Echoes of "Lohengrin" in Moda Bay
Throughout September 2024, I often took the ferry from Kabataş to Moda. Facing the exquisite silhouette of old Istanbul, I found myself in this historic seaside quarter of Kadıköy, where Yahya Kemal once immortalised a vanished May morning in lyrical verse. Contrary, however, to the image in his poem May in Moda (Moda'da Mayıs), it was a season in which the flowers no longer diffused their scent but had rather begun to wither—yet still, “my being was enchanted with the deepest delight”. Not that any of the old gardens, once havens for such blossoms, had survived intact: they had long since been parcelled out and supplanted by blocks of concrete, their stately mansions sacrificed to an age of careless development.
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| “This is the Nice of Constantinople" - postcard sent to Paris in 1905 (© Emre ARACI) |
To comprehend the Moda of old, one need only turn to a colourful Max Fruchtermann postcard—now preserved in my collection—sent from Constantinople to Paris in 1905. In that postcard, Moda remains verdant and full of life, just as in Yahya Kemal’s poem; those grand villas and their occupants had not yet descended into “the earth that absorbs life with the sorcery of its fragrance”. A certain Théocrite, perhaps having experienced “this aspect of the season that is all bliss”, had inscribed a note in French upon the card:
“This is the Nice of Constantinople; sheltered from the winds, bathed in sunlight, in close proximity to Galata—a place particularly favoured by the English aristocracy”.
Indeed, Moda was once a district predominantly inhabited by noble and affluent English families. Even King Edward VIII, ever impeccably dressed, visited Moda in September 1936. Disembarking at the very same historic pier along which I myself had just walked, and accompanied by Mrs Simpson, he made his way towards the Moda Club—precisely my own destination. Gazing upon that charming jetty from the ferry, it felt as though none of it had ever truly happened—or rather, as if it all lay “veiled beneath a springtime shroud”.
Yet, that day in Moda Bay, beneath the pale veil of spring now turned to autumn, I fancied I could hear the final strains of Lohengrin—one of King Ludwig II of Bavaria’s most beloved operas. Years earlier, I had been in the audience for a concert performance of Lohengrin held within the enchanted setting of Neuschwanstein Castle in the Alps.
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| "Years earlier, I had been in the audience for a concert performance of Lohengrin held within the enchanted setting of Neuschwanstein Castle in the Alps" (© Emre ARACI) |
Perhaps what I heard that afternoon was no illusion but reality itself, for those mystical closing moments in which Lohengrin departs with his swan—the divine music that captures the emptiness his farewell leaves in Elsa’s soul, the score that so hauntingly expresses the transience of human relationships—all of it reached my ears on that shore with such clarity that disbelief seemed quite impossible.
What is more, the musicians performing it were none other than the members of the Royal Bavarian Military Band (Königlich Bayerisches Leibregiment), resplendent in their gala uniforms—those very same men who had once played this score time and again for King Ludwig and Wagner himself. And yet, for such a vision to be real amidst the sailboats drifting across Moda Bay like swans, one condition had to be met: the calendar must have returned to Monday, the 15th of July, 1889. But if the fingers of that miraculous faculty we call imagination—nourishing our emotional, aesthetic, and intellectual richness—could so effortlessly turn back those yellowed, timeworn pages, what could truly be deemed impossible? For the very essence that sustains such imagination lies hidden in the columns of the Stamboul newspaper, whose pages I have turned so often for the readers of Andante magazine.
The Royal Bavarian Military Band, consisting of thirty-five musicians, arrived in Constantinople on Saturday, 29th June 1889. The Stamboul newspaper announced the news on the front page of its 2nd July edition. In an intriguing twist of fate, the band’s barracks in Munich were known as the Türkenkaserne—the “Turkish Barracks”. In fact, I own an original postcard depicting the band marching past their barracks in Munich—sent from Munich to London in 1901.
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| (© Emre ARACI) |
The Königlich Bayerisches Leibregiment (Royal Bavarian Life Regiment) was one of the oldest and most prestigious infantry regiments of the Bavarian Army, tracing its origins back to the 17th century. Initially formed in 1656 as the Leibkompanie of the Bavarian Elector's bodyguard, it evolved into a full regiment serving as the personal guard of the Bavarian monarchs. Stationed primarily in Munich, the regiment played a prominent ceremonial and military role, distinguished by its elite status and impeccable discipline. During the 19th century, it fought in the Napoleonic Wars as part of Bavaria's fluctuating alliances, and later became integrated into the Imperial German Army following Bavaria’s accession to the German Empire in 1871. The Leibregiment saw significant action during the First World War, suffering heavy losses on both the Western and Eastern Fronts. Disbanded in the aftermath of the war and the fall of the Bavarian monarchy in 1918, the regiment left behind a legacy steeped in honour, tradition, and loyal service to the House of Wittelsbach.
This historic tour was made possible through the initiative of Signor Leonardo Billorian, known as "Billorian Effendi", music director of the gardens and theatres of Tepebaşı, who had entered into a contract with the band to give a total of twelve concerts in Constantinople. Under the direction of Max Högg, the band’s performances were primarily scheduled to take place in the gardens of Tepebaşı.
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| Max Högg |
Högg died in 1933 in Füssen, in the very heart of the region where the castles of Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein stand—those enchanted edifices adorned with wall frescoes and swan motifs, living monuments to the Lohengrin legend, and recurring subjects of my articles for Andante magazine. It is more than likely that Högg had conducted his band many times in that romantic landscape, before the very eyes of King Ludwig II himself.
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| Castles of Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein overlooking Alpsee (photo © Emre ARACI) |
By July 1889, three years had passed since the death of King Ludwig II, and Max Högg now found himself not in the Bavarian Alps but in the landscape of Constantinople—accompanied by his musicians and carrying with him the spirit of those romantic lands. He had not forgotten to bring along selected Wagner arrangements, drawn from such seminal works as Tannhäuser, Rienzi, Lohengrin, Die Meistersinger, and Parsifal.
Indeed, on the evening of Tuesday, 2nd July, at precisely half past five in the Tepebaşı Gardens, the band launched into its inaugural concert with the Tannhäuser Overture, that orchestral showcase of Wagnerian richness. A prelude that encapsulates, in musical terms, the opera’s journey through spiritual purification and worldly temptation, it must have stirred deep emotions among the audience gathered in the garden—especially knowing it was performed by musicians who had themselves once known Wagner personally.
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| The long-lost Tepebaşı Gardens and theatres of Istanbul |
One imagines a festive, fairground-like atmosphere prevailing in the gardens that evening, for the Royal Bavarian Military Band’s eclectic programme—comprising opera overtures, marches, waltzes, and polkas—had clearly been assembled to delight and enchant. That first evening’s programme featured Arthur Sullivan’s Madrigal and Finale from The Mikado, Johann Strauss’s Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, the Triumphal March from Meyerbeer’s Le Prophète, Suppé’s Light Cavalry Overture, a potpourri arranged from Verdi’s La Traviata, and Miloslav Könnemann’s polka Le Postillon d’Amour.
These concerts in the gardens were open to children as well. In fact, the management of the Tepebaşı Gardens sent the Stamboul newspaper a notice to be shared with its readers: “The administration of the Petits-Champs Garden requests us to announce that, during the concerts given by the Bavarian Military Band, babies accompanied by their nannies will be permitted to circulate—starting from the barrier near the central gate and extending through the fountain pathways to the area surrounding the summer theatre, including the restaurant. Admission charges will remain as before: one kuruş for the nannies and 20 paras for each child”, (Stamboul, 4 July 1889).
Meanwhile, on that same evening, Hervé’s operetta Petit-Faust was being staged in the Tepebaşı Theatre. The band resumed its performance at 9.15 p.m. for the second concert of the evening. This time, their programme began with the Soldiers’ Chorus from Rienzi, followed by Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Strauss’s Blue Danube Waltz, the Bridal March from Lohengrin, Bizet’s Habanera from Carmen, Moszkowski’s Spanish Dances, and Karl Michael Ziehrer’s Viennese Girls Waltz.
As one can see, to open a window onto an evening in Istanbul a century and a half ago is to reveal a panorama rich with surprises and colour.
The band gave six further concerts in Tepebaşı Gardens on the evenings of the 4th, 5th and 6th of July, with similar repertoire. On the evening of 4th July, the solemn, stately melodic fabric of the Pilgrims’ Chorus from Tannhäuser enveloped the garden in a deep reverence. By 9th July, the band had crossed to Kadıköy, where, according to Stamboul, “the concert was reported to have met with great success”. The members of the Royal Bavarian Military Band were accommodated at the Hotel Grande Bretagne, situated at 398 Grand Rue de Péra.
On 12th July, following their attendance at Sultan Abdülhamid II’s ceremonial Friday procession at Yıldız, they sailed to Prinkipo, Büyükada aboard the Loreley, a vessel placed at their disposal by the German ambassador, Joseph Maria Friedrich von Radowitz. There, they gave yet another performance.
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| German Embassy’s summer residence in Tarabya |
That same evening, the band returned to the city, and two days later resumed their concerts in the gardens of the German Embassy’s summer residence in Tarabya. Meanwhile, they continued to entertain regular patrons at the Tepebaşı Gardens throughout the week. It is evident that the Bavarian musicians' visit to Constantinople had become an intense flurry of engagements.
According to the 13th July edition of the Stamboul, the band was scheduled to give its final concert in Constantinople two days later, on Monday, 15th July, in Kadıköy-Moda. While the newspaper did not record the exact programme performed that evening, I was struck by an entry listed in the concert schedule published in the 11th July issue: Grand Finale from Lohengrin. Could there be a more fitting choice for a farewell concert?
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| "Lohengrin's Farewell" (© Emre ARACI) |
In the final scene of Lohengrin, Wagner’s dramatic power reaches its zenith. Love, mysticism, and tragedy intertwine as the destinies of Lohengrin and Elsa are ultimately sealed. Lohengrin, a knight sent forth with sacred purpose, strives to preserve a love grounded in his faith in Elsa’s innocence. Yet Elsa’s curiosity and all-too-human frailty rupture that fragile bond. Just as his arrival upon the swan was shrouded in mystery, so too is his departure. The swan motif heard at the opera’s opening now becomes a symbol of farewell—a parting steeped in sorrow, laying bare the delicate nature of trust.
As is well known, King Ludwig II of Bavaria held a profound admiration for Wagner’s Lohengrin. He was but fifteen years old when he first saw the opera in Munich on 2nd February 1861. From the moment he encountered it, Ludwig was enchanted by its sacred and romantic themes, and came to identify deeply with the figure of Lohengrin himself.
The image of the “swan knight” would become a lasting emblem in King Ludwig's life. In a letter to Wagner, he would describe Lohengrin as “a work that exalts the soul’s highest aspirations”.
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| King Ludwig II (© Emre ARACI) |
At the conclusion of the Constantinople concerts, Max Högg and the thirty-five musicians of the Royal Bavarian Guards departed for Vienna by train from Sirkeci Station on 17th July. Before boarding, they played the Hamidiye March several times in farewell.
I sought to conjure that distant day in my mind’s eye, and went further still, envisioning the Royal Bavarian Military Band outside their barracks—the imposing Türkenkaserne in Munich—as seen through the lens of old postcards and sepia-toned photographs; the rest was left to artificial intelligence, which responded with hauntingly beautiful images, as if plucked from the recesses of forgotten memory. The uniforms, the brass gleaming in soft light, the precision of the march—each detail emerged with uncanny clarity, as though time itself had offered up a faded memory for revival. And there, among them, one might almost discern the figure of Max Högg, whose distinguished service would later be recognised with the award of the Ottoman Order of the Medjidie, glinting modestly upon his chest. In contemplating these spectral reconstructions, one cannot help but wonder: could the members of that band, or indeed Högg himself, ever have imagined that a century and a half later, their likenesses would be summoned anew by means beyond even the boldest fantasies of their age?
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| Max Högg and the Royal Bavarian Military Band created by artificial intelligence (© Emre ARACI) |
While preparing this article, I also came across an old postcard bearing the inscription Moda by Moonlight. Upon it, a graceful sailing boat glided silently across the water, like Lohengrin’s swan, shimmering in the moon’s reflection.
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| "Moda by Moonlight" (© Emre ARACI) |
To hear Lohengrin drifting across the waters from that motorboat approaching Moda Bay on that particular day was to experience something profoundly moving—like stepping unexpectedly into a forgotten page from a yellowed newspaper, only to find oneself embarked upon a journey at once improbable and intensely real. It was more than mere coincidence; it felt as though, for a fleeting moment, one had stumbled upon "the very essence of the season that is all happiness", as Yahya Kemal so delicately phrased it in his poem Moda’da Mayıs.
It was, in truth, the kind of impression that emerges not from the surface of things, but from the quiet depths of the soul—an impression both tender and ineffable, suffused with the golden melancholy of memory and music intertwined.
© Emre Aracı 2025. All rights reserved.
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