Constantinople, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

Ancient fountain at Scutari.

These depressing fancies, however, were entirely dispelled by the gay image of Skutari. Whenever we went there, embarking upon one of the crowded little steamers for the purpose, my friend and I used invariably to get into a discussion as to which ranked first in point of beauty—Skutari or the two banks of the Golden Horn. Yunk preferred the former, but I held out for Stambul. Nevertheless, Skutari captivated me by its sudden, unexpected changes of aspect: it seems to mock all those who approach it by water. From the Sea of Marmora it is only a big village scattered over a hillside; from the Golden Horn you realize that it is a town; but when the steamboat, after rounding the most advanced point on the Asiatic shore, proceeds in a straight line toward the harbor, the little town spreads out in the most astounding fashion; other hills, quite covered with buildings, come into sight, rising one behind the other; the valleys are filled with houses; villas crown the heights; the outskirts stretch away along the shore as far as the eye can reach; and you find that you are approaching a great city, which in the course of a few minutes has come into view from some obscure hiding-place, much as though a huge curtain had been rolled back, and you gaze stupidly at it, half expecting to see it disappear at any moment with the same suddenness with which it came. Landing by means of a wooden gang-plank, and amid the shouts and vociferations of boatmen, dragomen, and others with horses to hire, we mount the principal street, which winds up the hillside among yellow and red houses decked with vines and creepers, and between garden-walls, over which a mass of verdure trails and clambers: overhead tall trellisworks and lofty plane trees cast their shade, the latter so large as to sometimes nearly close the street. As we go on we pass Turkish cafés, before which lounges the usual crowd of Asiatic idlers, smoking, stretched out at full length, their gaze fixed on no one knows what. Then we meet a herd of goats; heavy country carts jolt slowly by, drawn by oxen with wreaths of flowers on their heads; peasants, some in fez and others in turban, pass us on the road; Mussulman funeral processions, and groups of hanums, spending the summer in their country-houses, carrying great bunches of flowers or sprays of blossoms in their hands. We seem to be in another Stambul, less mysterious, but gayer and more cheerful than she of the Seven Hills. This one is more like a great city of villas into which the country is making inroads on every side. The little back streets lined with stables rise and descend again over hill and valley, swallowed up at last by the green of park and garden. On the heights the profound peace of the country still reigns, but lower down there is all the stir and activity of a seaport town. From the huge barracks which rise here and there comes a confused sound of bugle-calls, snatches of songs, and the beating of drums, while clouds of birds fly about and settle in the quiet lanes and byways.

Following in the wake of a funeral procession, we finally leave the town, and, entering the famous cemetery, are soon lost in that vast forest of mighty cypress trees which extends in one direction toward the Sea of Marmora and in the other toward the Golden Horn, covering a large area of undulating ground. On all sides there is nothing but group on group, row on row, of glimmering white tombstones outlined against the turf and gay colors of the wild flowers, and an intricate network of footpaths winding in and out among the trunks of the trees, crowded so closely together as barely to allow any view of the horizon stretching away in a long shimmering line. We wander aimlessly among the little painted and gilded columns, some erect, others toppling over or fallen flat, and between railings of family sepulchres, mausoleums of dead pashas, rude tombstones of the poor. Here and there lie bunches of faded flowers, and sometimes, where the earth has been disturbed, the light falls upon a half-buried skull; on and on, no sound save the cooing of doves concealed overhead amid the branches of the cypress trees; and the farther we go the more does the forest seem to expand, the tombstones multiply, the paths increase in number, the shining strips of the horizon recede into the distance, and the reign of death keeps pace with us step by step, until at length, just as we begin to despair of ever finding our way out, we issue quite unexpectedly upon the wide avenue leading to the vast open plain of Haidar Pasha, where the Mussulman troops once assembled preparatory to setting out for the Asiatic wars. The view from thence, embracing the Sea of Marmora, Stambul, the mouth of the Golden Horn, Galata, and Pera, all veiled beneath the light morning mist and tinted with the colors of paradise, is so exquisitely lovely that we catch our breath with something of the same incredulous wonder with which we first beheld those shores.

Cheragan Palace.

Another morning we found ourselves seated in a tram-car between two colossal black eunuchs charged by one of Abdul Aziz’s aides-de-camp with the duty of escorting us over the imperial palace of Cheragan, situated on the Bosphorus just below Beshiktash. I recall distinctly the mingled feeling of curiosity and repulsion with which I looked out of the corner of my eye at the eunuch beside me, towering above me by nearly a head, and with one mighty hand resting open upon his knee. Every time I turned I could catch the faint perfume of essence of bergamot with which his sleek, correct court costume was scented. When the car stopped I put my hand in my pocket to draw out my purse, but the enormous hand of the eunuch closed upon my own like a steel vise, and his great eyes met mine with a warning look, as who should say, “Christian, refrain from offering me such an insult, or I will break every bone in your body.”

Alighting before a small door covered with arabesques, we entered a long corridor, where we were presently met by a party of servants in livery, who conducted us up a wide stairway leading to the royal apartments. Here, at all events, there was no need to recall historical associations in order to obtain a vivid and life-like impression. The air was still warm with the breath of the court. The wide divans covered with satin and velvet which extended along the walls were the very same upon which but a few weeks before the Sultan’s odalisques had reclined: a vague suggestion of warm, sensuous life still floated in the air. We walked through a long succession of gorgeous rooms, some decorated after the European fashion, others after the Moorish, all rich and beautiful, but possessing a sort of stately simplicity which awed us, making us talk in subdued tones, while all the time the eunuchs, muttering a string of unintelligible remarks and explanations, pointed out now a certain corner, now a doorway, with the wary gestures of those who reveal something secret and mysterious. Silken hangings, many-hued carpets, mosaic tables—rich oil paintings hung where the light could fall upon them—graceful archways of the doors, divided in the middle by little Arabian pillars, lofty candelabra—resembling crystal trees—which tinkled musically as we shook them in passing,—all these things followed so close upon one another that they became a confused medley almost as soon as seen, our minds being more intent upon visions of possible flying odalisques taken by surprise. The only thing of which I retained any distinct impression was the Sultan’s bath-room, of white marble and carved to represent stalactites, hanging flowers, lace, and delicate fretwork, all so airy and light that one feared to touch it with so much as the point of a finger for fear of its breaking. The arrangement of the rooms reminded me a little of the Alhambra. We passed through them hurriedly, noiselessly over the thick carpets, almost furtively. From time to time a eunuch would pull a cord, a green curtain would roll up, and through a wide window would be seen the Bosphorus, Asia, hundreds of vessels, floods of light; then it would all disappear, and we would be left dazed and blinded as though a lamp had been flashed in our eyes. From one window we caught sight of a little garden the high blank walls of which, as bare and forbidding-looking as those of a convent, suggested at once all sorts of fancies about beautiful women deprived of love and liberty, and then it was suddenly shut out of view by the dropping of the curtain. The rooms seemed unending, and at the sight of each new doorway we would quicken our steps, hoping this time to enter before we were expected; but all in vain: not so much as the flutter of a garment rewarded our efforts; every odalisque had vanished, and a profound and death-like stillness hung over the entire building. That rustling sound which made us turn and glance back so quickly was but the noise of the heavy brocade curtain as it fell back in place, while the silvery tinkle of the crystal candelabras mocked us by its resemblance to the light laughter of some hidden fair one.

Cemetery of Eyûb and View of the Golden Horn.

And so at last we became utterly wearied out by this never-ending progress through the silent palace and amid that lifeless magnificence—tired of seeing the black faces of the eunuchs, the watchful, sedate crowd of servants, and our own incongruous Bohemian countenances reflected in the huge mirrors which lined the walls; and, reaching the last door almost on a run, we breathed a sigh of heartfelt satisfaction at finding ourselves once more in the open air surrounded by the miserable dwellings and ragged, clamorous population of the Topkhâneh quarter.