Forward, then! Traversing another Turkish cemetery and climbing
still another hill, we found ourselves in the suburb of Kaliji
Oghlu, inhabited by a mixed population. In this little city, at
every street-corner, you come upon a new race or a new religion. You
mount, descend, climb up, pass among tombs and mosques, churches and
synagogues. You skirt gardens and cemeteries, encounter handsome
Armenian women with fine matronly figures, slender Turkish ones who
steal a look at you through their veils; all around you hear Greek,
Armenian, Spanish--the Spanish of the Jews--and you walk on and on and
on. “After all, you know,” we say to one another, “Constantinople must
end somewhere.” Everything on earth has an end. We have been told so
ever since we were children. On and on and on, and now the houses of
Kaliji Oghlu grow fewer, woods begin to appear; there is but one more
group of dwellings. Quickening our pace, we passed them by, and at last
reached--