Constantinople, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

THE BOSPHORUS.

Hardly were we well on board when a gray curtain seemed to stretch itself over Constantinople, upon which were portrayed the outlines of the Morravian and Hungarian Mountains and the Alps of Lower Austria. Such rapid changes of scene occur not infrequently upon the decks of outgoing steamers, where one is apt to recognize the features and hear beforehand the language of the country for which he is bound. On this occasion we found ourselves hemmed in by a circle of German faces and felt a premonitory breath of the cold and dampness of the North. Our friends have left us. Three white handkerchiefs fluttering from a distant käik show where they are threading their way through the dark mass of boats coming and going in front of the custom-house. We are in the same spot as that in which our Sicilian boat anchored on the day of our arrival. It is a lovely autumnal evening, clear and warm, and Constantinople has never appeared so vast nor so radiantly beautiful. Yet once again we endeavor to imprint upon our memories her mighty outlines, her matchless coloring, like that of an enchanted city, and for the last time drink in the unutterable beauties of the Golden Horn, so soon to be for ever hidden from our gaze. Now the white handkerchiefs have disappeared and our boat is in motion. Everything seems to have moved out of place: Skutari has come forward, Stambul stepped back, while Galata revolves around in a circle as though trying to see the last of us. Farewell to the Golden Horn! One forward bound of the vessel robs us of Kassim-Pasha, another carries off Eyûb, another the sixth hill of Stambul; then the fifth disappears, the fourth is hidden, the third vanishes, the second fades away; only the Seraglio Hill is left, and that—Heaven be praised!—will still remain to us for a little longer at least. Already we are in mid stream, advancing rapidly up the Bosphorus; Topkhâneh flies by, then Fundukli, then the white and sculptured façades of Dolmabâghcheh; Skutari presents to us for the last time her amphitheatre of hills covered with gardens and villas.

Bosphorus: View of Shores of Asia and Europe.

Farewell, Constantinople, vast and dearly-loved city, dream of my childhood, desire of my youth, and unfading memory of my life! Farewell, exquisite and immortal queen of the Orient! May time soften thy lot without impairing thy beauty, and may my children one day greet thee with the same ecstasy of youthful enthusiasm with which I bid thee farewell!

The sadness of parting was, however, soon forgotten in the delight of finding a new Constantinople, even larger and more exquisitely lovely than the one we had left upon the banks of the Golden Horn, extending for about sixteen miles along the two most beautiful shores on earth.

The first village to come into sight upon our left—that is, upon the European shore—is Beshiktash, a large Turkish suburb of Constantinople, lying at the foot of a hill and enclosing a small harbor; behind it a charming valley—the ancient valley of the allori di Stefano of Byzantium—ascends in the direction of Pera; a group of plane trees rising in the midst of the houses marks the sepulchre of the famous corsair Barbarossa; and a large café, always crowded, extends out over the water supported on piles; the harbor is gay with käiks and other boats, the shore covered with people, the hillsides with verdure, and the valley filled with houses and gardens; but it is no longer like a suburb of Constantinople: already we note the distinctive character, the matchless radiance and charm peculiar to the villages along the Bosphorus; the objects are smaller, the foliage thicker, the coloring more brilliant: it is like a nest of smiling little houses suspended between sky and water, a tiny city inhabited by lovers and poets, only designed to last as long as the fires of passion or genius may burn, and placed there to gratify a whim on some fair summer’s night. Hardly have our eyes rested well upon it than it is already gone, and we find ourselves opposite the Cheragan palace, or rather row of white marble palaces, at once chaste and magnificent, adorned with long lines of columns and crowned with terraces and balconies, above which floats an airy cloud of innumerable white birds of the Bosphorus, standing out clearly against the brilliant foliage of the hillsides.

But now a most tantalizing experience begins. While our attention is concentrated upon one beautiful sight we are missing a thousand others. While we stand gazing at Beshiktash and Cheragan, the Asiatic shore, whose charming villages tempt one to buy and carry them off like jewels, is flying by. Kuzgunjik disappears, tinted with every color of the rainbow, where tradition says the heifer Io landed after swimming the Bosphorus in order to escape from the gad-flies of Hera; and Istavros, with its beautiful mosque and two minarets; and the imperial palace of Beylerbey, with its conical and pyramidal roofs and its gray and yellow walls, wearing the same strange, mysterious look that a convent of princesses might have; and then Beylerbey village, reflected in the water, with Mount Bûlgurlû rising behind it; and all those other villages, with houses grouped closely together or else scattered about at the foot of little bright green hills, and so overgrown with vegetation that it seems as though they would sink out of sight altogether. Long garlands of villas and little houses, and avenues of trees connect them, running along the bank or descending in zigzag lines from the neighboring heights to the water’s edge, through numberless flower and vegetable gardens, and meadows laid out in squares, connected by little flights of stone steps and bright with every conceivable shade of green.

Mosque of Validêh at Ak Serai.