 1939), 8, 839–40; Ertuğ, Basın ve Yayın Hareketleri, 144; Yavuz S. Karakışla, “Osmanlı Kitap Tarihinde Bir Katkı.” 55 İskit, Neşriyat Hareketleri, 36–37.

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to Müteferrika’s printing enterprise, a major shift in the public attitude toward printing occurred between the mid-seventeenth century when intellectuals such as İbrahim Peçevi and Katib Çelebi had not even thought that this technology could be introduced to the Ottomans, although their accounts outline the advantages of European or Chinese printing, and the turn of the nineteenth century when intellectuals such as Süleyman Penah Efendi and Mehmed Emin Behiç Efendi were deeply convinced of the necessity of printing. After the 1784 revival, Ottoman printing boomed in the nineteenth century, serving faithfully the reforms in Ottoman civil, religious, and military education; the improvement of Ottoman central and provincial administration; the launching of purposive propaganda of the state reformative initiatives; and the Ottoman booksellers who got permission to print books even at the state printing press. Although the printings on religious matters began gradually prevailing over those on secular matters, hitherto neglected branches of learning—such as history, geography, and physics—were put into the school curricula and corresponding textbooks were also printed. Ubicini states that printing brought to the Ottomans new branches of learning that played a significant role in their progress.56 The remarkable development of Ottoman printing in the nineteenth century did not cause the strong manuscript tradition to cease. It just proved that printing was an alternative technology, which in the course of time expanded more and more at the expense of manuscript copying. Probably nostalgia was responsible for the above cited negative attitude of some Istanbul booksellers toward printing, as observed by Charles White in the early 1840s. It is noteworthy, for instance, that the probate records, dating from the second half of the nineteenth century, as well as even the printed official catalogues of Ottoman libraries prepared during the reign of Abdülhamid II (b. 1842–d. 1918, r. 1876– 1909), still make a distinction between the manuscripts and the printed books by explicitly specifying the latter with the term “printed” (matbū‘). Yet official administrative correspondence either on the central or local level dating from the 1850s, for example, refers to printed regulative or legislative materials such as “printed general instruction sheet” (matbū‘ ta‘rife-i ‘umūmiye)57 or “printed regulation” (matbū‘ nizāmnāme)58 by explicitly underlining their being printed. In other words, in the Ottoman nineteenth century, the printed word was still considered, in a way, an extraordinary rather than ordinary phenomenon. 56 Ubicini, Lettres sur la Turquie, 243. 57 Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: Fund 96, a. u. 92: official report (mazbata) from 1269/1852. 58 Ibid., Fund 96A, a. u. 172: official report (mazbata) from 1274/1857–58.

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If so, when did Ottoman print culture form? Jale Baysal suggests that an important step was made in 1803 when for the first time a religious book, Birgivi’s Vasiyetnāme, was printed in Istanbul and thus the Muslim reading public could get access to this rather popular text in printed form.59 By drawing attention to the figure of “142 books” printed by Ottoman Turkish printing houses between 1727 and 1838, M. Şükrü Hanioğlu asserts that “the introduction of the printing press did not transform Ottoman cultural life until the emergence of vibrant print media in the middle of the nineteenth century.”60 According to Jale Baysal, however, these books numbered 436, but it is true that only in the following two decades (1840– 58) their number almost doubled, reaching the figure of 799.61 Baysal suggests that during the period of 1869–75, when the first Ottoman Turkish novels and plays were written and printed, printing could adequately meet the demands and tastes of the Muslim reading public and hence “was already accepted by the society.”62 During that period, however, another major step in Ottoman ­printing proved it irreversible: the printing of the Qur’an itself in the heart of the Ottoman Empire, Istanbul. It was first printed lithographically in 1871, and then with movable type in 1874.63 Apparently only in the 1870s did Ottoman/ Muslim society acquiesce to having its holy text in printed form, having waited a long enough time to be persuaded by the advantages of printing technology. The probate inventory of a certain Hadice daughter of Hacı Ömer Ağa from Salonica, dated 1878 and including two printed Qur’ans,64 suggests that at that time the printing press was no more believed to be made from the p­ oisonous oleander plant (zakkum), as it was as late as the early 1840s, according to Charles White’s observations. Ahmed Cevdet Pasha (1822–95), one of the prominent nineteenth-century Ottoman intellectuals, relates in his History of how the Ottoman attitude toward 59 Baysal, Osmanlı Türklerinin Bastıkları Kitaplar, 63. 60 Hanioğlu, A Brief History of the Late Ottoman Empire, 38; Cf. Swanick, “İbrahim Müteferrika and the Printing Press,” 292. 61 Baysal, Osmanlı Türklerinin Bastıkları Kitaplar, 29–45; Cf. Kreiser, “Causes of the Decrease or Ignorance?” 15; Sabev, İbrahim Müteferrika, 336. 62 Baysal, Osmanlı Türklerinin Bastıkları Kitaplar, 71–74. 63 See Osman Keskioğlu, “Türkiye’de Matbaa Te’sisi ve Mushaf Basımı,” Ankara Üniversitesi İlâhiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 15 (1967): 121–39; Мahmud Gündüz, “Matbaanın Tarihçesi ve İlk Kur’anı Kerim Basmaları,” Vakıflar Dergisi 12 (1978): 335–50; Nedret Kuran-Burçoğlu, “Matbaacı Osman Bey: Saray’dan İlk Defa Kur’an-ı Kerim Basma İznini Alan Osmanlı Hattatı,” Türklük Bilgisi Araştırmaları/Journal of Turkish Studies 26 (2002) (Barbara Flemming Armağanı II): 97–112. 64 Anastassiadou, “Livres et ‘bibliothèques’ dans les inventaires après décès,” 120.

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printing of religious matters changed. He points out that after Müteferrika and Said Çelebi were permitted to print secular books, the Ottomans were reluctant to print religious texts because of the concern that they would harm the sacredness of the “Sharia books” (which is pretty a good reminder of Busbecq’s observation from the sixteenth century!). But the Ottomans applied the principle of analogy, observed by the Hanafi School of law, and accepted that printing of the Qur’an is not a blasphemy since binding of the Qur’an, also requiring pressing, is considered allowable. Therefore, many religious texts were printed for the sake of knowledge diffusion among the students.65 Another significant indication that in the 1860s and 1870s Ottoman print culture was already well developed is the idea to modify the cursive nature of the Arabic script into incursive so as to better fit the typesetting process. In the early 1860s intellectuals such as Münif Pasha (1828–1910) and Ahundzade Feth-Ali (1812–78), and later on Celal Nuri İleri (1881–1938), were concerned that printing with movable type did not meet the specificities of the Arabic cursive script.66 The problem was that printing with Arabic letters created great difficulties not found in printing the Latin, Greek, Armenian, Hebrew, and Cyrillic alphabets, or even Chinese hieroglyphs. As a matter of fact, in evaluating Müteferrika’s enterprise the previous scholarship paid less attention to that aspect of printing.67 Arabic, and its Persian and Ottoman Turkish versions respectively, are cursive scripts, that is, most letters are linked to the preceding and following ones. As a result they have four different forms, one main and three other forms, depending on the position in the word. Thus, printing in Arabic is much more difficult and, in a sense, less practical: first, because it requires far more forms than the other scripts; and second, because these forms need to link perfectly.68 This means that the typesetting process takes far longer and the result is not always satisfactory, leaving little room for 65 Tārīh-i Cevdet, vol. 1 (Der sa‘ādet: Matba‘a-i ‘Osmāniye, 1309/1891), 76. 66 See Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika ve Türk Matbaacılığı, 30–32; Fevziye Abdullah Tansel, “Arap Harflerinin İslâhı ve Değiştirilmesi Hakkında İlk Teşebbüsler ve Neticeleri (1862– 1884),” Belleten 17, no. 66 (1953): 223–249. 67 Adnan Erzi, “Basım,” in Türk (İnönü) Ansiklopedisi, vol. 5, fas. 37–38 (Istanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1951), 334, 336; Sait Maden, “Başlangıcından Bugüne Türk Grafik Sanatı. Müteferrika Dönemi,” Çevre. Mimarlık ve Görsel Sanatlar Dergisi 2 (1979): 83–87; 3 (1979): 87–90; 4 (1979): 89–90; Koloğlu, Basımevi ve Basının Gecikme Sebepleri, 41–44; Kabacalı, Türk Kitap Tarihi, 112–13; Topdemir, İbrahim Müteferrika, 30–32. 68 Huda S. Abifares, Arabic Typography: A Comprehensive Sourcebook (London: Saqi Books, 2001), 94–95; Warren Chappell, A Short History of the Printed Word (London: André Deutsch Ltd, 1972), 38.

Virgin or Poison: The Making of Ottoman Print Culture    Chapter 5

claims that printing is a better way of duplicating texts than copying by hand. Calligraphy is considered a supreme Islamic art69 that makes success for typesetting printing technology a hard task. Lithography, on the other hand, proved far more satisfying to the Muslim reading public on esthetic grounds.70 But it did not mean that the Ottomans were to desist from printing with movable type. Quite the contrary: after the reign of Sultan Mahmud II (1808–39) and by the end of the nineteenth century at least seventy-seven printing houses, publishing in Ottoman Turkish, were in operation in Istanbul. Of them, fifty combined typesetting and lithographical printing technologies, twenty-one were typesetting, and six lithographical.71 In contrast to the eastern parts of Muslim world, where lithography became the more preferable mode of printing, the Ottomans kept on printing with movable type, lithography remaining of secondary significance. However, this did not deter the Ottomans from experimenting with printing with movable type: in 1879, the Council of Public Education (Meclis-i Ma‘arif-i ‘Umūmiye) appointed a special committee to revise Arabic script in order to make it incursive precisely for printing purposes, but the committee was unsuccessful.72 Later, however, in 1914 the so-called “Enver Pasha’s orthography” (Enver Pāşā imlāsı), which divided the Arabic characters (i.e., made the Arabic script incursive), was tested in printing.73 Of course, what marked the end of all of these problems was the official introduction of a Turkish version of the Latin script in 1928, the Latin letters being sporadically used in private correspondence between some nineteenth-century Ottoman Turkish literati.74 It seems that what Muslim societies were actually waiting for was not printing itself but the improvement of printing so as to satisfy the specific requirements of duplicating of the holy texts. That was probably why, in contrast to the western societies, they preferred to print secular books first, then popular but not standard religious books (Birgivi’s Vasiyetnāme), followed by standard treatises related to Muslim law and dogmatics, used in the theological education, and finally the Qur’an. In other words, printing penetrated 69 See M. Uğur Derman and Nihad M. Çetin, The Art of Calligraphy in the Islamic Heritage, ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1998). 70 See Robinson, “Technology and Religious Change.” 71 See the list of these presses in: Galiptekin, ed., Osmanlı Kaynaklarına Göre İstanbul, 974–83. 72 İskit, Neşriyat Hareketleri, 90. 73 Erzi, “Basım,” 336; İskit, Neşriyat Hareketleri, 145–46. 74 See Enver Ziya Karal, “Tanzinat’tan Sonra Türk Dili Sorunu,” in Tanzimat’tan Cumhuriyet’e Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, vol. 2 (Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları, 1985), 331.

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the Muslim circle of knowledge from its periphery and finally approached its very core. It seems that the attitude was just cautious behavior in the gradual adoption of printing, allowing it further penetration in the world of Islamic knowledge step by step. It was a mutual process: printing overcame its shortcomings and proved more efficacious and correct, while Muslims overcame their initial reluctance and suspicions. In other words, the “lecherous” body of the printing press was covered with the veil of “virginity.”

Conclusion: Waiting for Godot? “Patience is not an absence of action; rather it is ‘timing.’”1 Fulton J. Sheen

O

ne of the Ottoman eighteenth century’s hallmarks was the so-called Tulip Age (1718–30). Historians called it so because of the tulip gardens cultivated in different places of Istanbul. Their refined fragrance replaced the smell of the gunpowder that prevailed during the preceding wars. Besides, in those years there was a place in the then Ottoman capital where one’s nose could sense for the first time another kind of smell: the heavy smell of the oil-based ink, used in the first Ottoman Turkish printing press. Indeed, the Ottomans could sniff such a smell in earlier times because Jewish, Armenian, and Greek-Orthodox printing houses operated during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but it was during the Tulip Age when the printing technology with movable type was introduced to the Ottomans themselves. One might suggest that before the seemingly fortuitous introduction of Ottoman printing in the first half of the eighteenth century, the Ottomans had a latent rather than apparent wish for printing. The Müteferrika press was definitely a personal enterprise that succeeded in engaging the needed support of statesmen. It offered to the reading public an alternative technology for the m ­ ultiplication of texts, which could be applicable when demand existed for books on certain topics or of specific genres. In the course of time, printing proved its advantages in serving nineteenth-century reforms, mass education in particular, providing more copies in a shorter time than manuscript duplication could. The Ottoman authorities did not initiate but supported such a printing enterprise, which was completely a private and personal undertaking. It was İbrahim Müteferrika who, enjoying in the beginning the moral and financial support of Said Çelebi, one of the officials to join the 1720–21 Ottoman embassy to France, established the first Ottoman printing press.   1 Quoted after: http://www.integratedcatholiclife.org/2015/10/daily-­catholic-quote-fromvenerable-fulton-j-sheen-33/ (retrieved on July 6, 2017).

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İbrahim Müteferrika became famous both among his contemporaries and in history not as müteferrika—his court service—but as the first Ottoman Muslim printer. His incredibly enormous enthusiasm in printing helped him to overcome some obstacles set by alleged opponents of printing such as scribes, manuscript copyists, and men of religion. As Müteferrika’s probate inventory shows, the books he printed sold slowly and with a bit of difficulty. Omne principium difficile! Logically, the unsold copies of the earlier editions were fewer than the later ones, since they were in the book market for a longer period of time. By examining the numbers of unsold copies against the number of the initial print run of each of the Müteferrika editions, one is able to determine the degree of popularity that each title enjoyed. Among Müteferrika’s bestsellers were the Arabic-Turkish dictionary of Vankulu and Grammaire turque, followed by some titles such as Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem, Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye, and Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna, as well as Tārīh of Naima. Although the first Ottoman Turkish printing enterprise was relatively successful, it ceased immediately after Müteferrika’s death, and revived sporadically just for one edition in the mid-1750s and then only in 1784 continued in a more stable way. That is why the previous scholarship was inclined to claim that the first Ottoman Turkish printing press was a failure rather than a success. Perhaps, the hitherto negative assessments of Müteferrika’s printing enterprise were due to the view that the printing innovation was a sweeping revolution that took place in a short period of time. However, for a long time, the pen and press had been in play side by side. Their coexistence was seemingly competitive and even mutually rejecting rather than peaceful and complementary. A good illustration is probably the case of GreekOrthodox printing. It started in the sixteenth century due to various printing houses outside the borders of the Ottoman Empire, except for one founded by the patriarch Cyril Lukaris (b. 1572, 1620–38) and the monk Nikodimos Metaxas in Istanbul in 1627. However, until well into the nineteenth century the Greek monasteries, schools, and other cultural institutions kept on copying theological books by hand since the locals considered the books, printed in Western Europe, to be corrupted with Catholic interpretations.2 At the turn of the nineteenth century, the Greek intellectuals shared the attitude that printing was controversial. In 1783, 2 Triandafilos E. Sklavenitis, “I dispistia sto entipo vivlio ke i paralili hrisi tu hirografu” [Distrust in the printed book and the parallel use of manuscripts], in Le livre dans les sociétés pré-industrielles (Athens: KNE/EIE, 1982), 283–293.

Conclusion: Waiting for Godot?

Dimitrios Katartzis (1730–1807) called the Greek calligraphers to “resurrect” and plead for active use of manuscripts, referring to the Ottomans (at that time without a printing house), while others such as Yosipos Misioadakas (d. c. 1800) and Adamantios Korais (1748–1833) advocated for printed books.3 So, could one claim that Greek print culture proved itself toward the beginning of the ­nineteenth century? In other words, the formation of print culture must be considered a long-term process, which could take less or much longer time in different sociocultural contexts. As for the transition from scribal to print culture within the TurkishMuslim segment of Ottoman society, its long print revolution or evolution, if you will, was preceded by a long delay or wait. Printing in Western Europe began in the ­mid-­fifteenth century; non-Muslim Ottoman ­subjects such as Jews,4 Armenians,5 Greeks,6 Orthodox Slavs,7 or Arabic- or Syriac-speaking Christians8 established during the late fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and early 3 Ekaterini Kumarianu, “Stasis ke simperifores apenandi sto elliniko entipo ston ftinonda 18 ke ston arhomeno 19 eona” [Attitudes and behaviour towards the Greek printed texts in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries], in Le livre dans les sociétés pré-­industrielles (Athens: KNE/EIE, 1982), 257–269. 4 See Na‘eh, “Hebrew Printing Houses in the Ottoman Empire”; Ittai Joseph Tamari, “Notes on the Printing in Hebrew Typefaces from the 15th to 19th Centuries,” in Middle Eastern Languages and the Print Revolution. A Cross-cultural Encounter. A Catalogue and Companion to the Exhibition, ed. Eva Hanebutt-Benz, Dagmar Glass, and Geoffrey Roper (Mainz: Gutenberg Museum, Internationale Gutenberg-Gesellschaft, 2002), 33–52; Yasin Meral, İstanbul’da Yahudi Matbuatı (1493–1729) (Ankara: Divan Kitap, 2016). 5 See Raymond H. Kévorkian, “Le Livre imprimé en milieu arménien ottoman aux XVIe– XVIIIe siècles,” Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée 87–88 (1999): 173–85; Meliné Pehlivanian, “Mesrop’s Heirs: The Early Armenian Book Printers,” in Middle Eastern Languages and the Print Revolution. A Cross-cultural Encounter. A Catalogue and Companion to the Exhibition, ed. Eva Hanebutt-Benz, Dagmar Glass, and Geoffrey Roper (Mainz: Gutenberg Museum, Internationale Gutenberg-Gesellschaft, 2002), 53–92. 6 See Nil Pektaş, “The Beginnings of Printing in the Ottoman Capital: Book Production and Circulation in Early Modern Constantinople,” Osmanlı Bilimi Araştırmaları 16, no. 2 (2015): 17–29; Nil Ozlem Pektas, The First Greek Printing Press in Constantinople (1625– 1628) (PhD diss., Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, University of London, 2014). 7 See Liljana Šandanova, ed., Centres et institutions culturels et éducatifs des peuples balkaniques, XVe–XIXe ss. Bibliographie (Sofia: SIBAL, 1989), 119–42. 8 See Geoffrey Roper, “Early Arabic Printing in Europe,” in Middle Eastern Languages and the Print Revolution. A Cross-cultural Encounter. A Catalogue and Companion to the Exhibition, ed. Eva Hanebutt-Benz, Dagmar Glass, and Geoffrey Roper (Mainz: Gutenberg Museum, Internationale Gutenberg-Gesellschaft, 2002), 129–50; J. F. Coakley, “Printing in Syriac, 1539–1985,” in Middle Eastern Languages and the Print Revolution. A Cross-cultural Encounter. A Catalogue and Companion to the Exhibition, ed. Eva Hanebutt-Benz, Dagmar Glass, and Geoffrey Roper (Mainz: Gutenberg Museum, Internationale Gutenberg-Gesellschaft,

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eighteenth centuries their own printing presses to print predominantly religious texts, but the first Ottoman/Muslim printing enterprise was launched only in the third decade of the eighteenth century. How can we explain such a delay? Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century western travelers hold that the Ottoman reluctance to adopt printing was due to the strong manuscript tradition and the resistance of the Ottoman copyists and calligraphers against it. On the other hand, the first sixteenth-century examples of Arabic texts printed in Europe proved the typesetting technology imperfect rather than applicable because of many orthographical and grammatical errors in the western printed versions of the Qur’an and some classical Arabic texts such as Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine, for instance.9 The imperfectness of these examples was due to the lack of capable punch-cutters of the Arabic characters as well as proficient proofreaders.10 It seems that the poor layout quality of these editions was the main reason that fewer books sold than expected. Although some documentary evidence exists confirming that the Ottomans were biased against printing of Islamic religious texts, the allegations that they were negatively inclined toward printing in general seem to be groundless. Rather, they did not feel a crucial need of printing. It seems that technological difficulties made the world of Islam reluctant to immediately and ultimately adopt printing with movable type, and only personal striving and effort, as in the case of İbrahim Müteferrika, and not a definite sociocultural demand, called Ottoman/Muslim printing into being. Probably, printing with movable type was the first European invention that was introduced to the Ottomans completely due to personal aspirations rather than a state initiative. İbrahim Müteferrika’s printing enterprise became possible because he was a confident admirer of the already developed European print culture and probably well skilled in that art to be keen enough to undertake such a venture on Ottoman soil, where calligraphy was adored and printing was considered imperfect to fit the specifics of the Arabic alphabet. As a matter of fact, the Ottomans relied upon such agents of change, coming from outside, until well into the nineteenth century. For example, persons of foreign background—like Topçu Urban, who made 2002), 93–115; Ioana Feodorov, “Beginning of Arabic Printing in Ottoman Syria (1706– 1711). The Romanians’ Part in Athanasius Dabbās’s Achievements,” ARAM 25, no. 1–2 (2013): 231–60; Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 124–53.   9 See Mahdi, “From the Manuscript Age to the Age of Printed Books,” 1–15. 10 Gdoura, Le début de l’imprimerie arabe, 35.

Conclusion: Waiting for Godot?

cannons for the Ottomans during the reign of Sultan Mehmed II (1444–46, 1451–81); Gerçek Davud, who in 1720 established in Istanbul the first Ottoman fire department; İbrahim Müteferrika, who introduced the printing technology; and Claude Alexandre de Bonneval (1675–1747), who became a convert under the name Humbaracı Ahmed Pasha and trained the Ottoman artillerists—were educated border crossers who became “agents of change” in a state which was inward-looking, except for conquest aspirations. And it was during the Tulip Age (1718–30) when, for the first time, long-term Ottoman embassies were sent to France and Persia. However, permanent Ottoman embassies were established only in 1793.11 Since then the Ottoman state gradually became outward-looking, much more interested in the developments outside its borders, and its own representatives were already in charge to observe these developments and to operate as “agents of change” offering the adoption or adaptation of some of them in the Ottoman milieu. Moreover, not only diplomats but also Ottoman students were sent to Europe, mostly to Paris, to acquire western knowledge in various technologies, including lithography and typesetting, and to apply it on their return to the homeland.12 The history of Ottoman Turkish printing differs in important points from the general history of printing. In Europe, print culture emerged as a result of a gradual and long-term process of complementing, alternating, and competing with the manuscript tradition. In the Ottoman milieu, print culture was in a way implanted or transplanted. The Ottomans of the pre-printing period were certainly not concerned that they were losing time by being reluctant to adopt the printing technology. From their perspective, their time was not lost at all. Probably that is why the Ottomans were waiting too patiently for their printer. And all this began due to İbrahim Müteferrika whom the Ottomans themselves were not seemingly waiting for so faithfully as Beckett’s characters for their Godot. Yet by contrast with Godot, İbrahim Müteferrika did appear to make the first step in the formation of Ottoman print culture. Once Müteferrika set the precedent of typography in the first half of the eighteenth century, the idea of printing found its way slowly in the minds first of the Ottoman intellectuals and then of the Ottoman rulers and developed gradually into an established print culture in the second half of the nineteenth century. 11 See Ercüment Kuran, Avrupa’da Osmanlı İkâmet Elçiliklerinin Kuruluşu ve İlk Elçilerin Siyâsî Faâliyetleri (1793–1821) (Ankara: Türk Kültürünü Araştırma Enstitüsü, 1988). 12 See Adnan Şişman, Tanzimat Döneminde Fransa’ya Gönderilen Osmanlı Öğrencileri (1839– 1876) (Istanbul: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 2004).

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If İbrahim Müteferrika could see all these later developments, he would have been satisfied. As to whether he died a happy or a desperate man, as in Jale Baysal’s abovementioned play, we can never be certain. However, the consoling words of the poet Nevres—in Baysal’s imagination—are at least full of historical optimism: “Probably the next [generations] will read [your printed books] . . . as well as the generations after them. Did not you pave the way?”13

13 Baysal, Cennetlik İbrahim Efendi, 90. (“Belki sonralar . . . çok çok sonraları okuyacaklar. Sen yolu açmadın mı?”)

Bibliography UNPUBLISHED ARCHIVAL SOURCES IN OTTOMAN TURKISH Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (Istanbul): Ali Emiri, III. Ahmed 1791, 14755; Cevdet Hariciye 5256, 6927, 7911. IRCICA Library (Istanbul): 491./5539435/FA; 962/SÜ.T; 359./009561/КА. İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul): Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, defter no: 56, 70, 93A, 93B, 98, 802, 820, 1879, 1934. Firestone Library (Princeton), Rare Books and Manuscripts Room, Manuscripts Division: Robert Garrett Collection 3033 T; Yahuda 5011. Sts. Cyril and Methodius National Library (Sofia), Oriental Department: Fund 96, a. u. 92; Fund 96A, a. u. 172; O II 17; O II 150°; O II 159; O II 160; О II 175; Оr 2296; Tsg 26/5.

PRINTED PRIMARY SOURCES IN ARABIC SCRIPT al-Jawhari, Abu Nasr Ismail bin Hammad. Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri [Lugat-i Vānkūlu]. Translated by Mehmed bin Mustafa el-Vani. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1141/1729. al-Suudi, Muhammad. Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī el-Müsemmā bi-Hadīs-i Nev. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1142/1730. Bosnavi, Ömer. Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1154/1741. Cevdet, Ahmed. Tārīh-i Cevdet. Vol. 1. Constantinople: Matba‘-i ‘Osmāniye, 1309/1891. Çelebi, Katib [Mustafa bin Abdullah]. Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā li-Kātib Çelebi. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1145/1732. Çelebi, Katib [Mustafa bin Abdullah]. Takvīmü’t-tevārīh li-Kātib Çelebi. Constantinople: Dārü’ttıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1146/1733. Çelebi, Katib [Mustafa bin Abdullah]. Tuhfetü’l-kibār fī Esfāri’l-bihār. Constantinople: Dārü’ttıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1141/1729. Efdaleddin. “Memālik-i ‘Osmāniye’de Tıba‘atın Kadīmi.” Tārīh-i ‘Osmāni Encümeni Mecmu‘ası 40 (1332/1916): 242–49.

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Waiting for Müteferrika: Glimpses of Ottoman Print Culture Ibn Arabshah, Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Abd Allah. Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān li-Nazmīzāde Efendi. Translated by Hüseyin Murtaza Nazmizade. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’lma‘mūre, 1142/1730. Ibn Sina [Avicenna], Abu Ali al-Husayn ibn Abd Allah ibn al-Hasan ibn Ali. Kitābu’l-Kānūn fī’ttıbb li-Abu ‘Ali eş-Şeyh ar-Rais İbn-i Sīnā. Rome: Typographia Medicea, 1593. Krusiński, Juda Tedeusz. Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān. Translated by İbrahim Müteferrika. Constantinople: Dārü’ttıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1142/1729. Küçükçelebizade, İsmail Asım. Tārīh-i Çelebizāde Efendi. Constantinople: ­Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1153/1741. Müteferrika, İbrahim. Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye. Constantinople: ­Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1144/1732. ¾¾¾. Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1144/1732. Naima, Mustafa. Tārīh-i Na‘īmā. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1147/1734. Nazmizade, Hüseyin Murtaza. Gülşen-i Hulefā li-Nazmīzāde Efendi. Constantinople: Dārü’ttıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1143/1730. Raşid, Mehmed. Tārīh-i Rāşid Efendi. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1153/1741. Refik, Ahmed. Memālik-i Osmāniye‘de Krāl Rākoçi ve Tevābi‘ (1109–1154). Istanbul: Tārīh-i ‘Osmāni Encümeni, 1333/1917. Suhaili, Ahmad ibn Hamdam. Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd li-Süheylī Efendi; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm li-Süheylī Efendi. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1142/1730. Şuuri, Hasan. Lisānü’l-‘Acem/Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī. Constantinople: Dārü’t-tıbā‘ati’l-ma‘mūre, 1155/1742.

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DICTIONARIES Bayerle, Gustav. Pashas, Begs, and Effendis: A Historical Dictionary of Titles and Terms in the Ottoman Empire. Istanbul: The Isis Press, 1997. Redhouse, James W. A Turkish and English Lexicon Shewing in English the Significations of the Turkish Terms. Constantinople: A. H. Boyajian, 1890.

Index Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denotes notes A

Abdi Efendi, xxi Abdülhamid I, Sultan, 98, 99 Abdülhamid II, Sultan, 104 Abdülkerim Pasha, 9 Abdullah Muhsinzade, Vizier, 34 Abdülmecid I, Sultan, 11, 103 Abdurrahman Efendi, 100 Abdürrezzak Bahir Efendi, 10 Abesci, Elias, 93n19 Abifares, Huda S., 106n68 Abou-el-Haj, Rifaat Ali, xx, xxn30, 15n72 Abrahamowitz, Zygmunt, 37n5 Abu Bakr, see al-Dimashki Abu Nasr, see al-Jawhari acāyib, 2, 4-8, 11, 12 Afyoncu, Erhan, 9n39, 26n31, 30n45 agents of change, 89, 90, 113 Ahmad ibn Hamdam, see Suhaili Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Abd Allah, see Ibn Arabshah Ahmed III, Sultan, xxi, 33, 41, 42, 53, 56 Ahmed Pasha, see Humbaracı Ahmed Azmi Efendi, 9 Ahmed İsameddin Efendi, see Taşköprülüzade Ahmed Bican, see Yazıcıoğlu Ahmed Resmi Efendi, 9 Ahmedi Galib Efendi, 10 Ahvāl-i Gazavāt der Diyār-i Bosna, 44, 62, 63, 68, 110 ajā’ib, 2, 3, 4 Ajā’ib al-buldān, 2 Ajā’ib al-letā’if, 3 Ajā’ib al-makhlūkāt, 3 Ajā’ib al-makhlūkāt wa-gharā’ib al-mawjūdāt, 2 Ajā’ibnāme-i Hindistān, 3 Ak, Mahmut, 3n6 Akgündüz, Ahmet, 49n42 Aktepe, Münir, xxn31 Albin, Michael W., 21n14

Ali Ağa, 7 Ali bin Abdurrahman, 3 Ali Rıza Efendi, el-Hac, see Karahisari Alkan, Mehmet Ö., 78n61 Alpay, Meral, 96, 96n34 Altar, Cevat Memduh, 4n13 Altınölçek, Haşmet, 11n50 Anastassiadou, Méropi, 51n50 el-Antaki, 45 Apak, Kemalettin, 27, 27n34 Araç, Ünal, 54n59 Armağan, Mustafa, xvn15, 42n22 Arslantürk, Zeki, 53n56 Artan, Tülay, xxin34 Asākir-i Mansūre-i Muhammediye, 11, 102 Ashkenazi, Yonah ben Ya‘akov, 40n16 Asiltürk, Baki, 3n10, 7n25, 9n38 Atalay, Bülent, xviiin24 Aṭār al-bilād wa-akhbār al-‘ibād, 2 Atiyeh, George N., 38n8 Atlas Coelestis, 29 Ayalon, Ami, 90n12 Aynur, Hatice, 94n30, Ayşe Hatun, 16

B

Babinger, Franz, xviiin24, xxin36, 92n16 bailo, 14 Balagna, Josée, 72n40 Balance of Truth, xvii Banks, Josef, 98 Baron, Sabrina A., 88n2 Bayerle, Gustav, 30n46 Bayezid II, Sultan, xviii, 13 Baysal, Jale, 57, 58, 59n10, 99n41, 105, 114 Beckett, Samuel, xxii Behar, Cem, 27n37 Behiç Efendi, 101, 104 Belleten, 25 Ben Cheneb, Moh., 3n7

138

Index Ben-Zaken, Avner, 35n66 Berker, Aziz, 103n53 Berkes, Niyazi, 11n49, 20, 20n7, 21, 21n12, 21n13, 25, 59 Beydilli, Kemal, 22, 100n42, 101 Beyoğlu, 11 Bibliothèque orientale, 72, 92 Bilim, Cahit, 10n42 Binark, İsmet, xvn10, xvn14 Birgivi, Mehmed, 50, 100, 105, 107 Blanning, Tim C. W., 52n52 blasphemy, xv, 14, 106 Bonneval, Claude Alexandre de, 31, 113 Boogert, Maurits H. van den, 73n44 booksellers, 33, 34, 50, 55, 73, 76, 76n52, 77, 78, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 89, 100, 103, 104 Bosnavi, Ömer, 44, 62, 63 Bowen, Harold, 93n25 Briggs, Assa, xiiin5 Brooke-Rose, Christine, 57, 57n3 Bulliet, Richard W., 47n34 Burke, Peter, xiiin5, 28n41 Busbecq, Ogier Ghislain de, 13, 13n62, 106

C

calligraphy, 14, 107, 112 calligraphers, 93, 111, 112 Canon of Medicine, 72, 92, 112 Cantemir, Dimitrie, 30 Carleson, Edvard, 70, 70n31 Carter, Thomas Francis, 47, 47n33 Catholicism, 20, 27 Ceardenal, Jose Maria, 27n36 Cellarius, Andreas, 29 Cennetlik İbrahim Efendi, 57 Çetin, Nihad M., 107n69 Çetintaş, İbrahim, 45n26 Cevdet Pasha, Ahmed, 105 Cevelānü’l-efkār fī ‘Acāyibi’l-ak  . ṭār, 3 Chappell, Warren, 106n68 Cheneb, Moh. Ben, 3n7 Chia, Lucille, 5n16 Christians, xiv, 38, 40, 111 Cihānnümā, xvi, 5, 29, 36, 43, 63, 68 Clogg, Richard, 98n37 Cluj-Napoca, see Kolozsvár Coakley, J. F., 111n8 communications revolution, 89 Connolly, John, 1n2 cosmography, 2, 3, 4 Coşkun, Menderes, 50n46 Counter-Reformation, 20, 90 cultural dichotomy, xx, 27

cultural evolution, 90 cultural shock, 1 cultural symbiosis, xx

D

Damad İbrahim Pasha, Vizier, see Nevşehirli Davud, Gerçek, 113 Davud bin Ömer, Şeyh, see el-Antaki decline theory, xii Delā’il al-Hayrāt, 51 Delaria, Jean-Raymond, 26 Demeerseman, André, 90n13 Demirel, Fatmagül, 78n61 Derman, Çiçek, 94n27 Derman, M. Uğur, 107n69 deus ex machina, 42 Develi, Hayati, 53n53 al-Dimashki, 3 d’Ohsson, Ignatius Mouradgea, 15, 15n69, 77, 93, 99 Donado, Giovanni Battista, 14, 14n67 Donizetti, Gaetano, 11 Donizetti, Giuseppe, 11, 13 Dubler, C. E., 2n4 Duverdier, Gérald, 24, 24n26, 25, 27, 37

E

Ebubekir Ratib Efendi, 9, 10 Efdaleddin, 14n64 Ehrensvärd, Ulla, 37n5 Eisenstein, Elizabeth L., 89, 89n4, 89n6, 90   “revolution” theory, 89 El-Cildü’s-sāni min Tārīh-i Na‘īmā, 62 Elements of Geometry, 72, 91 En‘ām-i Şerīf, 50 enlightenment in Muslim world, 56   pre-Ottoman Muslim enlightenment, 22 Enver Pasha’s orthography, 107 Erdem, Yahya, 24n22, 33n59 Erdenen, Orhan, 26, 26n32 Erginbaş, Vefa, 17n3, 56n69 Ergürbüz, Şefik, 69n25 Erimtan, Can, xixn27, xxn32 Erkal, Namık, 77n54 Ersoy, Osman, xviin20, 60, 60n15, 70, 71 Ertuğ, Hasan R., 41n17 Erünsal, İsmail, 33n59, 76n52, 78, 100 Erzi, Adnan, 106n67 Establet, Colette, 51n50 Ethé, Hermann, 3n8 Europe, xii, xiv, 4, 5, 7, 11, 12, 13, 30, 48, 70, 71, 72, 89, 91, 94, 112, 113 European Enlightenment, 45, 56

Index European Humanism, 45 European printing, xi, 5, 71, 88, 91, 94 European Renaissance, xv Europe Essay, 11 Evin, Ahmet Ö., xixn27 Evliya Çelebi, 5, 6, 6n19, 7, 39, 77 Fatma Hatun, 16 Faroqhi, Suraiya, 4n13, 26, 27n37 fatwa (fetva), 41, 51 Fazlıoğlu, Şükran, 45n27 Febvre, Lucien, 72n39 Fekete, Lajos, 20n11, 61n18 Feodorov, Ioana, 112n8 Ferheng-i Şu‘ūrī, 44, 62, 63, 68 Firdousi, 50 Freemasonry, 26, 27 Funckens, Johann Caspar, 24n22 Fust, Johann, 74 Füyūzāt-ı Mıknātısiye, 29, 43, 63, 68, 110

Haiman, György, 28n40 Haji Khalifa/Hacı Halife, see Mustafa bin Abdullah Hamadeh, Shirine, xxn32 Hammer, Joseph von, 69n24 Hamzanāme, 50, 53 Hanafi School of law, 106 Hanebutt-Benz, Eva, 12n90 Hanna, Nelly, 52n51 Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, 51n48, 105 Heinz, Wilhelm, xxn28 Hill, Derek, 94n29 History of Selaniki Mustafa, 39 Hıtāy Sefāretnāmesi, 3 Holdermann, Jean-Baptiste, 43, 62, 69, 70, 73 Hopp, Lajos, 21, 21n17 Horsey Horseless, 96 Houston, Robert A., xiin5, 89 Hudson, Nicholas, 90n11 Humbaracı, 31, 113 Hut, Davut, xixn27

G

I

F

Galiptekin, Ahmed Negih, 77n59 Galland, Antoine, 72, 92 al-Garbi, El-Hac Mehmed, 92 garīb, 2, 4, 6, 7 Garnett, Lucy, 96 Gayhatu (Ilkhanid ruler), 47 Gdoura, Wahid, xvn14 Gencer, Yasemin, 96n30 Gerçek, Selim Nüzhet, xvn10, 102n50 gharā’ib, 2, 3, 4 Ghobrial, John-Paul, 14n65 Gibb, Hamilton A. R., 93n25 Giese, Alma, 3n8 Glass, Dagmar, 90n12 Göçek, Fatma Müge, xixn27, xx, Goff, Jacques le, 51n47, 89, 90n8 Gökyay, Orhan Şaik, 5n17 Grabar, Oleg, 94n29 Grammaire turque ou Méthode courte & facile pour apprende la langue turque, 43, 62, 63, 68, 69, 110 grand mufti, 40, 41, 42, 78, 96 Gülşen-i Hulefā, 43, 53, 63, 68 Gündüz, Мahmud, 105n63 Gürsoy, Belkıs, 10n46 Gutenberg, Johann, 74

H

Habsburgs, 5, 20, 25, 31 Hafız Ahmed Efendi, Sahhaf, 84

Ibn al-Wardi, 3 Ibn Arabshah, 43 Ibn Iyas, 3 Ibn Khaldun, 53 Ibn Sina, 72 İbnü’ş-Şerif Ali Çelebi, see al-Tabib İbrahim Sadullah Efendi, Sahhaf, 83–84 İbrahim Efendi, Köse, see Zigetvarlı al-Idrisi, Muhammad, 72 İhsanoğlu, Ekmeleddin, 15n72, 29n42, 94n30 İleri, Celal Nuri, 106 Imhof, Andreas Lazarus von, 22, 22n21, 23, 54 imperial council, 31 İnalcık, Halil, xixn27 inheritance law in Muslim world, 48, 82 inheritance registers, 50, 76, 78 In Search of Lost Time, xi İskit, Server, 103n54 İsmail Asım Efendi, see Küçükçelebizade İsmail Efendi, es-Seyyid el-Hac, Sahhaf, 82 İsmail Ferruh Efendi, 10 Ismail bin Hammad, see al-Jawhari Istanbul, xi, xxi, 10, 11, 12–14, 20, 22, 26–31, 33, 39, 40, 49, 56, 72–74, 76–78, 86, 92, 93, 98–100, 102, 104, 105, 107, 109, 110, 113 İstanbul Müftülüğü Şeriye Sicilleri (Istanbul Mufti Archives), xiin4, 34n64, 49n42, 78n60 Ivanova, Zorka, 92n17 İzgi, Cevat, 2n4, 3n5, 3n8

139

140

Index J

al-Jawhari, 38, 43 al-Jazuli, Muhammad Sulaiman, 52 Jeltyakov, A. D., xvn11, 59 Johns, Adrian, xiin5 Jones, Robert, 72n42 Journal zur Kunstgeschichte und zur allgemeinen Litteratur, 15

K

Kabacalı, Alpay, 41n21 Kadizadeli movement, xvii Kahya, Esin, 3n6 Kaldy-Nagy, Gyula, 14n68 Kaplan, Yusuf, xvn12 kapukulu sipahi, 30 Karácson, Imre, 19, 20, 20n6, 58, 59 Karahasanoğlu, Selim, xixn27, 68, 68n22 Karahisari, 85 Karal, Enver Ziya, 8n31, 107n74 Karateke, Hakan, 50, 50n44 Katartzis, Dimitrios, 111 Katib Çelebi, xvi, xvii, 5, 7, 29, 32, 36, 43, 45, 53, 55, 63, 92, 95, 104 Kavas, Ahmet, xixn27 Kaynardağ, Arslan, 33n59 al-Kazwini, Zakariya, 2–4 Kemaleddin Mehmed, 44 Kenderova, Stoyanka, 92n17 Kerimi, Fatih, 11–12, 12n54 Keskioğlu, Osman, 105n63 Kévorkian, Raymond H., 111n5 Kharidāt al-‘ajā’ib wa-faridāt al-gharā’ib, 3 Kis, Nicholas (Miklós), 28 Kitāb al-musnib fī gharā’ib al-Maghrib, 3 Kitāb-ı Cihānnümā, see Cihānnümā Kısmet-i Askeriye Mahkemesi, 77, 78 Koçer, Hasan Ali, 101n48 Koleva-Zvancharova, Milena, 77n56 Koloğlu, Orhan, xvn11, xvii, xviin21, 46n31, 102 Kolozsvár, xix, 17, 19, 25, 28, 52 Kontler, László, xivn7 Korkut, Hasan, 7n28 Koyunoğlu, H. Hüsnü, 29n42 Kreiser, Klaus, 15n70, 94n30 Krstić, Tijana, 25, 25n28 Krusiński, Juda Tedeusz, 29, 43, 63 Küçük, Bekir Harun, 24, 24n25, 30, 56 Küçükçelebizade, 34, 44, 53, 62 Kumarianu, Ekaterini, 111n3 Kun, T. Halasi, 20n8, 28 Kuneralp, Sinan, xix, xixn26, 16 Kuran, Ercüment, 113n11

Kuran-Burçoğlu, Nedret, 105n63 Kurşun, Zekeriya, xixn27 Kut, Günay, 2n4, 103n52 Kut, Turgut, 38n8 Kutluer, İlhan, 45n25

L

learning tradition in Muslim world, xxii, 2, 46, 48, 51, 59, 104 Leonardo da Vinci, xviii Lewicki, T., 2n4 Lewis, B., 2n4 Lewis, Geoffrey L., xviin22 libraries, 32, 34, 45, 49, 55, 70, 86, 92, 99, 104 Lisānü’l-‘Acem, 44, 62 lithography, lithographical, 102, 103, 105, 107, 113 Louis XIV, 7 Lucrezia Borgia, 11 Lukaris, Cyril, 110 Lunde, Paul, 47n34

M

MacKay, Pierre A., 39n11 Maden, Sait, 106n67 Mahdi, Muhsin, 39n13 Mahmud II, Sultan, 11, 13, 77, 101, 102, 107 manuscript copyists, xv, 14, 15, 36, 38, 40, 42, 46, 59, 75, 76, 91, 93, 94, 110, 112 Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando Conte di, 14, 14n68, 15 Martin, Hanri-Jean, 72n39 Matra, James Mario, 98 Maxim, Mihai, 30n47 McKitterick, David, xiiin5 Mecmu‘a, 98 Mecmū‘a-i Hey’etü’l-kadīme ve’l-cedīde, 29 Medici Oriental Press, 72 Mehmed II, Sultan, xviii, 113 Mehmed bin Mustafa, see el-Vani Mehmed, el-Hac, 55 Mehmed Kemaleddin Efendi, Sahhaf es-Seyyid, 86 Mehmed Pasha, Kara, 5 Mehmed Çelebi, see Yirmisekiz Mehmed Emin Behiç Efendi, see Behiç Efendi Mehmed Raşid Efendi, 43–44 Mehmed Şevket Efendi, 85 Mehterān, 11 Meĭer, Mihail S., 70n30 Meral, Yasin, 41n16, 111n4 Mevzū‘atü’l-‘ulūm, 44 Miftāhü’s-sа‘ādet, 44

Index Mignot, Vincent, 93, 93n19 Miller, Jaroslav, xivn7 Milliyet, xiv Mollainville, Barthélemy d’Herbelot de, 72, 92 Moralı, 10 Muhammediye, 50 Mülkiye, 11 Muqaddimah, 53 Murad III, Sultan, 3, 91 Murphey, Rhoads, 35n67, 53n56 Murr, Christoph Gottlieb von, 15, 15n70 Murtaza, Nazmizade Hüseyin, 43 Muslims, xviii, xix, 38, 39, 40, 44, 46, 47, 53, 54, 60, 72, 108 Mustafa bin Abdullah, see Katib Çelebi Mustafa Esad Efendi, es-Seyyid Sahhaf 83, 85 Mustafa, Sahhaf el-Hac, 83, 85 Mustafa Hatti Efendi, 9 Mustafa Rasih Efendi, 9 müteferrika, 30, 33, 35 Müteferrika, İbrahim, xii, xix, xvii, xviii, xxi, 5, 9, 10, 18 career in Ottoman state apparatus, 30–31 commercial balance, 58–75 family, 31 portrait and self-portrait, 17, 32–35 rivals, 75–87 Transylvanian past, 17–30 Unitarian/Socinian, 22, 25 Müteferrika press, 36–56, 64–67, 109 ff. Muzika-i Hümāyūn, 11

N

Na‘eh, Yaron ben, 40n16 Naima, Mustafa, 43, 53, 62, 63, 68, 69, 110 Nakkaş, Hoca Gıyaseddin, 3 Necatioğlu, Halil, 19n5 Nedkov, Boris, 33n56 Neil, Dan, 96n32 Neshk al-azhār fī ‘ajā’ib al-ak  . ṭār, 3 Neue Zeitungen für Gelehrten Sachen, 22 Neumann, Christoph K., xvn15, xvin18 Nevşehirli, xix, xxi, 8, 18, 37, 39, 40 The Newly Opened Historical Picture-room, 22, 54 Niebuhr, Carsten, 94, 94n26 Nuhoğlu, Hidayet, xiv, xivn9, 41n19

O

O’Day, Rosemary, 28n41 Okyar, Osman, xixn27 Olson, Robert W., xxin35 Oman, G., 39n12

Omont, Henri, 38n8, 69n28 Önal, Ahmet, 9n39 One Thousand and One Nights, 72 orthographical purity, 88 Ottoman print culture, xiii, 88–108 post-Müteferrika age, 92–108 revolution or evolution, 89–92 Ottomans, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, xix, xx, xxii, 2–5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15, 20, 24, 28, 31, 36, 38, 46, 54, 73, 93, 98, 100, 104, 106, 107, 109, 111–113 Ottoman state decline theory, xii in sixteenth century, xii protection of Transylvania, 17 westernization, xx Ottoman Turkish printing, press, enterprise, xi-xviii, xxii, 41, 42, 49, 54, 55, 58, 59, 61, 71, 75, 76n52, 77, 78, 88, 91, 92, 105, 109, 110, 113 strange absence of, 13–15 reasons for late introduction, xiv-xvi Outram, Dorinda, 56n64 Özay, Yeliz, 1n1 Öztürk, Said, 82n62 Özyılmaz, Ömer, 48n39

P

Pakalın, Mehmet Zeki, 33n59 Pamuk, Şevket, 82n63 panopticum, 13 Pascual, Jean-Paul, 51n50 Patrona Halil, xxi Patrona Revolt, xxi, xxin35 Pearl, Matthew, 88n1 Peçevi, İbrahim, 5, 5n15, 7, 35, 92, 104 Pedersen, Johannes, 47n32 Pehlivanian, Meliné, 111n5 Peker, Ali Uzay, xxn32 Pektas, Nil Ozlem, 111n6 Peters, Rudolph, 56n65 Peyssonnel, Charles de, 18, 24, 25, 28 Poland, 7, 24 Potocki, Hetman Józef, 9, 31 Powers, David Guy, 57n1 printers, xi, xix, xxii, 6, 26, 28, 33–35, 39, 54, 55, 60, 62, 70, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 82–87, 91, 94, 99, 110, 113 probate inventories, xii, 29, 31, 33, 34, 37, 48, 49, 60, 61, 68, 71, 73, 74, 76, 78, 82, 84, 86, 104, 105, 110 Protestantism, 27 Proust, Marcel, xi

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142

Index Q

Qur’an, 38, 39, 46–48, 50, 53, 84, 91, 92, 98, 100, 105–107, 112

R

Rado, Şevket, 7n27 Rafikov, Ahmet H., xvn11, 21, Raif, Mahmud, 10 Rákóczi, Ferenc, 18, 31, 33 Raşid Mehmed Efendi, 99 Raven, Diederick, 48n38 reading public, xi, xv, xix, xx, xxii, 44, 48, 50, 54, 57, 59, 60–62, 71–73, 91, 101, 105, 107, 109 Reasonable Principles of Public Order by İbrahim Efendi the Printer, 34 Redhouse, James W., 2n3 Redman, James Clyde Allen, 48n40 Refik, Ahmed, 20n9, 34n61, 35n65 Regulation of Public Education, 103 Reichmuth, Stefan, 40n14 Remiyev, Shakir, 12 Richardson, Brian, 12n5, 90 Richter-Bernburg, L., 2n4 Rifat, Sadık, 11 Robinson, Francis, xvin16 Rodriguez, Caro Y., 27n36 Roper, Geoffrey, xxiiin39, 90n12, 111n8 Ruhanor Theatre, 12 Rycaut, Paul, 13, 14, 14n66

S

Sabev, Orlin, xiin4, xiiin7, xivn7, xxin33, 1n1, 31n49, 32n49, 45n29, 49n41, 51n50, 61n17, 85n65 Safavi rule, 32 Şāhnāme, 50, 53 Said Çelebi, xxi, 40, 41, 106, 109 Sajdi, Dana, xiin2, 48n40 Sami, Mustafa, 11 Šandanova, Liljana, 111n7 Sarıcaoğlu, Fikret, 21n14, 32, 32n54 Sariyannis, Marinos, 1n1 Saussure, César de, 15, 18–21, 25, 30, 34, 46, 58, 70, 73, 74 Savaş, Ali İbrahim, 9n40 Savoyen-Carignan, Eugen von, 22n22 Schaefer, Karl, 47n34 Schick, İrvin Cemil, xxin34, 13n61 Schmidt, Jan, 50n43 Schmidt-Haberkamp, Barbara, xivn7 scholarship, xi–xiv, xvin18, 42, 56, 89, 90, 106, 110

Schulze, Reinhard, 56n65 Schwartz, Kathryn A., 14n64 sefāretnāmes, 4, 7, 9, 10 Şehdi Osman Efendi, 9 Selen, Hamit S., xviin20 Selim I, Sultan, 14 Selim III, Sultan, 99 Şen, Adil, 41n19 Seng, Yvonne J., xiin3 Şeşen, 2n4, Sevānihü’l-levāyih, 101 Sevengil, Refik Ahmet, 10n45, 11n51 sexual pleasure and prostitution, xx–xxi Seyāhatnāme, 6 Seyyid Ali Efendi, see Moralı Seyyid Mehmed Emin Vahid Efendi, 10 Shahruh, Mirza, 3 Sharia, 26, 51, 84, 91, 100, 101, 106 Shefer-Mossensohn, Miri, 45n25 Sievert, Henning, 51n49 Şirin, İbrahim, 4n14 Şişman, Adnan, 113n12 Sklavenitis, Triandafilos E., 110n2 Smith, Uriah, 96 Socinianism, 24 Soysal, İlhami, 26, 27, 27n33 Stajnova, Mihaila, 61n18 Steinberg, Sigfrid, 72n39, 74 Stochove, Vincent de, 46, 46n31 Strata, Filippo de, 88, 88n2 Strauss, Johann, 73n48 Sufi, xvii Suhaili (Süheyli) Efendi, 43, 63 Süleyman Ağa, Müteferrika, 7 Süleyman Penah Efendi, 98–101, 104 Sultan Selim Mosque, 33 Suner, Suna, 8n33, 9, 10 Sungu, İhsan, 33n57, 37 Şuuri, Hasan, 44 Swanick, Sean E., 90n13 Szyliowicz, J. S., 59, 59n13

T

al-Tabari, 50, 50n45, 53, 103 al-Tabib, 45 Tableau général de l’Empire othoman, 93 Tahrīrü’l-Öklīdes fi Usūli’l-hendese, 72 Takvīm-i Vakāyī, 101–103 Takvīmü’t-tevārīh, 32, 43, 63, 68 Tamari, Ittai Joseph, 111n4 Tamdoğan, Işık, 16n2 Tansel, Fevziye Abdullah, 106n66 Tārīh, 43, 44, 62, 63, 68, 69, 71, 110

Index Tārīh-i Seyyāh der Beyān-i Zuhūr-i Ağvāniyān ve Sebeb-i İndihām-i Binā-i Devlet-i Şāhān-i Safeviyān, 29, 43, 63, 68 Tārīh-i Tīmūr-i Gurkān, 43, 63, 68 Tārīhü’l-Hindi’l-garbī el-Müsemmā bi-Hadīs-i Nev, 43, 63, 68 Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-cedīd; Tārīhü’l-Mısri’l-kadīm, 43, 63, 68 Taşköprülüzade, 44, 45 Taylor, Malissa, 48n40 Telci, Cahit, 98n38 Tercümetü’s-Sihāh-i Cevheri, 43 tereke defteri, xii Tertībü’l-‘ulūm, 45 Tezcan, Baki, 22, 22n18, 24, 25n27 Tezkire-i Uli’l-elbāb ve’l-cāmi‘ li’l-‘Acebi’l-‘ucāb, 45 Tezyilü’t-tābi, 29 Thály, Coloman de, 15n71 Thevet, André de, 13, 14n63 Thököly, Imre, 17–20, 22n21 Tibawi, Abdul Latif, 47n37 Timur, Taner, 70n32 Toderini, Giambattista, 93, 93n22 al-Tokadi, İbrahim, 3 Tonta, Yaşar A., 41n21 Topdemir, Hüseyin Gazi, xiv, xivn9, xviii,60 Tott, François, Baron de, 93, 93n21, 96, 98 Transylvania, xix, 17, 20, 20n9, 22, 24, 28–30 Treatise on Islam, 19, 20, 22, 25, 26, 28, 42 Tuhfetü’l-kibār fī Esfāri’l-bihār, 43, 55, 63, 68 Tulip Age, xv, xix–xxi, 39, 109, 113 Tuncer, Hüner, 5n14, 8n33 Turan, Namık Sinan, 7, 8n30, 10 Turan, Şerafettin, 60 al-Tusi, Nasireddin, 72, 91 Türe, Fatma, 38n8 Typographia Medicea, 38, 72, 73, 91, 92

U

Ubicini, Jean-Henri Abdolonyme, 98, 98n36, 104 Ülker, Mustafa Birol, 83n64 Unan, Fahri, 45, 45n23 Unat, Faik Reşit, xxin37, 4n14, 9n43 Unitarian Church of Transylvania, 24 Unitarianism, 21, 22, 30 Ünver, Süheyl, 42n22 Urban, Topçu, 112 Üsküdar printing house, 100, 101

Usta, Ahmet, 21n14 Usūlü’l-hikem fī Nizāmi’l-ümem, 29, 43, 53, 63, 68, 94, 110 Uzunçarşılı, İsmail Hakkı, 10n46, 70n29

V

Valle, Pietro della, 38, 39n9 el-Vani, 43 Vankulu dictionary, 33, 38–39, 41, 55, 63, 68, 71, 93, 110 Vasiyetnāme, 50, 100, 105, 107 Vasıf Efendi, 99 Verdery, Richard N., 103n52 Vesiletü’t-tıba’a, 37, 40 Vitol, A. V., 29n43

W

Watson, William J., 21n14, 55 Weerdt, Hilde De, 5n16 White, Charles, 77, 77n55, 88, 104, 105 Wilbur, Earl Morse, 24n23 Wilde, Oscar, 75 Williams, Raymond, 89, 89n5 Wilson, Michael Brett, 48n40

X

xylography, 5

Y

Yādigār fī’t-tıbb, 45 Yaycıoğlu, Ali, 56n66 Yazıcıoğlu, Ahmed Bican, 3 Yazıcıoğlu, Mehmed, 50 Yenişehirli Abdullah Efendi, Mufti, 40 Yıldız, Murat, 51n49 Yılmaz, Coşkun, 20n10, 21n14 Yılmaz, Ömer Faruk, 33n59 Yirmisekiz, xxi, 7–9, 12, 40 Yurtoğlu, Bilal, 29n42 Yusuf Agah Efendi, 9

Z

Zaïmova, Raïa, 93n19 Załoźce, 9 Zarcone, Thierry, 27, 27n35 Zarinebaf, Fariba, xxin33 Zheltiakov, A. D., 21, 21n15 Zigetvarlı, 35 Zilfi, Madeline C., xviin22

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