thirty-two orders)--have a well-known fekkeh on the Grande Rue de Pera.
We proceeded thither prepared to behold rapt, saintly countenances
lit up by celestial visions. But our minds were quickly disabused
of all such ideas. Alas! among dervishes as well the flame of faith
“laps a dry wick,” and the celebrated holy dance appeared to me to
be nothing more than a cold and formal theatrical performance. It is
unquestionably both curious and interesting to watch them as they
enter the circular mosque in single file, each one enveloped in a long
dark mantle, with arms concealed and head bowed, to an accompaniment
of savage music, monotonous and sweet, which resembles the sound
made by the wind among the cypress trees of the Skutari cemetery,
soothing one into a sort of waking slumber. And when they begin to
turn, prostrating themselves two by two before the mihrab with dreamy,
languid movements which arouse sudden doubts as to their sex: there
is something fascinating too in the way in which, with a sudden rapid
movement, they fling aside their cloaks and appear all in white,
with long woollen skirts, and, opening their arms with an amorous
gesture and inclining their heads to one side, abandon themselves
one after another to the evolutions of the dance, as though pushed
forward by an invisible hand, and when they all whirl around in the
centre of the mosque together and at equal distances from one another,
without diverging from their respective posts by so much as a hair’s
breadth, as though each one were on a pivot, white, rapid, light,
with waving, inflated skirts and half-closed eyes; and when with a
sudden simultaneous movement, as though overpowered by some superhuman
vision, they cast themselves upon the ground with a thundering cry
of “Allah!” or when, commencing again, they bend low and kiss one
another’s hands, then circle around once more, close to the wall, with
a light, tripping step, between walking and dancing,--all of this, I
acknowledge, makes a beautiful and entertaining performance, but the
ecstasies, the transports, the transfigured faces, seen and described
by so many enthusiastic travellers, I failed to discover. All I saw
was a number of extraordinarily agile and indefatigable dancers, who
went through their task with the most utter indifference, sometimes
even with suppressed smiles. One young dervish was manifestly pleased
at finding himself observed by an English girl in the gallery just
opposite him, and I detected more than one in an attempt to bite
instead of kiss his neighbor’s proffered hand, the other retaliating
with a sharp pinch--the hypocrites! What struck me most was that every
one of those men--and they were of all ages and conditions--possessed
a grace and elegance of movement and pose which might well arouse
envy in the breasts of many of the frequenters of our ball-rooms, and
which I take to be a natural attribute of the Oriental races, due, no
doubt, to certain peculiarities in their structure and build. I had an
opportunity of observing this still more closely on another occasion,
when I visited one of them in his cell just at the hour when he was
preparing to take part in the dance. He was a tall, slender youth,
with a beardless and somewhat effeminate face: when we entered he was
standing before a mirror in the act of fastening on his white cassock.
Greeting us with a smiling glance, he continued his toilet, passing his
hand lightly over his slim figure, adjusting rapidly, but at the same
time tastefully and with the sure eye of an artist, all the various
parts of his costume, just as a lady gives the finishing touches to her
dress; and, really seen from behind with his trailing gown, he did look
very much indeed like a pretty slip of a girl who, all dressed for the
ball, gazes in the mirror to judge of the effect. And he was--a monk!
* * * * *
But among all my last memories there are none so beautiful as those
of the summit of Mount Chamlejah, which rises up above Skutari. It
was there that I gave Constantinople my final greeting, and, as it
was the last, so was it also the most superb of all my great visions
of the metropolis. We crossed ever to Skutari at daybreak one foggy
morning: when we arrived at the top of the mountain the fog was still
there, and, though the appearance of the sky gave promise of a clear
day, everything below us was hidden. It was an extraordinary sight. An
immense gray curtain was spread between us and Skutari, the Bosphorus,
the Golden Horn, all of Constantinople, completely concealing them,
just as though the great city with its harbors and outskirts had been
blotted out of existence. It was like an ocean of mist, from out of
which the summit of Chamlejah arose like a lonely island. As we gazed
down at the gray sea at our feet we pretended that we were two poor
pilgrims from the interior of Asia Minor, who, having reached that
spot before daybreak, were looking at the mist below them without any
idea that it covered the mighty metropolis of the Ottoman empire;
and then we amused ourselves greatly by picturing what their growing
sensations of wonder and bewilderment would have been as, little by
little, the rising sun rolled back the veil and exposed the marvellous
and unlooked-for spectacle to view. The thick clouds began to break
away at various points at the same moment; here and there on the great
gray surface little groups of houses appeared like tiny islands--an
archipelago of small towns, floating in the mist and scattered far
away from one another. These were the peaks of Stambul’s seven hills,
the heights of Pera, the highest villages along the European shore
of the Bosphorus, the crest of Kassim Pasha, a confused suggestion
of the more distant suburbs along the Golden Horn near Eyûb and
Haskeui--twenty little Constantinoples, rosy, airy, bristling with
innumerable white, green, and silver points. Then each began to grow
larger and larger, as though slowly arising from that vaporous sea, and
on all sides thousands of roofs, domes, towers, and minarets floated
gayly into sight, crowding close together or chasing after one another
as though each were skurrying to take his place before being caught by
the sun. Already Skutari lay exposed to view, as well as nearly all of
Stambul; on the other bank of the Golden Horn we could see the higher
parts of all those outskirts which stretch from Galata to the Sweet
Waters; and on the European shore of the Bosphorus, Topkâneh, Fundukli,
Dolmabâghcheh, Beshiktash, and so on, as far as the eye could reach,
village after village, great tiers of buildings, and still more distant
towns, of which only the roofs could be seen, bathed in a soft pink
glow. But the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus, the sea were still invisible.
Our two pilgrims would have been completely puzzled: apparently it was
an immense city built above two deep valleys, perpetually enveloped in
fog, one opening into the other; and they might well have wondered
what those two mysterious abysses could possibly contain. But, behold!
Yet a few moments and the dull gray of the remaining clouds begins to
melt into blue; then a shimmer appears. Water? a bay? No, a strait, a
sea, two seas! All of Constantinople at length stands forth revealed,
bathed in light, framed in blue and green, looking as though she might
just have left the hands of the Creator. Oh the beautiful vision!
What avails it that we have already gazed enraptured upon you from a
hundred different heights, examined your every minutest detail, and
given voice over and over again to our wonder and admiration? Once
more we must engage in the vain struggle to express our sense of your
all-inexpressible loveliness; and this time it is with the knowledge
that yet a few short days and you are destined to fade for ever from
our eyes, henceforth to be only a vague, confused memory; the veil of
mist will settle down, to lift again no more for ever; the moment of
parting is at hand. I know not why, but it is as though we were going
into exile, and the horizon of our lives seems to grow indistinct.
* * * * *
And yet even in Constantinople, and when there are only a few days
left, one is sometimes bored. The mind, completely wearied out, refuses
to receive any more new impressions. We would cross the bridge without
turning our heads: everything seemed to be the same color; we
wandered aimlessly about, yawning and uninterested like a couple of
idle vagabonds; spent hour after hour sitting in front of a Turkish
café staring at the ground, or lounging at the hotel windows watching
the cats climb over the opposite roofs. We were satiated with the
Orient, and felt within us a growing desire for work and activity.
[Illustration: Coffee-Maker.]
Then came two days of steady rain. Constantinople became one huge
mud-puddle and turned gray all over. That was the final stroke. We
plunged head foremost into outrageously bad humors, abused the whole
place, grew rude and stupid, and assumed no end of conceited European
airs. Who on the day of our arrival would ever have imagined such a
condition of things? And to think of the lengths to which it carried
us!--actually to the point of holding high festival on the day when
we came out of the Austrian Lloyds with a couple of tickets for Varna
and the Danube in our pockets! But there was one feature that dampened
our rejoicings, and that was the approaching parting from our kind
friends in Pera, with whom we passed all our last evenings in the
most cordial and friendly fashion. How depressing this everlasting
saying good-bye becomes--this continual breaking of pleasant ties, and
leaving a fragment of one’s heart wherever one may go! Is there nowhere
to be found on the surface of the earth a magic wand by whose aid I
shall one day be enabled, at a given moment, to assemble around some
well-spread board all my friends scattered at present over the surface
of the globe--you, Santoro, from Constantinople; you, Selam, from the
coast of Africa; and Ten Brink from the dunes of Holland; and Segovia
from the Guadalquivir; and Saavedra from the banks of the Thames--that
I may tell you how ever-present you all are in my thoughts and in my
heart? Alas! the wand is not yet found, and in the mean time the years
go by and one’s dreams fade away.
THE TURKS.
And now, before embarking upon that Austrian boat which is getting up
steam in the Golden Horn opposite Galata, preparatory to sailing for
the Black Sea, it remains for me to set forth, modestly as becomes
a simple traveller, certain general observations bearing upon the
question, “What did you think of the Turks?”--observations altogether
spontaneous in themselves, and wholly uninfluenced by current events,
resting, in short, entirely upon my personal recollections of those
days. At that question, “What did you think of the Turks?” the first
thing that comes into my mind is the impression made upon me from the
moment I set foot in Constantinople to the last day of my stay there
by the outward appearance of the male population of Stambul. Setting
aside all merely physical differences, this impression is something
altogether unlike that produced upon one by the men of any other city
of Europe: it is as though they were all--I am at a loss how to express
my meaning more clearly--thinking of precisely the same thing. Now,
this idea might occur to a Southerner as he observed superficially
and for the first time the inhabitants of a city of Northern Europe,
but that is not the same thing at all. With them it is the seriousness
and preoccupation of a busy people who are thinking of actual things,
while the Turks all seem to be considering something intangible and
remote: they have the air of philosophers possessed by a fixed idea,
or of somnambulists unconscious of their whereabouts, gazing ahead of
them with far-seeing eyes, as though accustomed to contemplate distant
horizons, while in the expression of the eyes and lines of the mouth
there is that look of vague melancholy noticeable in people who live
shut up in themselves. In all there is the same gravity, the same
composed manner, the same reserve of language, look, and gesture.
They seem all to be gentlemen educated after one pattern, from the
pasha to the shopkeeper, and animated in common by a certain well-bred
dignity, which, wore it not for the differences in dress, would lead
one to suppose that Stambul had no plebeians. The expression is almost
universally cold, revealing nothing of the soul and mind within, it
being exceedingly rare to come across one of those open countenances
so common among us which reflect, like mirrors, the passionate or
loving or spiteful nature below, and lend themselves to a quick and
accurate reading of the man. Among the Turks, on the contrary, every
face is an enigma; their look interrogates, but never responds, and
their mouths betray nothing of the impulses of the heart within. It
is impossible to convey any idea of the depressing effect made upon a
stranger by these expressionless faces, this coldness, this statuesque
uniformity of attitude and bearing, and the steady, passionless gaze
which seems to see nothing. Sometimes you are seized with an insane
desire to shout aloud in the middle of the crowd: “Rouse yourselves
just once--wake up, speak out, tell what you are thinking of, what you
are, what you see, staring ahead of you, with those great glass eyes!”
At first it seems all so unnatural that you cannot realize that it is
a normal condition, and fancy that this manner must have been assumed
by common consent, or else result from some moral malady by which
all the Mussulmans are temporarily afflicted. There is a variation,
though, and a remarkable one, in the general uniformity, which strikes
you at once: the original physical traits of the Turkish race--a race
both handsome and robust--are now preserved only by that portion of
the population which, either from necessity or religious enthusiasm,
follows the same simple and austere manner of life as their forefathers
did. Their characteristics are--a spare, vigorous build, well-formed
head, bright eyes, aquiline nose, prominent jawbone, and general
air of activity and strength. The Turk of the upper classes, on the
contrary, where vice has long prevailed and the mixing of alien blood
is much more common, has usually a fat, overgrown body, small head,
low forehead, dull eyes, and drooping lips. A correspondingly great,
or even greater, moral divergence exists between the true, pure Turk
of a former generation and that colorless nondescript being calling
himself “a reformed Turk.” Hence, any one who may desire to study the
characteristics of what may, in general terms, be called the Turkish
people, is confronted by a serious difficulty at the outset, since with
that half of it which has preserved intact the national traits there is
either no way of mixing or no medium of communication, while the other
half, while they offer every facility for intercourse and observation,
do not faithfully represent either the national character or aims.
Neither corruption nor the modern coloring of European civilization,
however, has yet deprived the upper-class Turk of that indefinable air,
at once severe and melancholy, which is seen in the lower classes as
well, and which, not considered individually, but in the general mass
of the people, produces an undeniably favorable impression. In fact,
judging only from appearances, one would be inclined to pronounce the
Turkish population the most civilized and well-behaved of any city in
Europe. Even in the most deserted quarters of Stambul a stranger never
is in danger of being insulted: he may frequent the mosques, even
during the hours of prayer, with much greater certainty of meeting
with respectful treatment than if he were a Turk visiting one of our
churches; one never encounters a look that is, not insolent,--but so
much as disagreeably curious; in the crowded streets it is rare to hear
a laugh, and very rare to see a street-row in which blows are given and
received; there are no bold glances from women at doors or windows or
in the shops, no open indecency. The market-place is but little less
dignified than the mosque, and everywhere the utmost restraint is put
upon both language and gesture--no singing, no loud laughter, no vulgar
scuffling, no importunate rabble blocking up the way; clean faces,
hands, and feet; rarely is any one to be seen ragged, still more rarely
dirty; there is no brawling, and a universal and reciprocal respect
exists between all classes of society.