Toward sunset we descended to the Golden Horn, and, taking our places
in a four-oared käik, had scarcely pronounced the word “Galata!” before
the graceful little boat was already in mid-stream. Of all varieties of
boats which skim over the surface of the water, there is certainly none
so delightful as the käik. Longer than the gondola, but narrower and
lighter, carved, painted, and gilded, it is without seats or rudder;
you sit in the bottom upon a cushion or bit of carpet, only your head
and shoulders visible above the sides; both ends are shaped alike, so
that it can be propelled in either direction, and it is easily upset
by any sudden movement. Shooting out from the shore like an arrow from
the bow, it seems to fly like a swallow, barely touching the water;
overtakes and passes all other craft, and disappears in the distance,
its bright and varied colors reflected in the waves like a dolphin
flying from its pursuer. Our oarsmen were a couple of good-looking
young Turks dressed in white trousers, light blue shirts, and red
fezzes, with bare arms and legs--a pair of lusty athletes of twenty
or so, bronzed, clean, cheerful, and frank. At each stroke the boat
bounds forward its whole length. Other käiks fly by, hardly seen before
they are lost sight of; we pass flocks of ducks; large covered barges
filled with veiled women; clouds of birds circle over our heads; from
time to time the tall sea-grass shuts out everything from view.
Seen thus from the other end of the Golden Horn and at that hour, the
city presents an entirely new aspect. The Asiatic coast, owing to the
bend of the shore, is entirely hidden, Seraglio Point shutting in the
Golden Horn as though it were a great lake. The hills on either bank
seem to have grown larger, and Stambul, far, far away, is a blending
of delicate blues and grays, huge and indistinct. Like an enchanted
city, it seems to float upon the water and lose itself among the
clouds. The käik flies on; the two banks recede, inlet after inlet,
grove after grove, suburb after suburb; our surroundings widen out.
The colors of the city grow dim, the horizon seems to be on fire, the
water is full of purple and gold reflections; on and on, until at last
a profound lethargy steals over us, a sense of boundless content, in
which we remain silent and happy, until finally the boatman is obliged
to call in our ears, “_Monsù! arrivar!_” before we can arouse ourselves
sufficiently to know where we are.