So it is a real pleasure to go shopping in Stamboul and we absolutely avoid Pera when we want or need anything. One can find everything in Stamboul when one knows where to look for it. We have found even English and American chintz for the curtains of our bedrooms and at half the price we would have to pay for them in Pera. The little cabinet maker around the corner has restored one of our Chippendale chairs, which was broken on its way from America, so well that the repairs cannot be detected even after a very close scrutiny. And the funny part of it is that he never had seen a Chippendale chair before in his life.
Right near our house is a shoe-store. I realized one Sunday morning that I had forgotten to cash a cheque the previous day and as the banks were closed and cheques are very little used in Turkey, my wife and I were wishing we were in America where we could have cashed one at a hotel, a club or even a store where we were known. I decided to take a chance and send our man with a cheque for ten Turkish pounds to the shoe-store to ask if they would cash it for me. A few minutes later our man came back with the cheque—and with the ten pounds, the storekeeper having absolutely refused to accept the cheque on the grounds that he had entire confidence in us, that he was sure we would pay him back next day or the day after, and that his retaining the cheque would be tantamount to mistrusting us. I could not help thinking that it takes an honest man to have confidence in the honesty of some one else and one has all the time such proofs of honesty when one deals with the small Turkish traders. I must admit however that they have two standards of principles when it comes to naming a price for their merchandise or for their services: the first standard which applies to their steady customers and to Turks exclusively and which is one of strict honesty satisfied with a very small margin of legitimate gain—the steady customers and the Turks know that this means one price only and do not begrudge them their small profits or try to beat them down by bargaining—the other standard is the one they apply in their dealings with foreigners or with a casual client, it consists in asking for a much larger profit, leaving enough margin to indulge in bargaining. I must also add in the defense of the small Turkish dealer that he is obliged to have recourse to this second standard especially in dealing with foreigners, purely and simply in self-defense. I have still to find a foreigner who will step into a shop in Turkey and pay without haggling over the price first asked by the merchant. This is always a source of wonderment to me as very often the foreigner who begrudges a paltry ten per cent profit to the Turkish merchant is the same one who pays without the slightest protest twenty-five or fifty per cent profit in his own town to a retailer who has had the good sense to advertise himself as having only one price for his goods.
Anyhow, in Stamboul we never have to complain of the manner in which we are treated by our suppliers, and when we deal with them we feel that we have an individuality of our own and are not just a name or a number which has to be served. We are friends who have to be pleased. That is one of the reasons why we love Stamboul so much, and why Stamboul is loved by all who have lived there. One becomes identified with the quarter one lives in, one becomes part of it, one gets to know and to be known at least by sight by every one who lives in the same quarter: the policemen on the beat, the night watchman, the storekeepers, the neighbours—all know each other and take a personal interest in helping each other. There is a spirit of friendship, an “esprit de corps" among all members of the same community.
The community in which we live is possibly exceptional in one respect and that is that it is the center not only of Government circles, but also of publicists and doctors. Stamboul even in its living quarters is very markedly divided into sections where people of a certain trade, a certain education or of a certain walk in life live in communities distinct from each other. Ours is an intellectual community, all the big doctors, physicians and surgeons and all the writers, publicists and newspapermen live here, while the people of the Government come every day to the Sublime Porte opposite our house. The result is that after a short while we have a circle of neighbours and friends who make it a practise to drop in informally once in a while to visit with us. There are no official visitors, but friends who come in to pass away the time in case you have nothing better to do and the informality is such that they do not feel hurt if you cannot receive them. If by any chance you have some formal party going on, they themselves do not desire to stay. So it is perfectly charming and agreeable. So much the more since these people are all interesting people: men and women who know things and who are doing things and who shun small talk or gossip. It is a remarkable thing how little gossip there is in these cliques of Stamboul and this is a relief and a great difference from the cliques of Pera. True, the people here are not social people in the foreign sense of the word: they are people who do things and who desire to exchange ideas, constructive and profitable ideas.
They generally come in late in the afternoon, when the Sublime Porte is closing. They have to pass before our house, and every once in a while some one of our friends stops in at tea time. After dinner we receive the visits of our immediate neighbours, doctors and publicists, if we have nothing else to do or if we do not ourselves call on some neighbours. Of course these calls are not an every-day occurrence, they happen about two or three times a week and help to pass the time in a most pleasant way, as we have on our list of steady callers people interested in different lines, philosophic and religious thoughts as well as scientific and political thoughts.
So we are now finally settled and are leading a very quiet, interesting life, right in the midst of our Stamboul, right among the Turks; not any more the Stamboul and the Turks of Pierre Loti or of Claude Farrère, but a Stamboul which has suffered and is suffering much, a Stamboul which is thinking and feeling deeply, and among Turks who are passing through a transition period of passive development—chrysalises of the Near East which may soon develop into sturdy butterflies with large wings and whose one ambition is to carry their race, their country and their associates as high as the ideals towards which their constructive imagination is now soaring.