This is perhaps the very best period in which to study the dress of
the Mussulman population of Constantinople. In the last generation,
as will probably be the case in the next, it presented too uniform an
appearance. You find it in a sort of transition stage, and presenting,
consequently, a wonderful variety of form and color. The steady
advance of the reform party, the resistance of the conservative Turks,
the uncertainty and vacillation of the great mass of the people,
hesitating between the two extremes--every aspect, in short, of the
conflict which is being waged between ancient and modern Turkey--is
faithfully reflected in the dress of her people. The old-fashioned Turk
still wears his turban, his caftan and sash, and the traditional yellow
morocco slippers, and, if he is one of the more strict and precise
kind, a veritable Turk of the old school, the turban will be of vast
proportions. The reformed Turk wears a long black coat buttoned close
up under the chin, and dark shoes and trousers, preserving nothing
Turkish in his costume but the fez. Some among the younger and bolder
spirits have even gone farther, and, discarding the black frock-coat,
substitute for it an open cut-away, light trousers, fancy cravat and
jewelry, and carry a cane, and a flower in the buttonhole. Between
these and those, the wearers of the caftan and the wearers of the coat,
there is a deep gulf fixed. They no longer have anything in common but
the name of Turk, and are in reality two separate nations. He of the
turban still believes implicitly in the bridge Sirat, finer than a
hair, sharper than a cimeter, which leads to the infernal regions; he
faithfully performs his ablutions at the appointed hours, and at sunset
shuts himself into his house. He of the frock-coat, on the contrary,
laughs at the Prophet, has his photograph taken, talks French, and
spends his evening at the theatre. Between these two extremes are
those who, having departed somewhat from the ancient dress of their
countrymen, are still unwilling to Europeanize themselves altogether.
Some of them, while wearing turbans, yet have them so exceedingly
small that some day they can be quietly exchanged for the fez without
creating too much scandal; others who still wear the caftan have
already adopted the fez; others, again, conform to the general fashion
of the ancient costume, but have left off the sash and slippers as well
as the bright colors, and little by little will get rid of the rest as
well. The women alone still adhere to their veils and the long mantles
covering the entire person; but the veil has grown transparent, and not
infrequently reveals the outline of a little hat and feathers, while
the mantle as often as not conceals a Parisian costume of the latest
mode. Every year a thousand caftans disappear to make room for as many
black coats; every day sees the death of a Turk of the old school, the
birth of one of the new. The newspaper replaces the _tespi_, the cigar
the chibuk; wine is used instead of flavored water, carriages instead
of the _arabà_; the French grammar supersedes the Arabian, the piano
the _timbur_; stone houses rise on the sites of wooden ones. Everything
is undergoing change and transformation. At the present rate it may
well be that in less than a century those who wish to find the traces
of ancient Turkey will be obliged to seek for them in the remotest
provinces of Asia Minor, just as we now look for ancient Spain in the
most out-of-the-way villages of Andalusia.