But suppose, now, we turn our attention again to Constantinople itself,
and wander about as unrestrainedly as birds of the air? It is a place
where one may give free rein to his caprices. You can light your
cigar in Europe and knock the ashes off in Asia, and, getting up in
the morning, ask yourself what part of the world it would be pleasant
to visit during the day, with two continents and two seas to choose
from. Saddled horses stand waiting for you in every square; boats with
their sails spread are ready to take you anywhere you may choose to
go; steamboats lie at every pier awaiting nothing but the signal to
depart; kâiks manned with rowers and skiffs fitted with sails crowd the
landing-places; while an army of guides, speaking every language of
Europe, is at your disposal for as long a time as you may want any of
them. Do you care to hear an Italian comedy? see the Dancing Dervishes?
listen to the buffooneries of Kara-gyuz, the Turkish Punchinello?
be treated to the licentious songs of the Parisian café chantant?
watch the gymnastic performances of a band of gypsies? listen to an
Arabian story-teller? attend a Greek theatre? hear an _imam_ preach?
see the Sultan pass on his way to the mosque? You have but to say
what you prefer and it is ready at hand. Every nationality is at your
service--Armenians to shave you, Hebrews to clean your shoes, Turks to
row your boat, negroes to dry you after the bath, Greeks to bring your
coffee, and one and all to cheat you. Perhaps you are heated from your
walk? here are ices made from the snows of Olympus. Thirsty? you can
drink the waters of the Nile as the Sultan does. Should your stomach
be a little out of order, here is water from the Euphrates to set it
straight, or, if you are nervous, water from the Danube. You can dine
like the Arab of the desert or a gourmand of the _Maison dorée_. If you
want to doze and drowse, there are the cemeteries; to be stirred up
and excited, the bridge of the Validêh Sultan; to dream dreams and see
visions, the Bosphorus; to pass Sunday, the Archipelago of the Princes;
to see Asia Minor, Mt. Bûlgurlû, the Golden Horn, the Galata Tower,
the world, the Serasker Tower. It is, above all, a city of contrasts.
Things which we never think of connecting in our minds are seen there
at a single glance side by side.
Skutari is the starting-point for the caravans for Mecca, and also
for the express trains for Brusa, the ancient metropolis; the Sofia
railroad passes close by the mysterious walls of the old Seraglio;
Catholic priests bear the Holy Sacrament through the streets escorted
by Turkish soldiers; the common people have their festivals in the
cemeteries; life and death, sorrow and rejoicing, follow so close
upon one another’s heels as to seem all a part of the same function.
There are seen the movement and energy of London side by side with the
lethargic inertia of the East. The greater part of existence is led in
public before your eyes, but over the private side of life there hangs
a close, impenetrable veil of mystery; under that absolute monarchy
there exists a liberty without bounds.
It is impossible, for several days at least, to get a clear impression
of anything: it seems every moment that if the disorder is not quelled
at once a revolution must break out. Every evening you feel, on
reaching your lodgings, as though you had just returned from a long
journey, and in the morning ask yourself incredulously if Stambul can
really be here, close at hand. There seems to be no place where you can
go to get your brain a little clear; one impression effaces another;
you are torn by conflicting desires; time flies. You think you would
like to spend the rest of your life here, and the next moment wish you
could leave to-morrow. And when it comes to attempting a description of
this chaos--well, there are moments when you are strongly tempted to
bundle together all the books and papers on your table and pitch the
whole thing out of the window.