Although at certain hours of the day Constantinople wears an air of
bustle and activity, in reality it is probably the laziest city in
Europe, and in this respect both Turk and Frank meet on common ground.
Every one begins by getting up at the latest possible hour in the
morning. Even in summer, at a time when our cities are up and doing
from one end to the other Constantinople is still buried in slumber.
It is difficult to find a shop open or so much as to procure a cup
of coffee until the sun is well up in the heavens. Hotels, offices,
bazârs, banks, all snore together in one joyous chorus, and nothing
short of a cannon would arouse them. Then the holidays! The Turks keep
Friday, the Jews Saturday, and the Christians Sunday, besides which
regular weekly ones are all the feast-days of the innumerable saints
of the Greek and Armenian calendars, which are scrupulously observed;
and although all of these holidays are supposed to affect only certain
parts of the community respectively, in reality they provide large
numbers, with whom, properly speaking, they have nothing whatever to
do, with an excuse for being idle. You can thus form some idea of the
amount of work accomplished in the course of a week. There are some
offices which are only open twenty-four hours in the seven days. Each
day some one of the five nationalities who go to make up the population
of Constantinople is rambling about over the big city with no other
object in the world than to kill time. In this art, however, the Turk
yields to none. He can make a cup of coffee, costing two sous, last
half a day, and sit immovable for five hours at a stretch at the foot
of a cypress tree in one of the innumerable cemeteries. His indolence
is a thing absolute and complete, an inertia resembling death or sleep,
in which all the faculties seem to be suspended--an utter absence of
any sort of emotion, a phase of existence completely unknown among
Europeans. Turks dislike so much as to have the idea of movement
presented to their minds. At Stambul, for instance, where there are no
public walks, it is extremely unlikely that the Turks would frequent
them if there were: to go to a place designed expressly for the purpose
of being walked about in would, to their way of thinking, resemble work
entirely too much. They enter the nearest cemetery or turn down the
first street they come to, and follow, without any objective point,
wherever their legs or the windings of the path or the people ahead
may lead them. A Turk rarely goes to any spot merely for the purpose
of seeing it. There are those among them, living in Stambul, who have
never been farther than Kassim Pasha; Mussulman gentlemen who have
never gotten beyond the Isles of the Princes, where they happen to
have a friend living, or their own villa on the Bosphorus. For them
the height of bliss consists in complete inactivity of body and mind;
hence they abandon to the restless Christian all those great industries
which require care and thought and travelling about from one place
to another, and content themselves with such small trades as can be
conducted sitting down in the same spot, and where sight can almost
take the place of speech. Labor, which with us governs and regulates
all the conditions of life, is a thing of quite secondary importance
there, subordinated to what is pleasant and convenient. We look upon
repose as a necessary interruption to work, while to them work is
merely a suspension of repose. The first object, at all costs, is
to sleep, dream, and smoke for a certain number of hours out of the
twenty-four; whatever time is left over may be employed in gaining
one’s livelihood. Time, as understood by the Turks, signifies something
altogether different from what it does to us. The hour, day, month,
year, has not a hundredth part of the value there that it has in other
parts of Europe. The very shortest period required by any official of
the Turkish government in which to answer the simplest form of inquiry
is two weeks. These people do not know what it is to desire to finish
a thing for the mere pleasure of having done with it, and, with the
single exception of the porters, one never sees a Turk employed on any
business hurrying in the streets of Stambul. All walk with the same
measured tread, as though their steps were regulated by the beat of a
single drum. With us life is a seething torrent; with them, a sleeping
pool.
[Illustration: A Turkish Official.]