Descending from the Ok-Meidan toward the Golden Horn, we came to
another little Mussulman quarter called Piri Pasha, possibly after the
famous vizier of the time of the first Selim, who educated Suleiman the
Magnificent. Piri Pasha faces the Jewish quarter of Balata, situated
on the opposite bank of the Golden Horn. We met nothing as we passed
through it except a few dogs and occasionally an old Turkish beggar; we
did not regret this, however, as it gave us an opportunity to examine
its construction at our leisure. It is a very curious fact that on
entering any quarter of Constantinople, after having seen it from the
water or some adjacent height, you invariably experience precisely the
same shock of astonishment as on going behind the scenes of a theatre
after having witnessed some beautiful spectacular effect from the
stalls. You are filled with amazement to find that the combination of
all these mean and ugly objects is what has just produced so charming
a whole. I suppose there is no other city in the world whose beauty is
so entirely dependent on general effect as Constantinople. Seen from
Balata, Piri Pasha is the prettiest little village imaginable, smiling,
radiant with color, decked with foliage, its charming image reflected
in the Golden Horn like the features of some beautiful nymph, awakening
dreams of love and pleasure in the breast. Enter it and the whole thing
changes: you find nothing but rude, mean little houses colored like
booths at a country fair, filthy courts looking like witches’ dens,
groups of dusty fig and cypress trees, gardens littered with rubbish,
narrow, deserted streets--dirt, misery, wretchedness. But run down the
hillside, jump into a käik, and give half a dozen strokes with the
oars, behold! the fairy city has reappeared, beautiful and fascinating
as before.