And so on the Serasker Tower I asked myself, as I had already done
over and over again on the old bridge, the Tower of Galata, at Skutari,
how I could ever have been so infatuated with Holland; and not only did
Holland now seem a poor dull place which one would tire of in a month,
but Paris, Madrid, Seville as well. And then I would think miserably
of my wretched descriptions--how often I had used the expressions
superb, beautiful, magnificent, until now there were none left for
this surpassing view; and yet at the same time I knew I would never be
willing to subtract a syllable from what I had said about those other
parts of Constantinople. My friend Rossasco would say, “Well, why don’t
you try this?” To which I would reply, “But suppose I have nothing to
say?” And indeed, incredible as it sounds, there really were times
when, in certain lights and at certain hours of the day, the view did
look almost poor, and I would exclaim in dismay, “What has become of
my beloved Constantinople?” At others I would experience a feeling
of sadness to think that while I had that immensity of space, that
prodigality of beauty, spread out before me for the asking, my mother
was sitting in a little room from which nothing could be seen but a
dull courtyard and narrow strip of sky, as though I must somehow be to
blame; and feel that I would give an eye to have my dear old lady on my
arm and carry her off to see St. Sophia. As a rule, however, the days
flew by as lightly and gayly as the hours at a feast, and when, by
any chance, my friend and I were attacked by ill-humor, we had a sure
and certain method of curing ourselves. Going to Galata, we would jump
into the two most gayly-decorated two-oared käiks at the landing, and,
calling out, “Eyûb!” presto, before we knew it, would find ourselves
in the middle of the Golden Horn. The oarsmen, Mahmûds or Bayezids or
Ibrahims, about twenty years old or so, and endowed with arms of iron,
would usually amuse themselves by racing, keeping up a series of shouts
and cries and laughing like children. Above, a cloudless sky, below a
smooth transparent sea; throwing back our heads, we would inhale great
breaths of the delicious scented air, and trail one hand over the
side in the soft clear water. On fly the two käiks; palaces, gardens,
kiosks, and mosques glide by; we seem to be borne on the wings of the
wind across an enchanted world, and are blissfully conscious that we
are young and at Stambul. Yunk sings, and I, while reciting half aloud
some one of Victor Hugo’s ballads of the East, can see now on the right
hand and now on the left, near by, afar off, a beloved face crowned
with white hair which wears a tender smile and tells me, as plainly as
though it were a voice speaking, that she appreciates and fully shares
all my enjoyment.