The best place from which to see the population of Constantinople is
the floating bridge, about a quarter of a mile long, which connects the
extreme point of Galata with the opposite shore of the Golden Horn,
just below the mosque of the Validêh Sultan. Both banks are European
territory, but, notwithstanding this fact, the bridge may be said to
connect Europe and Asia, since nothing in Stambul but the ground itself
is European, and even those quarters occupied by Christians have taken
on an Asiatic character. The Golden Horn, though in appearance a river,
in reality separates two different worlds, like an ocean. European news
reaches Galata and Pera, and at once it is in every one’s mouth, and
circulates rapidly, fresh, minute, and accurate, while in Stambul it
is heard only like some vague, far-away echo; the fame of worldwide
reputations and the most startling events roll back from before that
little strip of water as from some insuperable barrier, and across that
bridge, daily traversed by a hundred thousand feet, an idea does not
pass once in ten years.
[Illustration: Bridge of Galata.]
Standing there, you can see all Constantinople pass by in the course
of an hour. Two human currents flow incessantly back and forth from
dawn to sunset, affording a spectacle which the market-places of India,
the Pekin fetes, or the fairs of Nijnii-Novgorod can certainly give
but a faint conception of. In order to get anything like a clear idea
you must fix your attention on some particular point and look nowhere
else. The instant you allow your eyes to wander everything becomes
confused and you lose your head. The crowd surges by in great waves of
color, each group of persons representing a different nationality. Try
to imagine the most extravagant contrasts of costume, every variety of
type and social class, and your wildest dreams will fall short of the
reality; in the course of ten minutes and in the space of a few feet
you will have seen a mixture of race and dress you never conceived of
before.
Behind a crowd of Turkish porters, who go by on a run, bending beneath
the weight of enormous burdens, there comes a sedan chair inlaid with
mother-of-pearl and ivory, out of which peeps the head of an Armenian
lady; on either side of it may be seen a Bedouin wrapped in his white
cape, and an old Turk wearing a white muslin turban and blue caftan; a
young Greek trots by, followed by his dragoman dressed in embroidered
zouaves; next comes a dervish in his conical hat and camel’s-hair
mantle, who jumps aside to make room for the carriage of an European
ambassador preceded by liveried outriders. One can hardly be said to
actually see all of these, only to catch glimpses of them as they flash
by. Before you have time to turn around you find yourself surrounded
by a Persian regiment in their towering caps of black astrakhan;
close behind them comes a Hebrew, clad in a long yellow garment open
up the sides; then a dishevelled gypsy, her baby slung in a sack on
her back; next a Catholic priest, with his staff and breviary; while
advancing among a mixed crowd of Greeks, Turks, and Armenians may be
seen a gigantic eunuch on horseback, shouting _Vardah!_ (Make way!),
and, closely following him, a Turkish carriage decorated with flowers
and birds and filled with the ladies of a harem, dressed in green
and violet and enveloped in great white veils; behind them comes a
Sister of Charity from one of the Pera hospitals, and after her an
African slave carrying a monkey, and a story-teller in the garb of a
necromancer. One point which strikes the stranger as being singular,
although it is in reality the most natural thing in the world, is that
all this queer multitude of people pass one another without so much
as a glance, just as though it were some London crowd; no one stops;
every one hurries on intent upon his own affairs, and out of a hundred
faces that pass by not one will wear a smile. The Albanian in his
long white garment, with pistols thrust in his belt, brushes against
the Tartar clad in sheepskin; the Turk guides his richly-caparisoned
ass between two files of camels; close behind the aide-de-camp of
one of the imperial princes, mounted on an Arabian charger, a cart
rumbles along piled up with the odd-looking effects of some Turkish
household. A Mussulman woman on foot, a veiled female slave, a Greek
with her long flowing hair surmounted by a little red cap, a Maltese
hidden in her black _faldetta_, a Jewess in the ancient costume of her
nation, a negress wrapped in a many-tinted Cairo shawl, an Armenian
from Trebizond, all veiled in black--a funereal apparition; these and
many more follow each other in line as though it were a procession
gotten up to display the dress of the various nations of the world.
It is an ever-changing mosaic, a kaleidoscopic view of race, costume,
and religion, which forms and dissolves with a rapidity the eye and
brain can with difficulty follow. It is quite interesting to fix your
gaze on the footway of the bridge and look for a while at nothing
but the feet: every style of footwear that the world has known, from
that which obtained in Eden up to the very latest phase of Parisian
fashion, goes by--yellow _babbuccie_, the red slipper of the Armenian,
turquoise-blue of the Greek, and black of the Israelite--sandals, high
boots from Turkistan, Albanian leggings, slashed shoes, _gambass_ of
the Asia Minor horsemen of all colors, gold-embroidered slippers,
Spanish _alpargatas_, feet shod in leather, satin, rags, wood,
crowded so close together that in looking at one you are aware of a
hundred. And while thus engaged you must be on your guard to avoid
being knocked down. Now it is a water-carrier with his huge water-skin
on his back, or a Russian lady going by on horseback; now a troop of
imperial soldiers wearing the uniform of zouaves, who advance as though
charging the enemy; now a procession of Armenian porters, who pass
two by two, carrying huge bales of goods suspended from long poles
across their shoulders; then a crowd of Turks push their way to right
and left through the throng in order to embark on some of the many
little steamboats which, starting from the bridge, ply up and down
the Bosphorus and Golden Horn. It is one continuous tramp and roar, a
murmur of hoarse gutturals and incomprehensible interjections, among
which the occasional French or Italian words which reach the ear seem
like rays of light seen through a thick darkness. The figures which
strike the fancy most forcibly of all are, perhaps, those of the
Circassians. These wild, bearded men, who pass with measured tread
in groups of four or five, wearing large fur caps like those of the
ancient Napoleon guard, and long black caftans, with daggers thrust
in the belt and a silver cartridge-box suspended on the breast, look
like veritable types of brigands, or as though their sole business
in Constantinople might be the sale of a sister or daughter dragged
thither by hands already imbued with Russian blood. Then there is
the Syrian, clad in a long Byzantine dolman, with a gold-striped
handkerchief wrapped about his head; the Bulgarian, in sombre-colored
tunic and fur-edged cap; the Georgian, with his casque of dressed
leather and tunic gathered into a metal belt; the Greek from the
Archipelago, covered with lace, silken tassels, and shining buttons.
From time to time it seems as though the crowd were receding somewhat,
but it is only to surge forward once more in great, overpowering waves
of color crested with white turbans like foam, in whose midst may
occasionally be seen a high hat or umbrella or the towering headgear of
some European lady tossed hither and thither by that Mussulman torrent.
It is stupefying merely to note the diversity of religions represented.
Here gleams the shining pate of a Capuchin father; there towers aloft
the _ulema’s_ Janissary turban; farther on the black veil of the
Armenian priest floats in the breeze; _imams_ pass in their white
tunics; nuns of the Stigmata; chaplains of the Turkish army clad in
green and carrying sabres; Dominican brothers; pilgrims returned from
Mecca wearing talismans about their necks; Jesuits; dervishes; and
these last, queerly enough, carry umbrellas to protect them from the
sun, while in the mosques they may be seen tearing their flesh in
self-inflicted torture for their sins.
To one who watches attentively a thousand amusing and interesting
little incidents detach themselves from the general confusion. Now
it is a eunuch, who glares out of the corner of his eye at a young
Christian dandy caught peering too curiously into the carriage of
his mistress; a French _cocotte_, dressed in the latest fashion,
who follows the gloved and bejewelled son of a pasha; a sergeant of
cavalry in full-dress uniform, who, stopping short in the middle of
the bridge, and, seizing his nose between two fingers, emits a trumpet
blast loud enough to make one jump; or a quack, who, in return for
some poor wretch’s piece of money, makes a cabalistic sign on his
forehead supposed to restore his eyesight; here a large family-party,
newly arrived, have gotten separated in the crowd: the mother rushes
hither and thither, searching for her children, who, on their part, are
weeping at the tops of their voices, while the men of the party try
to mend matters by laying about them in all directions; a lady from
Stambul passes by, and under pretence of adjusting her veil gets a good
look at the train of a lady from Pera. Horses, camels, sedan chairs,
carriages, ox-carts, casks on wheels, bleeding donkeys, skinny dogs,
pass in a long file, dividing the crowd in two. Sometimes a big fat
pasha _of the three horse-tails_ goes by in a magnificent carriage,
followed on foot by a negro, his guard, and his pipe-bearer. The Turks
all salute him, touching the forehead and the breast, while a throng
of Mussulman beggars, horrible, meagre-looking wretches, with muffled
faces and bare chests, hurl themselves at the carriage-windows, begging
vociferously for alms. Eunuchs out of employment pass in groups of
two and three or a half dozen at a time, with cigarettes in their
mouths, easily distinguished by their corpulency, their long arms, and
great black cloaks. Pretty little Turkish girls, dressed like boys in
green trousers and red or yellow waistcoats, run and jump about with
catlike agility, pushing their way through the crowd with soft little
crimson-tinted hands; shoe-cleaners with their gilded boxes; wandering
barbers, their stool and basin ready at hand; venders of water and
Turkish sweetmeats can be seen in every direction, threading their way
through the press and shouting out their wares and avocations in Greek
and Turkish. At every step you meet a military uniform, officers in
fiery and scarlet trousers, their breasts glittering with decorations;
grooms of the Seraglio gotten up like generals in command of an army;
policemen carrying whole arsenals at their belts; _zeibeks_, or free
soldiers, wearing those enormous breeches with pockets behind which
give them outlines like the Hottentot Venus; imperial guards with
nodding white plumes on their helmets, and breasts covered with gold
lace; city guards, who march about carrying handcuffs--Constantinople
city guards! One might as well speak of people who had been charged
with the duty of keeping down the Atlantic Ocean. One curious contrast
is that which is found between the rich clothing on the one hand and
the miserable rags on the other, between persons so laden down with
the quantity and magnificence of their apparel as to look like walking
bazârs and others who scarcely may be said to have any apparel at all.
The nakedness alone is a noteworthy sight. Every tint of human skin
can be found, from the milk-white Albanian to the jet-black slave from
Central Africa or blue-black native of Darfur; breasts which look as
though they would resound at a blow like a bronze vase or break in
pieces like an earthenware pot; hard, oily, wooden surfaces, or shaggy
like the hide of a wild boar; brawny arms tattooed with outlines of
leaves and flowers or rude representations of ships under full sail,
and hearts transfixed by arrows. All such particulars, however, as
these cannot possibly be noted in the course of a single visit to the
bridge. While you are trying to make out the designs tattooed on an
arm, your guide is calling your attention to a Serb, a Montenegrin,
a Wallach, an Ukrainian Cossack, a Cossack of the Don, an Egyptian,
a native of Tunis, a prince of Imerezia. There is hardly time even
to make a note of the different nationalities. It is as though
Constantinople still maintained her former position as queen of three
continents and capital of twenty tributary kingdoms. Yet even this
would hardly account for the extraordinary features of that spectacle,
and one amuses himself by fancying that some mighty deluge has swept
over the neighboring continent, causing a sudden influx of immigration.
An expert eye can still distinguish in that mighty human torrent the
distinctive features and costumes of Caramania and Anatolia, of Cypress
and of Candia, of Damascus and Jerusalem--Druses, Kurds, Maronites,
Telemans, Pumacs, and Kroats, and all the innumerable variety of the
innumerable confederations of anarchies extending from the Nile to the
Danube and from the Euphrates to the Adriatic. Those in search of the
beautiful and those with a craving for the horrible will find, equally,
their wildest hopes surpassed. Raphael would have been in ecstasies,
Rembrandt beside himself with delight. The purest examples of Grecian
beauty and that of the Caucasian races appear side by side with snub
noses and receding foreheads. Women pass with the look and bearing of
queens, others who might pose as furies. There are painted faces and
faces disfigured by disease and wounds, colossal feet and the tiny feet
of the Circassian no longer than your hand; gigantic porters, great fat
Turks, and negroes like dried-up skeletons, ghosts of human beings who
fill you with horror and pity; every aspect of human life, extremes of
asceticism and voluptuousness, utter weariness, radiant luxury, and
wasted misery; and, still more remarkable than the variety of human
beings, is that of the garments they wear. Any one with an eye for
color would find himself in clover. No two persons are dressed alike.
Some heads are enveloped in shawls, others crowned with rags, others
decked out like savages--shirts and undervests striped or particolored
like a harlequin’s dress; belts bristling with weapons, some of
them reaching from the waist to the arm-pits; Mameluke trousers,
knee-breeches, tunics, togas, long cloaks which sweep the ground, capes
trimmed with ermine, waistcoats encrusted with gold, short sleeves and
balloon-shaped ones, monastic garbs and theatre costumes; men dressed
like women, women who seem to be men, and peasants with the air of
princes; a ragged magnificence, an exuberance of color, a profusion
of ornament, braid, fringe, frippery of all sorts; a childish and
theatrical display of decoration, which makes one think of a ball given
by the inmates of an insane asylum, who have decked themselves out with
the contents of all the peddlers’ packs in the world.
Above the babel of sounds made by all this multitude one hears the
piercing cries of the Greek newsboys selling newspapers in all
languages under heaven, the stentorian tones of the porters, loud
laughter of the Turkish women; the infantile voices of the eunuchs; the
shrill falsetto of a blind beggar reciting verses from the Koran; the
hollow-resounding noise of the bridge itself as it sways under this
multitude of feet; the bells and whistles from a hundred steamboats,
whose smoke, coming in great puffs, from time to time envelops the
entire throng of passers-by. This vast concourse of people embarks in
the boats which leave every moment for Skutari, the villages along the
Bosphorus, and the suburbs on the Golden Horn; spreads out over the
bazârs and mosques of Stambul, the suburbs of Fanar and Balat, to the
most distant points on the Sea of Marmora; flows like an advancing
tide in two great currents over the Frankish shore, to the right in
the direction of the sultan’s palaces, to the left toward the ancient
quarters of Pera, and, receding once more across the bridge, is fed
by innumerable little streams flowing down the steep, narrow lanes
and byways which cover the hillsides of both banks, connecting ten
cities and a hundred villages, and binding together Asia and Europe in
an intricate network of commerce, intrigue, and mystery, at the mere
thought of which one’s mind becomes hopelessly confused.
One would naturally expect all this to make an amusing and enlivening
spectacle, but it is quite otherwise: after the first sensations of
excitement and wonder have died down the brilliant coloring begins
to pale; it no longer wears the aspect of a gay Carnival procession,
but humanity itself seems to be passing in review--humanity with all
its miseries and follies, its infinite discord of clashing beliefs
and irreconcilable customs, a pilgrimage of decayed races and
humbled nations; a boundless tide of human misery; wrongs to be set
right, stains to be washed out, chains to be broken; an accumulation
of tremendous problems which blood alone, and that in torrents, is
capable of solving--a sight at once overpowering and depressing. One’s
interest, too, is rather blunted than aroused by the enormous number
and variety of strange sights and objects. What sudden mysterious
changes the mind is subject to! Here was I, not a quarter of an hour
after reaching the bridge, leaning listlessly against the side,
scribbling on the wooden beam with a pencil, and acknowledging, between
my yawns, that Madame de Staël was pretty near the truth when she
pronounced travelling to be the most melancholy of human pleasures.