The Grand Bazaar of Constantinople, and its infinite Variety of
Wonders—Silent Shopkeepers—Female Curiosity—Adventure with a
Black-eyed Stranger—The Bezestein—The Stronghold of
Orientalism—Picture of a Dragoman—The Kibaub-Shop—A Dinner
without Knives, Forks, or Chairs—Cistern of the Thousand and
One Columns.
Bring all the shops of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, around the
City Hall, remove their fronts, pile up all their goods on shelves
facing the street, cover the whole with a roof, and metamorphose your
trim clerks into bearded, turbaned, and solemn old Mussulmans, smooth
Jews, and calpacked and rosy Armenians, and you will have something like
the grand bazaar of Constantinople. You can scarcely get an idea of it,
without having been there. It is a city under cover. You walk all day,
and day after day, from one street to another, winding and turning, and
trudging up hill and down, and never go out of doors. The roof is as
high as those of our three-story houses, and the dim light, so
favourable to shop-keepers, comes struggling down through skylights,
never cleaned except by the rains of heaven.
Strolling through the bazaar is an endless amusement. It is slow work,
for the streets are as crowded as a church-aisle after service; and,
pushed aside one moment by a bevy of Turkish ladies, shuffling along in
their yellow slippers, muffled to the eyes, the next by a fat slave
carrying a child, again by a _kervas_ armed to the teeth, and clearing
the way for some coming dignitary, you find your only policy is to draw
in your elbows, and suffer the motley crowd to shove you about at their
pleasure.
Each shop in this world of traffic may be two yards wide. The owner sits
cross-legged on the broad counter below, the height of a chair from the
ground, and hands you all you want without stirring from his seat. One
broad bench counter runs the length of the street, and the different
shops are only divided by the slight partition of the shelves. The
purchaser seats himself on the counter, to be out of the way of the
crowd, and the shopman spreads out his goods on his knees, never
condescending to open his lips except to tell you the price. If he
exclaims “bono,” or “calo,” (the only words a real Turk ever knows of
another language), he is stared at by his neighbours as a man would be
in Broadway who should break out with an Italian bravura. Ten to one,
while you are examining his goods, the bearded trader creeps through the
hole leading to his kennel of a dormitory in the rear, washes himself,
and returns to his counter, where, spreading his sacred carpet in the
direction of Mecca, he goes through his prayers and prostrations,
perfectly unconscious of your presence, or that of the passing crowd. No
vocation interferes with his religious duty. Five times a day, if he
were running from the plague, the Mussulman would find time for prayers.
The Frank purchaser attracts a great deal of curiosity. As he points to
an embroidered handkerchief, or a rich shawl, or a pair of gold-worked
slippers, Turkish ladies of the first rank, gathering their _yashmacks_
securely over their faces, stop close to his side, not minding if they
push him a little to get nearer the desired article. Feeling not the
least timidity, except for their faces, these true children of Eve
examine the goods in barter, watch the stranger’s countenance, and if he
takes off his glove, or pulls out his purse, take it up and look at it,
without even saying “by your leave.” Their curiosity often extends to
your dress, and they put out their little henna-stained fingers and pass
them over the sleeve of your coat with a gurgling expression of
admiration at its fineness, or if you have rings or a watch-guard, they
lift your hand or pull out your watch with no kind of scruple, I have
met with several instances of this in the course of my rambles. But a
day or two ago I found myself rather more than usual a subject of
curiosity. I was alone in the street of embroidered handkerchiefs (every
minute article has its peculiar bazaar), and wishing to look at some of
uncommon beauty, I called one of the many Jews always near a stranger to
turn a penny by interpreting for him, and was soon up to the elbows in
goods that would tempt a female angel out of Paradise. As I was
selecting one for a purchase, a woman plumped down on the seat beside
me, and fixed her great, black, unwinking eyes upon my face, while an
Abyssinian slave and another white woman, both apparently her
dependents, stood respectfully at her back. A small turquoise ring (the
favourite colour in Turkey), first attracted her attention. She took up
my hand in her soft, fat fingers, and dropped it again without saying a
word. I looked at my interpreter, but he seemed to think it nothing
extraordinary, and I went on with my bargain. Presently my fine-eyed
friend pulled me by the sleeve, and as I leaned toward her, rubbed her
forefinger very quickly over my cheek, looking at me intently all the
while. I was a little disturbed with the lady’s familiarity, and asked
my Jew what she wanted. I found that my rubicund complexion was
something uncommon among these dark-skinned orientals, and she wished to
satisfy herself that I was not painted! I concluded my purchase, and
putting the parcel into my pocket, did my prettiest at an oriental
salaam, but to my mortification, the lady only gathered up her
_yashmack_, and looked surprised out of her great eyes at my freedom. My
Constantinople friends inform me that I am to lay no “unction to my
soul” from her notice, such liberties being not at all particular. The
husband exacts from his half-dozen wives only the concealment of their
faces, and they have no other idea of impropriety in public.
In the centre of the bazaar, occupying about as much space as the body
of the City Hall in New York, is what is called the _bezestein_. You
descend into it from four directions by massive gates which are shut,
and all persons excluded, except between seven and twelve of the
forenoon. This is the core of Constantinople—the soul and citadel of
orientalism. It is devoted to the sale of arms and to costly articles
only. The roof is loftier, and the light more dim than on the outer
bazaars, and the merchants who occupy its stalls are old and of
established credit. Here are subjects for the pencil! If you can take
your eye from those Damascus sabres, with their jewelled hilts and
costly scabbards, or from those gemmed daggers and guns inlaid with
silver and gold, cast a glance along that dim avenue and see what a
range there is of glorious old grey beards, with their snowy turbans!
These are the Turks of the old _régime_, before Sultan Mahmoud
disfigured himself with a coat like a “dog of a Christian,” and broke in
upon the customs of the Orients. These are your opium-eaters, who smoke
even in their sleep, and would not touch wine if it were handed to them
by houris! These are your fatalists, who would scarce take the trouble
to get out of the way of a lion, and who are as certain of the miracle
of Mohammed’s coffin as of the length of the pipe, or of the quality of
the tobacco of Shiraz!
I have spent many an hour in the bezestein, steeping my fancy in its
rich orientalism, and sometimes trying to make a purchase for myself or
others. It is curious to see with what perfect indifference these old
cross-legs attend to the wishes of a Christian. I was idling round one
day with an English traveller, whom I had known in Italy, when a Persian
robe of singular beauty hanging on one of the stalls arrested my
companion’s attention. He had with him his Turkish dragoman, and as the
old merchant was smoking away and looking right at us, we pointed to the
dress over his head, and the interpreter asked to see it. The Mussulman
smoked calmly on, taking no more notice of us than of the white clouds
curling through his beard. He might have sat for Michael Angelo’s Moses.
Thin, pale, calm, and of a statue-like repose of countenance and
posture, with a large old-fashioned turban, and a curling beard half
mingled with grey, his neck bare, and his fine bust enveloped in the
flowing and bright coloured drapery of the East—I had never seen a more
majestic figure. He evidently did not wish to have anything to do with
us. At last I took out my snuff-box, and addressing him with “effendi!”
the Turkish title of courtesy, laid my hand on my breast and offered him
a pinch. Tobacco in this unaccustomed shape is a luxury here, and the
amber mouth-piece emerged from his moustache, and putting his three
fingers into my box, he said “_pekkhe!_” the Turkish ejaculation of
approval. He then made room for us on his carpet, and with a cloth
measure took the robe from its nail, and spread it before us. My friend
bought it unhesitatingly for a dressing-gown, and we spent an hour in
looking at shawls, of prices perfectly startling, arms, chalices for
incense, spotless amber for pipes, pearls, bracelets of the time of
Sultan Selim, and an endless variety of things “rich and rare.” The
closing of the bezestein gates interrupted our agreeable employment, and
our old friend gave us the parting salaam very cordially for a Turk. I
have been there frequently since, and never pass without offering my
snuff-box, and taking a whiff or two from his pipe, which I cannot
refuse, though it is not out of his mouth, except when offered to a
friend, from sunrise to midnight.
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One of the regular “lions” of Constantinople is a _kibaub shop_, or
Turkish restaurant. In a ramble with our consul, the other day, in
search of the newly-discovered cistern of a “thousand and one columns,”
we found ourselves, at the hungry hour of twelve, opposite a famous shop
near the slave-market. I was rather staggered at the first glance. A
greasy fellow, with his shirt rolled to his shoulders, stood near the
door, commending his shop to the world by slapping on the flank a whole
mutton that hung beside him, while, as a customer came in, he
dexterously whipped out a slice, had it cut in a twinkling into bits as
large as a piece of chalk (I have stopped five minutes in vain, to find
a better comparison), strung upon a long iron skewer, and laid on the
coals. My friend is an old Constantinopolitan, and had eaten kibaubs
before. He entered without hesitation, and the adroit butcher, giving
his big trowsers a fresh hitch, and tightening his girdle, made a new
cut for his “narrow-legged” customers, and wished us a good appetite
(the Turks look with great contempt on our tight pantaloons, and
distinguish us by this epithet). We got up on the platform, crossed our
legs under us as well as we could, and I cannot deny that the savoury
missives that occasionally reached my nostrils, bred a gradual
reconciliation between my stomach and my eyes.
In some five minutes, a tin platter was set between us, loaded with
piping hot kibaubs, sprinkled with salad, and mixed with bits of bread;
our friend the cook, by way of making the amiable, stirring it up well
with his fingers as he brought it along. As Modely says in the play, “In
love or mutton, I generally fall to without ceremony,” but, spite of its
agreeable flavour, I shut my eyes, and selected a very small bit, before
I commenced upon the kibaubs. It was very good eating, I soon found out,
and, my fingers once greased (for we are indulged with neither knife,
fork, nor skewer, in Turkey), I proved myself as good a trencherman as
my friend.
The middle and lower classes of Constantinople live between these shops
and the cafés. A dish of kibaubs serves them for dinner, and they drink
coffee, which they get for about half a cent a cup, from morning till
night. We paid for our mess (which was more than any two men could eat
at once, unless _very_ hungry), twelve cents.
We started again with fresh courage, in search of the cistern. We soon
found the old one, which is an immense excavation, with a roof,
supported by five hundred granite columns, employed now as a place for
twisting silk, and escaping from its clamorous denizens, who rushed up
after us to the daylight, begging _paras_, we took one of the boys for a
guide, and soon found the object of our search.
Knocking at the door of a half-ruined house, in one of the loneliest
streets of the city, an old, sore-eyed Armenian, with shabby calpack,
and every mark of extreme poverty, admitted us, pettishly demanding our
entrance money, before he let us pass the threshold. Flights of steps,
dangerously ruinous, led us down, first into a garden, far below the
level of the street, and thence into a dark and damp cavern, the bottom
of which was covered with water. As the eye became accustomed to the
darkness, we could distinguish tall and beautiful columns of marble and
granite, with superb Corinthian capitals, perhaps thirty feet in height,
receding as far as the limits of our obscured sight. The old man said
there were a thousand of them. The number was doubtless exaggerated, but
we saw enough to convince us, that here was covered up, almost unknown,
one of the most costly and magnificent works of the Christian emperors
of Constantinople.
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