THE GREAT BAZÂR.

After giving a superficial glance over all of Constantinople, including

both banks of the Golden Horn, it seemed now time to penetrate into

the heart of Stambul, to explore that world-embracing, perpetual fair,

that hidden city, dim, mysterious, crammed with associations, wonders,

and treasures, which, extending from the Nùri Osmaniyeh to the Serasker

hill, is called The Great Bazâr.

We will start from the square in front of the Validêh Sultan mosque.

Here the epicurean reader may like possibly to pause long enough to

inspect the Baluk Bazâr, that fish-market famous ever since the days

of thrifty old Andronicus Palæologus, who, we are told, met the entire

culinary expenses of his court with the profits made from fish caught

only along the walls of the city, where, indeed, they are still most

plentiful, and, seen on one of its principal days, the Baluk Bazâr

would afford as succulent and tempting a subject for the author of the

_Ventre de Paris_ as one of those well-covered tables one sees in old

Dutch pictures. The venders, almost without exception Turks, are drawn

up all around the square behind their fish, which are spread out on

mats stretched upon the ground or else on long tables, around which

a crowd of customers and an army of dogs fight for precedence. Here

may be found the delicious mullet of the Bosphorus, four times the

size it attains to in our waters; oysters from the island of Marmora,

which the Greeks and Armenians alone understand how to cook properly,

broiling them on the live coals; sprats and tunnies, the salting of

which is an industry confined almost entirely to the Jews; anchovies,

which the Turks have learned how to put up in the Marseillaise fashion;

sardines, with which Constantinople provides the entire Archipelago;

the _loufer_, that most delicious of all the Bosphorus fish, which is

caught by moonlight; mackerel from the Black Sea, which make seven

invasions successively into the waters of the city, accompanied by a

noise so loud that it can be heard in the towns on both shores; the

colossal _isdaurid_; enormous sword-fish; turbots, or, as they are

called by the Turks, _kalkau-baluk_; shellfish, and a thousand and

one other varieties of the smaller kinds of fish which dart and frisk

about from one to the other of the two seas, chased by dolphins and

_falianos_, and preyed upon by innumerable kingfishers, from whose very

mouths the booty is often snatched by the _piombini_.

Cooks from great houses, old Mussulman bons-vivants, slaves, and young

employés from the various restaurants surround the tables, examine

the fish with a meditative air, bargain in monosyllables, and walk

off, each carrying his purchase suspended by a bit of twine, grave,

taciturn, self-contained as though it were the head of an enemy. By

mid-day the square is deserted and the venders have repaired to the

various cafés in the neighborhood, where they will sit with their backs

against the wall and the mouthpiece of a narghileh between their lips,

in a sort of waking sleep, until sunset.

To reach the Great Bazâr we take a street opening out of the

fish-market, so narrow that the projecting parts of the opposite houses

almost touch one another; on either side are rows of low, ill-lighted

tobacconist shops, that “fourth support of the tent of voluptuousness,”

coming after coffee, opium, and wine, or “the fourth of pleasure’s

couches,” as it is sometimes called. Like coffee, tobacco has been

blasted by imperial edicts and denounced by the _mufti_, with the

usual result of adding fresh zest to its use and making it a fruitful

source of tumult and punishment; and now this entire street is devoted

to traffic in it alone. The tobacco is displayed upon long shelves in

pyramids and round piles, each one surmounted by a lemon. All kinds

are to be found here: _latakia_ from Antioch; Seraglio tobacco as fine

and smooth as spun silk; tobacco for pipe and cigarette of every grade

of strength and flavor, from that smoked by the gigantic porter of

Galata to that used by the indolent _odalisques_ of the Seraglio to

put them to sleep. There is the _tombeki_, so powerful that it would

set the head of even a veteran smoker spinning did its fumes not reach

his mouth first purified by the water of the narghileh, and which

is kept in glass jars like a drug. The tobacconists are all Greeks

or Armenians, with ceremonious manners, somewhat inclined to give

themselves airs. The customers assemble before the shops in groups.

Many of them are employés of the various foreign ambassadors or of the

Seraskerat, and occasionally one sees some personage of importance. It

is a great place for gossip of all kinds; politics are discussed; the

doings of the great world talked over; and merely to walk through this

little, retired, aristocratic bazâr leaves a strong impression upon

one’s mind of the joys to be obtained from conversation _and_ tobacco.

We now pass beneath an old arched doorway festooned with vines, and

come out opposite a large stone edifice, from which opens a long,

straight, covered street lined with dimly-lighted shops and filled

with people, packing-boxes, and heaps of merchandise. Entering this,

we are immediately assailed by an odor so powerful as to fairly knock

one down: this is the Egyptian Bazâr, where are deposited all the wares

of India, Syria, Egypt, and Arabia, which later on, converted into

essences, pastilles, powders, and ointments, serve to color little

hands and faces, perfume apartments and baths and breaths and beards,

reinvigorate worn-out pashas, dull the senses of unhappy married

people, stupefy smokers, and spread dreams, oblivion, and insensibility

throughout the whole of the vast city. After going but a short distance

in this bazâr your head begins to feel dull and heavy, and you get out

of it as fast as you can; but the effect of that hot, close atmosphere

and those penetrating odors clings long to your clothing, and remains

for all time in your memory as one of the most vivid and characteristic

impressions of the East.

After escaping from the Egyptian Bazâr you pass among a crowd of noisy

coppersmiths’ shops, Turkish restaurants, from which issue endless

nauseous smells, and all manner of wretched booths, shops, and stands,

dark little dens containing trash of all sorts, and finally come to

the Great Bazâr itself, not, however, before you have been obliged to

defend yourself from a vigorous attack.

About a hundred feet from the main entrance there lie in ambush like so

many cutthroats the agents or middlemen of the merchants and the agents

of the agents. These fellows are so well up in their business that at a

single glance they learn not only that this is your first visit to the

bazâr, but usually make so clever a guess as to your nationality that

they rarely make a mistake in the language which they first address you

in.

Approaching, fez in hand, they proceed, with an engaging smile, to

offer their services.

There usually then follows a conversation something like this: the

traveller, declining the proffered service, remarks,

“I do not propose to make any purchases.”

“Oh, sir, what difference does that make? I only want to show you the

bazâr.”

“I don’t care to see the bazâr.”

“But I will escort you gratis.”

“I don’t wish to be escorted gratis.”

“Very well; then I will just go to the end of the street with you,

merely to give you certain points, which you will find very useful some

other day when you come to buy.”

“But suppose I don’t want to even hear you talk about buying?”

“Very well, then, let us talk about something else. How long have you

been in Constantinople? Is your hotel comfortable? Have you gotten

permits to visit the mosques?”

“But when I tell you that I don’t want to talk about anything--that I

wish, in short, to be alone--”

“All right; then I will leave you alone, and follow a dozen steps

behind you.”

“But why should you follow me at all?”

“Merely to prevent you from being cheated in the shops.”

“But I tell you I am not going into the shops.”

“Well, then, to save you from annoyance on the street.”

And so you must finally either pause to take breath and collect your

ideas, or else yield and allow him to accompany you.

There is nothing about the exterior of the Great Bazâr to either

attract the eye or give the faintest idea of what it is within. It is

an immense stone edifice in the Byzantine style, irregular in form and

surrounded by high gray walls, lighted by means of hundreds of small

lead-covered domes in the roof. The principal entrance is through a

high, vaulted doorway of no architectural pretensions. Outside, in the

neighboring streets, no sounds can be heard of what is going on within,

and half a dozen steps away from the entrance one might easily believe

that only silence and solitude reigned within those prison-like walls;

once inside, however, this delusion is quickly dispelled. You find

yourself not in a building at all, but in a labyrinth of streets with

vaulted roofs, lined with columns and carved pilasters--a veritable

city, with mosques and fountains, thoroughfares and open squares,

pervaded with the dim, subdued light of the forest, where no ray or

gleam of sunshine ever penetrates, and thronged with immense crowds of

people. Every street is a bazâr, generally leading out of the principal

thoroughfare--a street covered by a roof composed of white and black

stone arches and decorated with arabesques like the nave of a mosque.

Processions of horses, camels, and carriages pass up and down the

dimly-lighted streets, in the midst of the throng of foot-passengers,

with a deafening, reverberating noise. On all sides attempts are being

made by word and gesture to attract your attention. The Greek merchant

hails you with loud, imperious voice, while his Armenian rival, by

far the greater knave of the two, assumes a modest, retiring manner,

addressing you in soft, obsequious tones; the Jew murmurs gently in

your ear; while the Turk, silent and reserved as ever, squats on a

cushion in his doorway and contents himself with addressing you solely

with his eye, leaving the results to Fate. Ten voices appeal to you at

once: “Monsieur! captain! caballero! signore! eccelenza! kyrie! milor!”

Down every cross-street you catch glimpses of new vistas, long lines of

columns and pilasters, corridors, other streets opening out of these

again, arcades and galleries, confused far-off views of new bazârs,

shops, merchandise suspended on the walls and from the roofs, bustling

merchants, heavily-laden porters, figures of veiled women, noisy

groups, which constantly form, dissolve, and form again--a mingling of

sights, sounds, colors, and movement to set one’s head in a whirl. The

confusion, however, is only apparent: in reality, this enormous mart is

arranged with as much system and order as a barracks, and it takes but

a few hours for one to become sufficiently at home in it to find

his way to any object without difficulty or the help of a dragoman.

Every separate kind of merchandise has its own especial quarter,

its little street, corridor, and square; there are a hundred small

bazârs opening one into another like the rooms in some vast suite of

apartments, and each bazâr is at the same time a museum, a promenade,

a market, and a theatre, in which you can look at all without buying

anything, can drink your cup of coffee, enjoy the open air, chat in a

dozen different languages, and make eyes at the prettiest girls to be

found in the East.

[Illustration: Date Seller.]

Dropping at random into any one of these bazârs, half a day goes by

without your so much as knowing it: take, for instance, the bazâr

of stuffs and costumes. Here are displayed such a dazzling array of

beautiful and rare objects that you at once lose your head, to say

nothing of your purse, and the chances are that, should you in any

unguarded moment be tempted to satisfy some small caprice, you will end

by having to telegraph home for assistance. You pass between pyramids

and heaps of Bagdad brocades; rugs from Caramania; Brusa silks; India

linens; muslins from Bengal; shawls from Madras; Indian and Persian

cashmeres: the variegated fabrics of Cairo; gold-embroidered cushions;

silken veils striped with silver; striped blue and red gauze scarfs,

so light and transparent as to look like clouds; stuffs of every

variety of color and design, in which blue and green, crimson and

yellow, all the colors which disagree most violently, are combined and

blended together in a harmony so perfect and exquisite that you can

only gaze in open-mouthed admiration; table-covers of all sizes upon

whose background of red or white cloth are outlined intricate silken

designs of flowers, verses from the Koran, and imperial monograms,

which it would take a day to examine, like a wall in the Alhambra.

Here one has as good an opportunity to see and admire, one by one,

each of the various articles which go to make up the costume of a

Turkish lady as though it were the alcove of a harem, from the green

or orange or purple mantles which are thrown over everything in public

down to the silken chemise, gold-embroidered kerchief, and even the

satin girdle upon which no eye of man other than that of the husband

or eunuch is ever allowed to fall. Here may be seen red-velvet caftans

edged with ermine and covered with stars; yellow satin bodices;

trousers of rose-colored silk; white damask undervests thickly covered

with gold flowers; wedding veils sparkling with silver spangles;

little greencloth jackets edged with swan’s down; Greek, Armenian,

Circassian costumes of a thousand fantastic shapes, so thickly covered

with ornamentation as to be as hard and glittering as breastplates;

and mixed in with all this magnificence the sombre, commonplace,

serviceable stuffs of England and France, producing much the same

effect upon the mind as would the sight of a tailor’s bill introduced

into the pages of a volume of poems. If there is a woman anywhere in

the world whom you care for, you cannot walk through this bazâr without

longing to be a millionaire or else feeling the passion for plunder

blaze up within you, if only for a moment.

To free yourself from these unhallowed desires you have but turn a

little to one side and you find yourself in the pipe-bazâr, where the

soul is gently conducted back to more tranquil pastures. Here you come

upon collections of cherry, maple, rosewood, and jessamine pipes, and

of yellow amber mouth-pieces from the Baltic Sea, polished until they

shine like crystal, and of every grade of color and transparency, some

of them set with diamonds or rubies; pipes from Cæsarea, their stems

wrapped with silk and gold thread; tobacco-pouches from Lybia decorated

with many-colored lozenges and gorgeous embroidery; silver, steel, and

Bohemian glass narghilehs of exquisite antique shapes, engraved and

chased and studded with precious stones, their morocco tubes glittering

with rings and gilding, all wrapped in raw cotton and under the

constant surveillance of two glittering eyes whose gaze never wavers;

but let any one short of a vizier or a pasha who has spent years in

bleeding some province of Asia Minor approach, and the pupils dilate

in such a manner as to cause the modest inquiry as to the price to

die away upon one’s lips. Here the purchaser must be some envoy of the

sultana anxious to present a slight token of her appreciation to the

pliable grand vizier; or a high court dignitary, who on assuming the

cares of his new office is obliged, in order to maintain his dignity,

to expend the sum of fifty thousand francs upon a rack of pipes; or a

newly-appointed foreign ambassador who on departing for some European

court wishes to take to its royal master a magnificent memento of

Stambul. The Turk of modest means gazes mournfully upon these treasures

and passes by on the other side, paraphrasing for his consolation that

saying of the Prophet, “The flames of the infernal regions shall rage

like the bellowing of the camel in the stomach of him who shall _smoke

a pipe_ of gold or silver.”

Passing from here into the perfumery bazâr, we once more find ourselves

beset with temptations. It is one of the most distinctively Oriental

in character of all the bazârs, and its wares were very dear to the

heart of the Prophet, who classes together women, children, and

perfumes as the three things which gave him the greatest pleasure.

Here are to be had those famous Seraglio pastilles designed to perfume

kisses; packages of the scented gum prepared by the hardy daughters

of Chio to be used in strengthening the gums of delicate Mussulman

women; exquisite essence of jessamine and of bergamont and powerful

attar of roses, enclosed in red-velvet, gold-embroidered cases, and

sold at prices that make one’s hair stand on end; here can be bought

ointment for the eyebrows, antimony for the eyes, henne for the nails,

soap to soften the Syrian beauty’s skin, and pills to prevent hair

from growing on the face of the too masculine Circassian; cedar and

orange-water, scent-bags of musk, sandal oil, ambergris, aloes to

perfume cups and pipes--a myriad of different powders, pomatums, and

waters with fanciful names and destined to uses undreamed of in the

prosaic West, each one representing in itself some amorous fancy or

seductive caprice, the very refinement of voluptuousness, and exhaling,

all together, an odor at once penetrating and sensual, and dreamily

suggestive of great languid eyes, soft caressing hands, and the subdued

murmur of sighs and embraces.

These fancies are quickly dispelled on turning into the jewelry bazâr,

a narrow, dark, deserted street, flanked by wretched-looking little

shops, the last places on earth where one would expect to find the

fabulous treasures which, as a matter of fact, they do contain. The

jewels are kept in oaken coffers, hooped and bound with iron, which

stand in the front of the shops under the ever-watchful gaze of the

merchant, some old Turk or Hebrew with long beard, and piercing eyes

which seem to penetrate into the very recesses of your pocket and

examine the contents of your purse; occasionally one or another of

them, standing erect before his door, as you pass close by first

regards you fixedly in the eye, and then with a rapid movement flashes

before your face a diamond of Golconda, a sapphire from Ormus, or a

ruby of Gramschid, which at the slightest negative movement on your

part is as quickly withdrawn from sight. Others, circulating slowly

about, stop you in the middle of the street, and, after casting a

suspicious glance all around, draw forth from their bosoms a dirty bit

of rag in whose folds is hidden a fine Brazilian topaz or Macedonian

turquoise, watching like some tempting demon to see its effect upon

you. Others, again, after scrutinizing you closely, come to the

conclusion that you have not the precious-stones look, as it were, and

do not trouble themselves to offer you anything, and you may wear the

face of a saint or the airs of a Crœsus, and it will not avail to open

those oaken boxes. The opal necklaces, emerald stars and pendants,

the coronets and crescents of pearls of Ophir, the dazzling heaps of

beryls, agates, garnets, of crystals, aventurine, and lapis lazuli

remain inexorably hidden from the eyes of the curious, provided he has

no money, or, at all events, from those of a poor devil of an Italian

writer. The utmost such an one can accomplish is to ask the price of

a coral or sandal-wood or amber _tespi_ which he runs through his

fingers, as the Turk does, to pass away the time in the intervals of

his forced labors.

If you want to be really amused, though, just go into the Frankish

shops, those which deal in everything, and where there are goods to

suit all pockets. Hardly has your foot crossed the threshold before

a crowd of people spring up from you don’t know where, and in an

instant you are surrounded. It is out of the question to transact

your business with one single person. What between the merchant

himself, his partners, his agents, and the various hangers-on of the

establishment, you never have to do with less than a half dozen at

least. If you escape being floored by one, you are, so to speak, strung

up by another. There is no way by which final defeat can be warded

off. Words fail to describe their patience, art, and persistency,

the diabolical subterfuges to which they resort in order to force

you to buy what they choose. Finding everything put at an exorbitant

price, you offer a third, upon which they drop their arms in sign of

profound discouragement or beat their foreheads in dumb despair, or

else they burst into an impassioned torrent of appeal and expostulation

calculated to touch your feelings as a man and a brother. You are hard

and cruel; you are evidently determined to force them to close their

shops; your object is to reduce them to misery and want; you have no

compassion for their innocent children; they wonder plaintively what

injury they could ever have done you that you should be so bent upon

their ruin. While you are being told the price of an article an agent

from a neighboring shop hisses in your ear, “Don’t buy it; you are

being cheated.” Taking this for a piece of honest advice, you soon

discover that there is an understanding between him and the shopkeeper;

the information that you are being imposed upon in the matter of a

shawl is only given in order to fleece you far worse in the purchase

of a hanging. While you are examining the various articles they talk

in broken sentences among themselves, gesticulating, striking their

breasts, casting looks full of dark meaning. If you understand Greek,

the conversation is in Turkish; if you are familiar with that, it is in

Armenian; if you show any knowledge of Armenian, they employ Spanish;

but whatever language is adopted, they know enough of it to cheat you.

If after some time you still preserve an unbroken front, they begin

stroking you down--tell you how beautifully you talk their tongue; that

you have all the air and manner of a real gentleman; that they will

never be able to forget your attractive face. They talk of the land of

your birth, where they have passed so many happy years. They have, in

fact, been everywhere. Then they make you a cup of fresh coffee and

offer to accompany you to the custom-house when you leave in order to

interpose between you and the overbearing authorities; which means,

being interpreted, in order to secure a final opportunity for cheating

you and your fellow-travellers, in case you may have any. They turn

their whole shop upside down for you, and should you finally leave

without having bought anything, you get no black looks, as they have a

sustaining conviction that the harvest is only deferred; if not to-day,

then some other day: you are certain to return to the bazâr, when their

bloodhounds will scent you out, and should you escape falling into

their clutches, you will undoubtedly be caught in the toils of one of

their associates; if they do not fleece you as shopkeepers, they will

flay you as agents; if they fail to overreach you in the bazâr, they

will get the better of you at the custom-house. Of what nationality

are these men? No one knows: by dint of having a smattering of so many

different languages they have lost their original accent, and the

constant habit of acting a part has ended by altering the natural lines

of their faces to such a degree as to efface their national traits.

They belong to any race you choose, and their profession is whatever

you may have need of at the moment--shopkeeper, guide, interpreter,

money-lender, and, above all, past master in the art of gulling the

universe.

The Mussulman shopkeepers present an altogether different field

of observation. Among them may still be found examples of those

venerable Turks, rarely enough to be seen now-a-days in the streets

of Constantinople, who look like living representatives of the days

of the Muhammads and Bayezids, remnants left intact of that mighty

Ottoman edifice whose walls received their first rude shock in the

reforms of Mahmûd, and which since then, year by year, stone by stone,

have been crumbling into ruins. One must now go to the Great Bazâr

and search in the dimmest shops of the most obscure streets to behold

those enormous turbans of the time of Suleiman, shaped like the dome

of a mosque, and beneath them the impressive face, the expressionless

eye, hooked nose, long white beard, antique purple or orange caftan,

full, plaited trousers confined about the waist by a huge sash, and

the haughty and melancholy bearing of a once all-powerful people. With

expressions dulled by opium or lighted up with the fire of fanaticism,

they sit all day in the backs of their dens with crossed legs and

folded arms, calm and unmoved like idols, awaiting with closed lips

the predestined purchaser. If business is brisk, they murmur, “_Mach

Allah!_” (God be praised!); if dull, “_Ol-sun!_” (So be it!), and bow

their heads resignedly. Some employ their time in reading the Koran;

others run the beads of the _tespi_ through their fingers, murmuring

under their breath the hundred epithets of Allah; others, whose affairs

have prospered, _drink their narghilehs_, as the Turks express it,

slowly revolving around them their sleepy, voluptuous-looking eyes;

others sit with drooping lids and bent brow in an attitude of profound

meditation. Of what are they thinking? Possibly of their sons killed

beneath the walls of Sebastopol, of their far-off caravans, of the

lost pleasures of youth, or possibly of the eternal gardens promised

by the Prophet, where, in the shade of the palm and the pomegranate,

they will espouse those dark-eyed brides never yet profaned by mortal

or geni. There is about each individual one of them something striking

and original, and all are picturesque. The shop forms a framework for

a picture full of color and suggestion; one’s mind is instantly filled

with images taken from history or what is known of the domestic life

of this strange people. This spare, bronzed man with a bold, alert

expression is an Arab; he has led his train of camels laden with gems

and alabaster from the interior of his far-off country, and more than

once has felt the balls of the robbers of the desert whiz past him.

This one in the yellow turban, bearing himself with an air of command,

has crossed the solitudes of Syria on horseback, carrying with him

treasures of silk from Tyre and Sidon. Yonder negro, with his head

enveloped in an old Persian shawl, is from Nubia; his forehead is

covered with scars made by magicians to preserve him from death, and he

holds his head aloft as though still beholding before him the Colossus

of Thebes or summits of the Pyramids. This good-looking Moor, with his

black eyes and pallid skin, wrapped in a long snow-white cloak, has

carried his _caic_ and his carpets from the uttermost western limits of

the Atlas chain. That green-turbaned Turk, with the emaciated face,

has this very year returned from the great pilgrimage. After seeing

relatives and companions die of thirst amid the interminable plains of

Asia Minor, he finally reached Mecca in the last stages of exhaustion,

and, after dragging himself seven times around the _Kaaba_, finally

fell half swooning upon the Black Stone, covering it with impassioned

kisses. This giant with a pale face, arched brows, and piercing eyes,

who has far more the air of a warrior than of a merchant, his entire

bearing breathing nothing but pride and arrogance, has brought his

furs hither from the northern regions of the Caucasus, and in his day

struck at a blow the head from off the shoulders of more than one

Cossack. And this poor wool-merchant, with his flat face and small

oblique eyes, active and sinewy as an athlete, it is not so long since

he was saying his prayers in the shadow of that immense dome which

rises above the sepulchre of Tamerlane. Starting from Samarcand, he

crossed the desert of Great Bûkharia, and, passing safely through the

midst of the Turkoman hordes, crossed the Dead Sea, escaped the balls

of the Circassians, and, after returning thanks to Allah in the mosques

of Trebizond, has at last come to seek his fortune in Stambul, from

whence, as he grows old, he will surely return once more to his beloved

Tartary, which always claims the first place in his heart.

The shoe bazâr is one of the most resplendent of all, and possibly

fills the brain more than any other with wild longings and riotous

desires. It consists of two glittering rows of shops, which make the

street in which it is situated look like a suite of royal apartments

or like one of those gardens in the Arabian fairy-stories where the

fruit trees are laden with pearls and have golden leaves. There are

shoes enough there to supply the feet of every court in Europe and

Asia. The walls are completely covered with slippers of the sauciest

shapes and most striking and fanciful colors, made out of skins,

velvet, brocade, and satin, ornamented with filigree-work, gold,

tinsel, pearls, silken tassels, swan’s down; flowered and starred in

gold and silver; so thickly covered with intricate embroidery as to

completely hide the original texture; and glittering with emeralds and

sapphires. You can buy shoes there for the boatman’s bride or for the

Seraglio belle; you may pay five francs a pair or a thousand. There are

morocco shoes destined to walk the paved streets of Pera, and beside

them Turkish slippers which will one day glide over the thick carpets

of some pasha’s harem; light wooden shoes which will resound on the

marbles of the imperial baths; tiny slippers of white satin on which

ardent lovers’ kisses will be showered; and it may well be that yonder

pair encrusted with pearls will some day stand beside the couch of the

Padishâh himself, awaiting the pretty feet of some beautiful Georgian.

But how, you ask yourself, is it possible for any feet to get into

such tiny little receptacles? Some of them seem intended to fit the

houris and fairies--long as the leaf of a lily, wide as the leaf of

a rose, of such dimensions as to throw all Andalusia into despair;

graceful as a dream--not slippers at all, but jewels, toys, objects

to stand on one’s table full of bonbons or to keep billetsdoux in.

Once allow your imagination to dwell upon the foot which could wear

them, and you are seized with an insane desire to behold it yourself,

to stroke and caress it like some pretty plaything. This bazâr is one

of those most frequented by strangers: it is not unusual to encounter

young Europeans wandering about with slips of paper in their hands upon

which are inscribed the measurements of some small French or Italian

foot, of which they are possibly quite proud, and it is amusing to

see their faces fall and the look of incredulous astonishment which

follows the discovery that some slipper which has attracted their fancy

is far too small; while others, having asked the price of a pair they

had thought of buying, receive so overwhelming a reply that they make

off without a word. Here, too, may sometimes be seen Mussulman ladies

(_hanum_) with long white veils, and one can often catch, in passing,

fragments of their lengthy dialogues with the shopkeepers, brief

sentences of that beautiful language, uttered in sweet, clear tones,

which fall upon the ear like the notes of a mandolin: “_Buni catscia

verersin!_” (How much is this?) “_Pahalli dir_” (It is too high).

“_Ziade veremem_” (I won’t pay any more). And then a childish, ringing

laugh, which makes you feel like patting them on the head or pinching

their cheeks.

But the richest and most picturesque of all is the armory bazâr. It is

more like a museum, really, than a bazâr, overflowing with treasures

and filled with objects which at once transport the imagination

into the realms of history and legend. Every sort and shape of

weapon is there, fantastic, horrible, cruel-looking, which has ever

been brandished in defence of Islamism from Mecca to the Danube,

polished and set out in warlike array, as though but now laid down

by the fanatical soldiery of Muhammad and Selim. You seem to see the

glittering eyes of those formidable sultans, those savage Janissaries,

those _spahis_ and _azabs_, drunk with blood, amid the gleaming

blades--those _silidars_, to whom pity and fear were alike unknown,

and who strewed Europe and Asia Minor with severed heads and stiffened

corpses. Here are displayed those renowned cimeters capable of cutting

through a floating feather or striking off the ears of audacious

ambassadors; those heavy Turkish daggers which cleaved downward at

a blow from the skull to the very heart; mighty clubs which crashed

through Servian and Hungarian helmets; _yataghans_, their handles

inlaid with ivory and encrusted with amethysts and rubies, and on

their blades the engraved record of the number of heads they have cut

off; poniards with silver, velvet, or satin sheaths and agate or ivory

handles set with coral, turquoise, and garnets, inscribed in golden

lettering with verses from the Koran, their blades curved backward as

though feeling for a heart. Who can tell whether amid all this strange

and terrible array there may not be the cimeter of Orcano or the sabre

with which the powerful arm of the warrior-dervish Abd-el-Murad struck

off the heads of his enemies at a single blow; or that famous yataghan

with which Sultan Moussa clove asunder the body of Hassan from shoulder

to heart; or the huge cimeter of the Bulgarian giant who set the first

ladder in place against the walls of Constantinople; or the club with

which Muhammad II. felled his rapacious soldiers beneath the roof of

St. Sophia; or the mighty Damascus sabre with which Scanderbeg cut down

Firuzi Pasha beneath the walls of Stetigrad? All the most horrible

massacres and blood-curdling murders of Ottoman history, revolts of

the Janissaries, and black deeds of treachery come crowding into one’s

mind at the mere sight of these terrific weapons, and one fancies that

bloodstains can be detected upon the gleaming blades, and that those

old Turks lurking in the dim recesses of their shops have gathered

them from the field of battle--yes, and the bodies of their owners

as well--and that even now their shattered skeletons are occupying

some obscure corner close at hand. In among the arms are great blue

and scarlet velvet saddles, worked with gold stars and crescents and

embroidered in pearls, with plumed frontals and chased silver bits;

saddle-cloths magnificent as royal mantles; trappings which remind one

of the _Thousand and One Nights_, seemingly intended for the use of a

king of the genii making his triumphal entry into a golden city in the

land of dreams. Suspended on the walls above all these treasures are

antique firelock muskets, clumsy Albanian pistols, long Arabian guns

worked and chased like pieces of jewelry; ancient shields made out of

bark, tortoise-shell, or hippopotamus skin; Circassian armor, Cossack

shields, Mongolian head-pieces, Turkish bows, executioners’ axes, great

blades of uncouth shape and full of horrible suggestions, each one of

which seems to bear witness to a crime committed, and brings before one

frightful visions of death-agonies.

Seated cross-legged in the midst of all these objects of magnificence

and horror are the merchants who, of all those to be found in the Great

Bazâr, present the most striking and distinctive examples of the true

Mussulman. They are, for the most part, old, of forbidding aspect, lean

as anchorites, haughty as sultans, belonging apparently to another age

and wearing the dress of a bygone era: it would seem as though they

had arisen from the dead for the purpose of recalling their degenerate

descendants to the forgotten austerities of their ancient race.

Another spot well worth seeing is the old-clothes bazâr. Rembrandt

would simply have taken up his abode here, and Goya have expended his

last _peseta_. Any one who has never been in an Oriental second-hand

shop can form no idea of the variety and richness of the rags, pomp

of color, and irony of contrast to be found in them--a sight at once

fantastic, melancholy, and repellent. They are a sort of rag-sewer, in

which the refuse of harem, barrack, court, and theatre await together

the moment when some artist’s caprice or beggar’s necessity shall once

more call them forth into the light of day. From long poles fastened

to the walls depend antique Turkish uniforms, swallow-tailed coats,

fine gentlemen’s cloaks, dervishes’ tunics, Bedouins’ mantles, all

greasy, torn, and faded, looking as though they had been taken by force

from their former owners, and strongly resembling the booty found on

footpads and assassins which may be seen on exhibition in the Court of

Assizes. In among all these rags and tatters one catches the glitter of

an occasional bit of gold embroidery; old silk scarfs and turbans, all

unwrapped, dangle to and fro; a rich shawl with ragged edges; a velvet

corsage looking as though some rude hand had torn off its trimming

of pearls and fur; slippers and veils which may once have belonged

to some beautiful sinner, whose body, sewn up in a bag, now sleeps

quietly enough beneath the rippling waters of the Bosphorus;--these

and countless other feminine garments and adornments, of all manner of

charming shapes and colors, hang imprisoned between rough Circassian

caftans, long black Jewish capes, rusty cartridge-boxes, heavy cloaks

and coarse tunics beneath whose folds who knows how often the bandit’s

musket or dagger of the assassin may have been hidden? On toward

evening, when the subdued light from the roof above becomes still

more uncertain, all these garments, as they sway back and forth in

the wind, assume the look and air of human bodies strung up there by

some murderer’s hand, and just then, as your eye catches the sinister

glance of one of those old Jews seated watchfully in the rear of his

gloomy den of a shop, you cannot avoid fancying that the skinny claw

with which he scratches his forehead can be no other than the one

which tightened the rope--a soothing idea which causes you to glance

involuntarily over your shoulder to see if the entrance to the bazâr is

still open.

One day of wandering here and there will not suffice if you really

wish to see every part of this strange city. There is the fez bazâr,

in which are to be found fezzes of every country in the world, from

that of Morocco to the Vienna fez, ornamented with inscriptions from

the Koran, which serve to ward off evil spirits; the fez which is

worn perched on the tops of their heads by the pretty Greek girls

of Smyrna, surmounting their coils of black hair intertwined with

coins; the little red fez of the Turkish women; soldiers’, generals’,

sultans’, dandies’ fezzes, of all shades of red and every style, from

the primitive ones worn in the days of Orcano to the large and elegant

fez of Mahmûd, emblem of reform and an abomination in the eyes of

Mussulmans of the old school.

Then there is the fur bazâr, where may be seen the sacred fur of the

black wolf, which at one time none but the Sultan himself and his grand

vizier were allowed to wear; the marten, used to trim state caftans;

skins of white and black bears; astrakhan, ermine, blue wolf, and rich

sable skins, upon which in old times the sultans would expend fabulous

sums of money.

Then the cutlery bazâr is worth a visit, if only to examine those huge

Turkish shears whose bronzed and gilded blades, adorned with fantastic

designs of birds and flowers, open with a murderous sweep wide enough

to swallow up entirely the head of an unfavorable critic.

There are the gold-thread embroidery, china, household utensils, and

tailors’ bazârs, all differing from one another in size, shape, and

character, but all in one respect alike, that in none of them do you

ever see a woman either attending to the customers or working apart. At

the very most, it may occasionally happen that a Greek woman, seated

for a moment in front of some tailor’s shop, will timidly offer to

sell you a handkerchief she has just finished embroidering. Oriental

jealousy forbids shopkeeping to the fair sex, as offering too wide a

field for coquetry and intrigue.

In other parts of the Great Bazâr it is as well for a stranger not

to venture unless he is accompanied by a dragoman or one of the

shopkeepers. Those are the interior parts of the various districts

into which this strange city is divided--the islands, as it were,

about which wind and twist the rapid currents of streets and byways.

If it is a difficult matter to keep from losing your way among the

main thoroughfares, in here it is quite impossible. From passage-ways

scarcely wider than a man’s shoulders, where it is necessary to

stoop to avoid striking your head, you come out upon tiny courtyards

encumbered with bales and boxes, where hardly so much as a single ray

of light can penetrate. Feeling your way down flights of wooden steps,

you come to other courts lighted only by lanterns, from which you

descend below ground, or, climbing up again into what passes for the

light of day, stumble with bent head through long, winding corridors,

beneath damp roofs and between black and moss-grown walls, to come at

last upon some small hidden doorway, and suddenly find yourself exactly

where you started. Everywhere shadowy forms are seen coming and going;

dusky shapes stand immovable in dark corners, outlines of persons

handling merchandise or counting money; lights which flash ahead of you

at one moment, and the next, disappear; a sound of hurrying footsteps,

of low, eager voices, coming from you don’t know where; reflections

thrown from unseen lights; suspicious encounters; strange odors like

those one might expect to escape from a witch’s cave; and apparently

no possible means of escape from it all. The dragoman is very apt to

conduct his victim through these quarters on his way to those shops,

usually somewhat apart, which contain a little of everything, like

Great Bazârs in miniature or a superior sort of second-hand shop,

extremely curious and interesting, but extremely perilous as well,

since they contain such a variety of rare and attractive objects as to

woo the money out of the pocket of the veriest miser. The shopkeepers

here are great solemn knaves, thoroughly well versed in every art

appertaining to their business, and, polyglot like their brothers of

the trade, have a certain dramatic power which they employ in the most

entertaining manner to tempt people to buy, sometimes rising to the

level of genuinely good acting. Their shops usually consist of dark

little holes cluttered up with boxes and chests of drawers, where

lights have to be lit in order to see anything, and there is barely

enough space to turn around in. After displaying a few trifles inlaid

with ivory and mother-of-pearl, some bits of Chinese porcelain, a

Japanese vase or two, and some other things of the same sort, the

shopkeeper informs you with an impressive air that he sees what sort

of person you are, and will now bring out something especially suited

to you. He then proceeds to pull out a certain drawer, whose contents

he empties upon the table. There are all manner of knick-knacks and

gewgaws--a peacock-feather fan, a bracelet made of old Turkish coins,

a little leather cushion with the Sultan’s monogram embroidered upon

it in gold, a Persian hand-glass painted with a scene from the _Book

of Paradise_, one of those tortoise-shell spoons with which Turks

eat cherry compôte, an ancient decoration of the Order of Osmanieh.

You don’t care for any of these, either? Very well. He turns out the

contents of another, and this is a drawer which, as a matter of fact,

was being reserved for your eye alone. There is a broken elephant’s

tusk; a Trebizond bracelet, looking as though it had been made from a

lock of silver hair; a Japanese idol; a sandal-wood comb from Mecca; a

large Turkish spoon, chased and filigreed; an antique silver narghileh,

gilded and inscribed; bits of mosaic from St. Sophia; a heron’s

feather, which once ornamented the turban of Selim III.: for the truth

of this last statement the merchant, as a man of honor, is willing to

vouch. And still there is nothing which suits your fancy? Here, then,

is another drawer, crammed full of treasures--an ostrich egg from

Sahara; a Persian inkstand; a chased ring; a Mingrelian bow, with its

quiver made out of an elk’s skin; a Circassian two-pointed head-piece;

a jasper rosary; a smelling-bottle of beaten gold; a Turkish talisman;

a camel-driver’s knife; a box of _attar-gul_. In Heaven’s name, is

there still nothing that tempts you? Have you no presents to make? no

beloved relatives? no dear friends? Perhaps, though, your tastes run

to stuffs and carpets. Well, here too he can assist you as a friend.

“Behold, milor, this striped Kurdistan mantle, this lion skin; yonder

rug is from Aleppo, with its little steel fastenings, while this

_Casablanca_ carpet, three fingers thick, is guaranteed to last for

four generations; here, Your Excellency, are old cushions, old brocade

scarfs, old silken coverlids, a little faded, a little frayed out at

the edges, it is true, but such embroidery as you could not get in

these days, even if you were to offer a fortune. You, _caballero_, have

been brought here by a friend of mine, and for that reason I am going

to let you have this ancient sash for the sum of five napoleons, and

live myself on bread and garlic for one week in order to make up the

loss.” Should even this magnificent offer fail to move you, he whispers

in your ear that he has in his possession, and is moreover willing to

sell, the very rope with which the terrible Seraglio mutes strangled

Nassuh Pasha, Muhammad Third’s grand vizier. And if you laugh in his

face and decline to swallow it, he gives it up at once like a sensible

man, and proceeds to make his final effort, displaying before you, in

rapid succession, a horse’s tail such as were once carried before and

after every pasha; a janissary’s helmet, spattered with blood, which

his own father picked up on the day of the famous massacre; a scrap of

one of the flags carried in the Crimea, showing the silver star and

crescent; a wash-basin studded with agates; a brazier of beaten copper;

a dromedary-collar with its shells and bells; a eunuch’s whip made of

hippopotamus leather; a gold-bound Koran; a Khorassan scarf; a pair of

slippers from a kadyn’s wardrobe; a candlestick made from the claw of

an eagle,--until at length your imagination is fired. The longing to

possess breaks forth, and you are seized with a mad impulse to throw

down your purse, watch, overcoat, everything you have, and fill your

pockets with booty. One must indeed be an uncommonly well-balanced

person, a very mountain of wisdom, to be able to withstand the

temptations of this place, whence many an artist has come forth as poor

as Job, and where more than one rich man has thrown away his fortune.

But before the Great Bazâr closes let us take a turn around to see how

it looks at the end of the day. The crowd moves along more hurriedly;

shopkeepers call out to you and gesticulate more imperiously than ever;

Greeks and Armenians run through the streets calling aloud, with

shawls or rugs hung over their arms, or form into groups, bargaining

and discussing as they move about, then break up and form again into

other groups farther off; horses, carriages, beasts of burden, all

moving in the direction of the gateway, pass by in endless files. At

this hour all those tradespeople with whom you have had fruitless

negotiations during the day start to life again, circling around you

in the dusk like so many bats: you see them peeping out from behind

columns; come suddenly upon them at every turn; they cross in front

of you or pass close by you gazing abstractedly in the air, to remind

you by their presence of that certain rug or that bit of jewelry, and,

if possible, reawaken your desire to possess it. Sometimes you are

followed by a whole troop of them at once: if you stop, they do the

same; if you slip down a side street, you find them there before you;

turning suddenly, you are aware of a dozen sharp eyes fixed upon you

which seem to fairly devour you whole. But already the fading light

warns the crowd to disperse. Beneath the vaulted roof can be heard the

voice of an invisible muezzin announcing the sunset from some wooden

minaret. Some Turks have spread strips of carpet in the street before

their shop-doors and are murmuring the evening prayer; others perform

their ablutions at the fountains. The centenarians of the armor bazâr

have already shut to their great iron doors; the smaller bazârs are

empty; the farther ends of the corridors are lost in shadow, and the

openings of the side streets look like the mouths of caves. Camels

suddenly loom up close to you in the uncertain light; the voices of the

water-carriers echo distantly among the arched roofs; the Turk quickens

his step and the eunuch’s eyes grow more alert; strangers are seen

hurrying away; the entrance is closed; the day ended.

And now on all sides I can hear the questions: What about St. Sophia?

and the old Seraglio? and the Sultan’s palaces? and the Castle of the

Seven Towers? and Abdul-Aziz? and the Bosphorus. All in good time: each

one of them shall be fully described in turn, but for still a little

while longer let us wander here and there about the city, touching at

every page upon some new theme just as some new idea strikes our fancy

at every step.