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Gérard de Nerval

Travels in the Near East (Voyage en Orient, 1843)

Part XIII: Ramadan Nights (Les Nuits Du Ramazan) – Istanbul and Pera (Beyoğlu)

View of the square and the fountain of Top-Hané, 1822 - 1828, Innocent Louis Goubaud

View of the square and the fountain of Top-Hané, 1822 - 1828, Innocent Louis Goubaud
Rijksmuseum

Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved

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Contents

Chapter 1: Balik Pazari (The Fish-Market)

What a strange city Constantinople is! Splendour and misery, tears and joy; a greater arbitrariness than elsewhere, and more freedom too — four different groups of people, who live together without overmuch mutual hatred: Turks, Armenians, Greeks, and Jews, children of the same soil, who support each other far more solidly than people from various provinces, or from various factions among us.

It seems I was destined, though, to witness a late act of fanaticism and barbarity executed in accord with ancient Muslim tradition — I had found, in Pera, one of my oldest friends, a French painter (Camille Rogier), who had lived there for three years, and very splendidly, on the profits from his portraits and paintings — which proves that Constantinople is not as much a stranger to the Muses as one might think. We had left Pera (Beyoğlu), the Frankish city, to visit the bazaars of Stamboul (Istanbul), the Turkish city.

After passing the fortified gate of Galata, one traverses a long winding street, lined with taverns, pastry-shops, barbers, butchers, and French-style cafés reminiscent of our own, whose tables are burdened with Greek and Armenian newspapers — five or six of these are published in Constantinople alone, without counting the Greek newspapers from the Morea — it is here that the traveller must summon up knowledge of the classical texts, so as to grasp a few words of that living language, regenerated as it is, day by day. Most of the newspapers affect to depart from the modern patois, and seek to approach ancient Greek, to the point where they may risk no longer being understood. There are also Vlach (eastern Romance language) newspapers, and Serbian newspapers printed in the Romanian language, which is far easier for us to understand than Greek, because of the considerable admixture of Latin words. We halted, for a few minutes, at one of these cafés, to sample a sugary gloria, something unknown to the Turkish café owners. — Further on, we arrived at the fruit-market offering magnificent products of the fertile countryside surrounding Constantinople. Finally, still descending, by winding streets crowded with passers-by, we reached the jetty where one embarks to cross the Golden Horn, a gulf half a mile wide, and almost five miles long, which is the most wonderful and safest port in the world, and which separates Istanbul from the suburbs of Pera and Galata.

The small square was animated by an extraordinary traffic, and presented, on the seaward side, a wooden landing-stage lined with elegant caiques. The rowers wore long-sleeved silk-crepe shirts of a very daring cut; the ferry travels swiftly, thanks to its fish-like shape, and slides without difficulty between the hundreds of vessels of all nations which fill the entrance to the harbour.

In ten minutes, we reached the opposite jetty, which leads to to Balik-Pazari, the fish market; it was there that we witnessed an extraordinary scene — in a narrow crossroads of the market, a crowd of men were gathered in a circle. We thought at first that it was a performance by jugglers’ or a bear-baiting contest. On pushing through the crowd, we saw on the ground a decapitated body, the corpse dressed in a blue jacket and trousers, the head, covered by a peaked cap, having been placed between the legs, slightly apart. A Turk turned towards us and said to us, recognizing us as Franks:

— ‘It seems that folk who wear hats also cut off each other’s heads.’

For a Turk, peaked caps and hats with brims are objects of a like prejudice, since it is forbidden for Muslims to wear such a head covering, since they must touch their foreheads to the ground while praying, while keeping their headgear on. We moved away from this scene with disgust, and gained the bazaar. An Armenian offered us sherbets (sharbats, fruit drinks) in his shop, and told us the real story of this odd execution.

The decapitated body we had encountered had been on display for three days in Balik-Pazari, which did not please the fishmongers much. It was that of an Armenian, named Owaghim, who had been caught three years previously with a Turkish woman. In such a case, he was forced to choose between death and apostasy — a Turk would only have been liable to blows from a stick — Owaghim became a Muslim. Afterwards, he repented of having yielded to fear; and retired to the Greek islands, where he abjured his new religion.

Three years later, believing the affair forgotten he returned to Constantinople in Frankish costume. Fanatics denounced him, and the Turkish authorities, though tolerant at the time, were obliged to enforce the law. The European Consuls protested in his favour; but what could be done when confronted with a law that precluded exceptions? In the East, the law is both civil and religious; the Koran and the legal code are one. Turkish justice is obliged to reckon with the violent fanaticism of the masses. Owaghim was offered his release on condition of a renewed apostasy. He refused.  A further step was taken: he was provided with an opportunity to escape the city. A strange thing! He further refused, saying that he could only live in Constantinople; that he would die of grief if he were to depart again, or of shame if he remained there at the cost of another change of religion. So, the execution took place. Many who shared his religion considered him a saint and candles were lit in his honour.

This story made a deep impression on us. Fate had created a set of circumstances which had guaranteed the outcome. On the evening of the third day, the body till then having been displayed at Balik-Pazari, three Jews, loaded it on their shoulders, according to custom, and cast it into the Bosphorus among the drowned dogs and horses the sea presents, here and there, along the coast.

I do not wish, despite this sad episode which I had the misfortune to witness, to doubt the progressive tendency of the new Turkey. In Istanbul, as in England, the law binds all wills and minds until it can be interpreted more generously. Matters of adultery and apostasy alone still give rise to such sad events today.

We walked through the splendid bazaar which forms the centre of Istanbul. It is a complete labyrinth, solidly built of stone in the Byzantine style, where one may find shelter amidst its vastness from the heat of the day. Immense arcades, some arched, others built in ogives, with sculpted pillars and colonnades, are each devoted to a particular kind of merchandise. One can admire in particular, clothing, women’s slippers, embroidered and lamé fabrics, cashmeres, carpets, furniture inlaid with gold, silver, and mother-of-pearl, goldsmiths’ work, and even more the brilliant weapons, all gathered in this part of the bazaar called the besestain (bedesten).

One of the extremities of this underground village, so to speak, leads to a most pleasant area surrounded by buildings and mosques, which is called Sérasquier (Beyazit) Square. It forms the promenade, within the city, most frequented by women and children — the women are more closely veiled in Stamboul (Istanbul) than in Pera; clad in green or violet féredjés (large coats), their faces covered with a thick gauze, it is rare that anything other than the eyes and the base of the nose are visible. The Armenian and Greek women wrap themselves in lighter clothing.

One side of the square is occupied by writers, miniaturists, and booksellers. The graceful buildings of the neighbouring mosques, whose courtyards are planted with trees and frequented by thousands of pigeons which sometimes alight on the square; the cafés and stalls laden with jewellers; the neighbouring tower of the Sérasquier (the military command, headquartered in the Old Palace, the Topkapi) which dominates the city; and further away the sombre aspect of the walls of the Old Seraglio, where the Sultana who is the Sultan’s mother resides, grant this square a most original character.

Chapter 2: The Sultan

While returning to the port, I saw the Sultan pass by in a most unusual cabriolet; two horses harnessed together pulled his two-wheeled carriage, whose wide hood, square at the top like a canopy, had a sloped velvet front with gold trim. He wore a plain frock-coat, buttoned up to the collar, which one sees Turks wearing since the Reform, and the only mark which distinguished him was the imperial insignia embroidered in cut diamonds on his red tarbouch. A look of melancholy was imprinted on his pale and distinguished face. I had taken off my hat to greet him, a mechanical movement, which basically showed a stranger’s politeness, and assuredly not the fear of finding myself treated like the Armenian of the Balik-Pazari.... He looked at me more closely then, since I had revealed my ignorance of the local custom. One does not greet the Sultan.

My companion, whom I had lost sight of for a moment in the crowd, said to me:

— ‘Let’s follow the Sultan; like us, he is going to Pera; only he will pass by way of the pontoon bridge which crosses the Golden Horn. It is the longest route, but avoids a sea-trip, and the waves at the moment are a little rough.’

We began to follow the cabriolet, which slowly descended a long street lined with mosques and magnificent gardens, at the end of which we found ourselves, after a few detours, in the district of Fener, where the rich Greek merchants live, as well as the nation’s princes. Several of the mansions in this district are true palaces, while churches adorned within with fresh paintings shelter in the shadow of the tall mosques, inside the very walls of Istanbul, an especially Turkish city.

On the way, I spoke to my friend of the impression that the unexpected appearance of Abdul-Medjid (Sultan Abdülmecid I), and the penetrating sweetness of his gaze, had made upon me, which seemed a reproach for my having greeted him like a common sovereign. That pale, slender face, those almond-shaped eyes casting, beneath long eyelashes, a glance of surprise, softened by his benevolent aspect, easy attitude, and elongated form; all this had given me a favourable opinion of him.

— ‘How,’ I said, ‘could he have ordered the execution of that poor man whose decapitated body we saw in Balik-Pazari?’

‘He had no option,’ my companion replied. ‘The Sultan’s power is more limited than that of a constitutional monarch. He is obliged to reckon with the influence of the ulama who form both the judicial and religious order of the country, and also with the people, whose protests take the form of rebellion and arson. He can doubtless exercise an arbitrary ruling, by means of the armed forces at his disposal, which often oppressed his ancestors, but who will defend him against poison, the weapons of those around him, or assassination, the weapon of the masses? Every Friday, he is obliged to go, in public, to one of the mosques of the city, where he must say his prayers, so that each district can view him in turn. Today, he goes to the tekeh of Pera, which is a monastery of the whirling dervishes.’

My friend gave me other details of the prince’s situation, which explained to a certain extent the melancholy imprinted on his features. He is perhaps the only Turk who, in truth, can complain of an inequality of treatment. It is in support of a wholly democratic idea that the Muslims have placed at the head of their nation a man who is at once above all and yet different from all.

He alone, in his empire, is legally forbidden to marry. The influence that such a high alliance would give to certain families was feared, nor was it fitting for him to marry a foreigner. He therefore finds himself deprived of the four legitimate wives granted by Muhammad to any believer who has the means to support them. His Sultanas, whom he cannot term wives, were originally mere slaves, and, as all the women of the Turkish empire, Armenian, Greek, Catholic, and Jewish, are considered free, his harem can only be recruited in countries foreign to Islamic ways, and whose sovereigns maintain no official relations with him.

At the time when the Ottomans were at war with Europe, the harem of the ‘Sublime Porte’ was admirably well supplied. There was no lack of pale, blonde beauties, witness the Ruthenian, Roxelana (Hurrem, the wife of Suleiman the Magnificent) with the snub nose, who was once more than a character in drama, and whose coffin, draped in cashmere and shaded with plumes, can be seen resting near her husband in the Süleymaniye Mosque.

Today, the unfortunate Sultan’s harem receives no European women. If he were to even think of kidnapping one of those grisettes of Pera, who proudly wear the latest European fashions on their Sunday perambulations, he would find himself overwhelmed with diplomatic notes from ambassadors and consuls, and the action would perhaps occasion a war longer than the one formerly caused by the kidnapping of Menelaus’ Helen.

When the Sultan passes amidst the immense crowd of Greek women in Pera, gathered to view him, he must avert his eyes from all temptation, since etiquette would not allow him to take a casual mistress, and he has not the right to incarcerate a woman of free birth. Doubtless he has become jaded among the Circassians, Malays or Abyssinians, who alone find themselves subject to slavery, and wishes for a few blonde Englishwomen or witty Frenchwomen; but they are forbidden fruit.

My companion also informed me about the actual number of women in the seraglio, which is very different from what is supposed in Europe. The Sultan’s harem contains of a mere thirty-three qadens (cadines), or ladies, among whom only three are considered favourites. The rest of the women in the seraglio are odaleuks (servants, sometimes also concubines) or chambermaids. Europe therefore grants an incorrect meaning to the term odalisque (odaleuk). There are also dancers and singers therein, who could only rise to the rank of sultanas through a whim of the master, in a departure from custom. So that the Sultan, reduced to having only slaves for wives, is himself the son of a slave — an observation which the Turks do not refrain from making about him in times of popular discontent.

We continued this conversation, repeating from time to time: ‘Poor Sultan!’ However, he descended from his carriage on the Fener quay — since one cannot pass by carriage over the pontoon bridge (Hayratiye) which crosses the Golden Horn at one of its narrowest points. Two fairly high arches are established there for the passage of boats. He mounted his horse, and, having arrived on the other side, rode by way of the paths skirting the outer walls of Galata, through the small cemetery, shaded by enormous cypresses, to reach the main street of Pera. The dervishes were waiting for him, ranged in their courtyard, which we were unable to enter. It is this tekeh or monastery which contains the tomb of that famous Count of Bonneval (Claude Alexander, called Humbaraci Ahmet Pasha), the French renegade officer who was, for a long time, commander of the Turkish army and fought in Serbia against the Austrians. His wife, a Venetian who had followed him to Constantinople, served as his aide-de-camp in his battles.

While we remained at a halt before the door of the tekeh, a funeral procession, preceded by Greek priests, was ascending the street, heading towards the end of the suburb. The Sultan’s guards ordered the priests to retreat, since it was possible the Sultan would emerge at any moment, and it was not fitting for him to cross paths with a funeral. There were a few minutes of hesitation. Finally, the archimandrite, who, with his imperial crown and long Byzantine vestments embroidered with trimmings, seemed as proud as Charlemagne, made vigorous representations to the head of the Sultan’s escort; then, turning indignantly towards his priests, he made a sign with his hand that they would continue their march, and that, if the Sultan did appear at that moment, it would be for him to wait till the corpse had passed.

I cite this trait as an example of the tolerance which exists in Constantinople for different cults — it may also be that the protection provided them by Russia is not unrelated to the Greek priests’ show of pride.

Chapter 3: The Great Field of the Dead

I feel a degree of embarrassment in speaking so often of funerals and cemeteries, in connection with this smiling and splendid city of Constantinople, whose lively and verdant landscape, painted houses, and elegant mosques with their metal domes and slender minarets, should inspire only ideas of pleasure and sweet reverie. But in this country death itself takes on a festive air. The Greek procession I spoke of just now had nothing of the funereal apparatus of our sad burials. The priests, with their faces illuminated, in clothes gleaming with embroidery; the young ecclesiastics next, in long robes of bright colours, followed by their friends dressed in their richest costumes; and in the midst the dead woman, young, pale as wax, but with rouged cheeks, stretched out on a bed of flowers, crowned with roses, dressed in her finest velvet and satin outfit, and adorned with a great number of diamonds, which likely did not accompany her to the grave; such was the spectacle, more melancholic than distressing, presented by the procession.

The view from the monastery owned by the whirling dervishes extends beyond the little cemetery, whose mysterious paths, bordered by immense cypresses, descend towards the sea as far as the Navy buildings. A café, which the dervishes, cheerful and talkative by nature, choose to patronise, displays before the tekeh its rows of tables and chairs, where one drinks coffee while smoking a narghile or chibouk. One may enjoy there one’s view of the European passers-by. The carriages of the rich English, and the ambassadors, often traverse this street, as well as the gilded carriages of the women of the country, or their arabas —which resemble laundresses’ carts, but with the added charms of painting and gilding. The arabas are drawn by oxen. Their advantage is that they easily contain a whole harem on a country outing. The husband never accompanies his wives on these trips, which most often take place on Friday, that being the Turkish equivalent of our Sunday.

I understood from the animation and distinction of the crowd that they were heading towards the scene of a party of some kind, located probably outside the suburb. My companion had left me to go and dine with a group of Armenians who had commissioned a painting from him, but had first, of his kindness, led me to a Viennese restaurant located in the upper part of Pera. Beyond the monastery, and the extensive green space on the other side of the street, one finds oneself entirely in a Parisian-style district. The brilliant boutiques of fashion-merchants, jewellers, and confectioners, fabric-shops, English and French hotels, reading rooms and cafés, that is all one encounters for a mile or so. The facades of mansions, housing Consulates for the most part, line this street. One notes in particular the immense palace, built entirely of stone, comprising the Russian embassy. It would prove, if needs be, a formidable fortress that might command the three suburbs of Pera, Tophane, and Galata. As for the French embassy, ​​it is less fortunately sited, in a street that descends towards Tophane; and the mansion, which cost several millions, is not yet finished.

Following the street, one finds that it widens further, and one reaches the Italian Theatre on the left, open only twice a week. Then come beautiful middle-class houses overlooking gardens, then on the right the buildings of the Turkish University and the higher schools; then still further along, on the left, the French hospital.

The suburb ends there, and the wide road is crowded with fried-food stalls, fruit-sellers, watermelon-vendors, and fishmongers; the café-dance-halls are more numerous than in the city. They are generally of immense proportions. The main part is a room as vast as the interior of a theatre, with a high gallery with carved wooden balustrades. On one side there is a counter where red and white wine is served in glasses with handles, which each drinker takes to a chosen table; on the other, an immense stove loaded with pans of stew, which is distributed to you on a plate that you must also carry yourself. From then on, you must acquaint yourself with dining from a little piece of furniture, which is scarcely knee-high. The crowd that throngs these kinds of places is composed of Greeks, recognizable by their tarbouches which are smaller than those of the Turks; Jews wearing small turbans encircled by grey cloth; and Armenians with monstrous sheepskin kalpaks, which look like a grenadier’s cap with a high crown. A Muslim would not dare to enter these bacchic establishments publicly.

On should not believe, from the head coverings which distinguish these groupings from one another, especially among the masses, that Turkey is still a country of inequality. Formerly shoes, like head-gear, indicated the religion of each inhabitant. The Turks alone had the right to wear the yellow boot or slipper: the Armenians wore red, the Greeks blue, and the Jews black. Also, rich and brilliant costumes were worn only by Muslims. The houses themselves evidenced these distinctions, those of the Turks being distinguished by their bright colours; the rest painted only in dark shades. Today, all is changed: every subject of the empire has the right to don the well-nigh European costume of the Reform, and wear the red fez, partly hidden by its tassel of blue silk dense enough to give the appearance of azure hair.

I was convinced of this, on seeing a large number of people heading, thus dressed, on foot or on horseback, towards the European promenade of Pera, little frequented by genuine Turks. Patent boots have also rendered obsolete the old inequality of shoes, among most of the celebis (elegant folk) of all groups. Only, it should be noted that traditional wear is more present among the rayas (non-Muslims). On the other hand, habit and poverty no less dictate the preservation of forms of dress which serve to classify people.

Yet who could believe Constantinople still nurtures intolerance on admiring the lively aspect of the Frankish promenade? Carriages of all kinds pass each other swiftly on exit from the suburb, The horses prance, the women in best attire head, here, towards a wood which descends to the sea, or, there, on the left, towards the road to Büyükdere, where one finds the places of entertainment of the merchants and bankers. If one forges straight ahead, one arrives, after a few yards, at a sunken path bordered by bushes, and shaded by firs and larches, from which, through various gaps, one can see the sea, the mouth of the strait between Scutari, and the headland, the Seraglio indicating Istanbul. Leander’s tower, which the Turks call The Maiden’s Tower (Kiz Kulesi), rises between the two locations, on an islet at the centre of the arm of the sea which extends like a river to one’s left. It is a tallish square construction sited on the rock, which looks from a distance like a sentry’s lodge; beyond, the Princes’ Islands (Adalar) are vaguely outlined at the entrance to the Sea of ​​Marmara.

I need hardly say that this wooded area, so picturesque, mysterious, and fresh, is nonetheless a cemetery. One must accept that every place of pleasure in Constantinople is found amidst tombs. Behold, through the clumps of trees, the white ghosts standing in rows, which a ray of sunlight clearly outlines here and there; they are white marble cippi as high as a man, having for head an orb surmounted by a turban; some are painted and gilded to complete the illusion; the shape of the turban indicates the rank or nobility of the deceased. Some are no longer in the latest fashion. The heads of several of these figurative stones have been shattered, because they surmounted the tombs of Janissaries, and, at the time when that militia was destroyed, the people’s anger did not end with the living, it extended, in all the cemeteries, to decapitation of the monuments of the dead.

The women’s graves are also topped with cippi, but the head is replaced by a rosette of ornaments representing, in relief, carved and gilded flowers. Listen to the loud laughter that echoes under these funereal trees; that of widows, mothers and sisters who gather as families near the graves of loved ones.

Religious faith is so strong in this country, that after the tears shed at the moment of separation, no one thinks of anything but the happiness which the deceased must enjoy in the Muslim paradise. Families have their dinner brought to the tomb, children fill the air with joyful cries, and care is taken to serve a portion for the dead, placing it in an opening made for this purpose before each tomb. The stray dogs, usually present at the scene, hope for an imminent supper, but content themselves, in the meantime, with the remains of the dinner which the children throw to them. One should not think the family expects the dead to profit from the plates of food dedicated to them; it is an old custom traceable to antiquity. Formerly, sacred serpents fed on the pious offerings; but, in Constantinople, dogs also are sacred.

On leaving the wood, which surrounds an artillery barracks, built to a vast scale, I found myself on the road to Büyükdere. An uncultivated plain covered with grass extends beyond the barracks; there I witnessed a scene which cannot be separated from the preceding; several hundred dogs were gathered on the grass, voicing their impatience. A short time later, I saw the gunners emerge, two by two, carrying, enormous cauldrons by means of a long pole burdening their shoulders. The dogs howled with joy. Scarcely had the cauldrons been placed on the ground than the animals rushed at the food which they contained; while the soldiers’ occupation was to reduce the too great encumbrance they comprised, by means of the poles which they retained. — ‘That’s soup they serve to the dogs,’ an Italian passer-by told me; ‘they are well off!’ I think, in truth, only the remains of the soldiers’ food were gifted them. The favour dogs enjoy in Constantinople is mainly due to the fact that they clear the public highway of the remains of animal substances that are generally thrown there. The pious foundations which concern themselves with their welfare, and the basins filled with water found at the entrance to the mosques, and beside the fountains, doubtless have no other aim.

One seeks to attain more attractive sights. Beyond the barracks, one finds oneself at the entrance to the great Field of the Dead; it is an immense plateau shaded by sycamores and pines. One first passes among the Frankish tombs, where there are also many English inscriptions, with coats of arms, engraved on the long flat tombstones on which everyone seats themselves without scruple, as if on marble benches. A café in the form of a kiosk rises in a clearing whose view dominates the sea. From there, one can distinctly see the shore of Asia Minor, lined with painted houses and mosques, as if one were gazing from one bank of the Rhine at the other. The distant horizon ends at the truncated summit of the Bithynian Olympus (Uludag, in Bursa province), whose profile almost merges with the clouds. On the shore, to the left, stretch the buildings of the Sultan’s summer palace, with their long Greek colonnades, scalloped roofs, and golden grilles gleaming in the sun.

Let us advance further. Here is the part of the field devoted to the Armenians. Their flat tombs are covered with the regular characters of their language, and one sees sculpted in marble the attributes of the trade that each one practiced in their life: here jewellery, there hammers and set-squares; here, weighing-scales, there instruments of various kinds. The women’s graves alone are uniformly marked by bouquets of flowers.

Turning one’s thoughts from these impressions, which always provoke serious reflection in the European mind — one views an immense crowd; the women are unveiled, and their features, firmly drawn, are animated with joy and health beneath the Levantine headdress, as beneath the bonnets or hats of Europe. Only a few Armenian women hide their faces with a band of light gauze which their arched noses admirably support, and which, barely hiding their features, becomes for those less young a means of coquetry. Where are all this richly-adorned and joyful crowd going? — Ever onwards to Büyükdere.

Chapter 4: Agios Demetrios (Kuruçesme)

Many of them, however, stop for refreshments, in the elegant cafés that line the road. I came across one on the left, its wide arcades opening on one side onto the vast field and on the other onto a vast series of valleys and hills lined with small buildings, and interspersed with gardens. Beyond them, the distant jagged line of the mosques and minarets of Istanbul reappeared. Such an embroidered horizon, ultimately somewhat monotonous, terminates most views of the entrance to the Bosphorus.

This café was a meeting place for good company; it looked like a café-cabaret on our Champs-Elysées. Rows of tables on both sides of the road were filled with the fashionable and elegant women of Pera. Everything was served in the French style, ice-creams, lemonade, and mocha. The only touch of local colour was the familiar presence of three or four storks which, as soon as you have sat down to order coffee, come and perch in front of your table like question marks. Their long beaks, on heads that tower high above the table, hesitate to attack the sugar-bowl. They wait respectfully. These captive birds go from table to table thus, retrieving sugar or biscuit crumbs.

At a table near mine sat a man of a certain age, with hair as white as his cravat, dressed in a black coat of a somewhat old-fashioned cut, and wearing in his buttonhole a ribbon striped with various foreign colours. He had monopolised all the newspapers in the café; placing the Journal de Constantinople on the Echo de Smyrne, the Maltese Portfolio on the Courrier d’Athènes, in short everything that would have made me happy at that moment, by informing me of the news from Europe. Above this mass of superimposed sheets, he was attentively reading the Moniteur ottoman.

I dared to pull one of the newspapers towards me, begging him to excuse me: he gave me one of those fierce looks that I have only seen among the regulars of the oldest cafés in Paris....

— ‘I will shortly have finished the Moniteur ottoman,’ he informed me.

I waited a few minutes. He was lenient, and finally handed me the newspaper with a flourish that smacked of the eighteenth century.

— ‘Monsieur,’ he added, ‘there is a great celebration this evening. The Moniteur announces the birth of a princess, and this event, which will have delighted all the subjects of His Highness, coincides by chance with the commencement of Ramadan.’

I would not have been surprised, at that moment, to see all around me celebrating, and I waited patiently, sometimes looking at the road animated by the carriages and cavalcades, sometimes looking through the Frankish newspapers that my neighbour passed me as he finished reading them.

He probably appreciated my politeness and patience, and as I was preparing to leave, he said to me:

— ‘Where are you going? To the dance?’

— ‘Is there a dance?’ I asked.

— ‘You can hear the music from here.’

In fact, the shrill strains of a Greek or Wallachian orchestra reached my ears. But this did not prove that there was a dance in progress; for most of the guinguettes and cafés of Constantinople have musicians who play during the day also.

— ‘Come with me,’ the stranger said.

At perhaps two hundred paces from the kiosk we had just left, I saw a splendidly decorated gate, forming the entrance to a garden which, situated at the junction of two roads, had a triangular shape. Quincunxes of trees linked by garlands, verdant bowers surrounding the tables, all this formed a somewhat vulgar spectacle to a Parisian’s eyes. My guide was enthusiastic. We entered the interior, which consisted of several rooms filled with customers; the orchestra continued to struggle valiantly with their single-stringed viols, reed-flutes, tambourines, and guitars, executing, however, some most original tunes. I asked where the dancing was.

— ‘Wait,’ the old man said to me, ‘the dance is only allowed to commence at sunset, as dictated by the police regulations. But, as you can see, that is not far off.’

He had led me to a window, and, indeed, the sun was sinking behind the violet lines of the horizon that dominates the Golden Horn. Immediately an immense noise arose on all sides. The cannons of Tophane, and then those of all the ships in the port, were saluting the dual festival. A magical spectacle began at the same time over the entire distant plain on which the monuments of Istanbul were outlined. As the evening shadows descended, one saw long lines of fire appearing, highlighting the domes of the mosques, and tracing arabesques on their cupolas, doubtless forming legends in ornate letters; the minarets, like a thousand slender masts above the buildings, bore circles of light, outlining the frail galleries they supported. From all sides came the chants of the muezzins, usually so sweet, that day as loud as songs of triumph.

We turned back towards the room; the dancing had begun.

A large space had been formed in the centre; we watched fifteen dancers or so enter from the rear, wearing red headgear, embroidered jackets, and bright belts. There were no women among them.

The first seemed to lead the others, who held hands, swinging their arms, while each man linked his measured dance to that of his neighbour, by means of a handkerchief, of which they each held one end. He seemed to be the head and flexible neck of a serpent, of which his companions formed the coils.

This was, evidently, a Greek dance — with the swaying of the hips, the inter-weaving, and the garland of steps that such choreography demands. When they had finished, I was about to express my boredom with the men’s dancing, of which I had seen too much in Egypt, when an equal number of women appeared who performed the same figures. They were mostly pretty and graceful, dressed in Levantine costume; their red skullcaps festooned with gold, the flowers and lamé gauze of their face coverings, and their long braids decorated with sequins which descended to their feet won them many adherents among the gathering. However, they were simply young Ionian girls who had arrived there with their friends or brothers, and any attempt at seduction would have brought forth a flourish of knives. (An insult, recently delivered in a tavern to the mistress of some Greek, occasioned a terrible encounter between the Hellenes of the Morea, and the Ionians. The latter are generally insolent and quarrelsome, since they are English subjects. This led to a fine battle which did not lack for spectators. More than a hundred and fifty men of the two factions lined up on the Great Field of the Dead. There were many pistol-shots and dagger-blows. The Turkish authorities were notified. The Pasha cried out: ‘Bakkaloum: Who cares! Let those dogs exterminate themselves if they wish, then there’ll be fewer of them.’ It is true that the Turkish police exercise scant authority in Pera, because of the considerable number of foreigners who are under the protection of the Consuls.)

— ‘I will show you a better display than that, in a moment,’ said the obliging old man I had met.

And, after having taken some sorbets, we left the establishment, which is the Jardin Mabille (the pleasure-garden, recalling that in Paris) of the Franks of Pera.

Istanbul, brightly lit, glowed on the distant horizon, which had become more shadowy, and the city’s profile with its thousand graceful domes was outlined with clarity, recalling those drawings pricked out with pins that children parade in front of the lamp. It was too late to return there; since, after sunset, one can no longer cross the gulf.

— ‘Agree with me,’ said the old man, ‘that Constantinople is the true abode of liberty. You will convince yourself that it is even more so in a moment. Provided that one respects the dogs, a prudent thing however, and that one lights one’s lantern at sunset, one is as free here at night as one is in London... and as little so as one is in Paris!’

He had taken from his pocket a metal lantern, the canvas folds of which extended like the parted leaves of a bellows, and set his candle therein.

— ‘See,’ he continued, ‘how lively the long cypress avenues of this Great Field of the Dead still are at this hour.’

Indeed, silk robes or fine cloth feredjes (long coats) passed to and fro, rustling the leaves of the bushes; mysterious chatter, and stifled laughter emerged from the shadow of the arbours. The effect of the lanterns, flickering everywhere in the hands of the passers-by, made me think of that ‘ballet of the nuns’ in Robert Le Diable (see Meyerbeer’s opera of that name) — as if those thousands of flat tombstones, illuminated as they passed by, might suddenly have come to life; but no, all was smiling and calm; except for the sea-breeze rocking the doves sleeping among the yews and cypresses. I remembered a line of Goethe’s:

‘You smile on graves, immortal Love!’

(a paraphrase of lines from Goethe’s poem’ Der Wanderer’) 

Meanwhile we headed towards Pera, stopping sometimes to contemplate the admirable spectacle of the valley descending towards the gulf, and of the illuminations crowning the bluish background, in which the tips of the trees were blurred, and the sea shone in places, reflecting the coloured lanterns suspended from the ships’ masts. ‘You may not suspect,’ the old man said to me, ‘that you are conversing at this moment with a former page of the Empress Catherine II!’

— ‘That is noteworthy,’ I thought, ‘since his appointment must date back at least to the dying years of the last century.’

— ‘I may say,’ added the old man somewhat pretentiously, ‘that our sovereign (for I am Russian) was, at that time, somewhat aged ... as you see me today.’

He sighed. Then he began to speak at length of that Empress (Catherine II, ‘the Great’), of her wit, her charm, her grace, her kindness. ‘Her constant dream,’ he added, ‘was to see Constantinople. She sometimes spoke of travelling here disguised as a German middle-class lady. But she would certainly have preferred to enter by force of arms, and that is why she sent that expedition to Greece commanded by Alexei Orlof, who, from afar, instigated the Hellenes’ revolution. The war in Crimea, equally, had no other aim; but the Turks defended themselves so well, that it ended in their possession of this province alone, guaranteed to them, at the last, by a treaty of peace.

You will have heard of the festivals held in my country which several of your more adventurous compatriots attended. Only French was spoken at her court; it occupied itself only with the philosophy of the Encyclopedists, the tragedies performed in Paris, and light poetry. The Prince de Ligne (Charles-Joseph, the seventh prince of that house) arrived there, full of enthusiasm for Guimond de la Touche’s Iphigénie en Tauride. The Empress immediately presented him with that area of ancient Taurus where the ruins of the temple built by the cruel Thoas were believed to have been found. The prince was very embarrassed by the gift of a few square miles occupied by Muslim farmers, who limited themselves to smoking, and drinking coffee all day. As the war had made them too poor to continue their pastime, the Prince de Ligne was forced to give them money to renew their stores. They parted very good friends.

He was no more than generous. Grigory Potemkin, his successor behaved more magnificently. As the glare from the sandy countryside in which they had found themselves hurt his sovereign’s eyes, he had whole forests of felled fir trees brought from hundreds of miles away, merely to provide her with shade during the imperial court’s presence there.

Catherine, however, was not consoled for having lost the opportunity to visit the coast of Asia Minor. To occupy her leisure-time during her stay in the Crimea, she asked Louis-Philippe Ségur, the French ambassador, to teach her how to write French verse. She was a woman full of caprice. After realising the difficulties, she locked herself in in his office for four hours, and emerged having written two Alexandrines in all, which were only passable. Here they are:

‘Sur le sopha du Khan, sur des coussins brodés,
Dans un kiosque d’or, de grilles entourés.’

‘On the Khan’s divan, on fair cushions mounded,
In a kiosk of gold, by grilles surrounded.’

(See the ‘Letters of the Prince de Ligne’, for the anecdote)

She was unable to complete the rest.’

— ‘The verses,’ I observed, ‘are not without a certain oriental flavour; they even indicate a certain desire to pen her thoughts on Turkish gallantry.’

— ‘The Prince de Ligne found the couplet’s rhymes detestable, which discouraged the Empress from French prosody, entirely.... I am speaking to you of things that I know only by hearsay. I was then in my cradle, and I only saw the final years of that great reign.... After the death of the Empress, I doubtless inherited the violent desire that she possessed of seeing Constantinople for myself. I left my family behind, and arrived here with scant means. I was twenty years old, with fine teeth, and an admirable turn of leg....’

Chapter 5: A Tale of the Old Seraglio

My aged companion, gave a sigh, and looking at the sky, said:

— ‘I will resume my history, in a moment; I merely wished to point out to you the queen of the celebrations which commence now in Istanbul, and which will last thirty nights.’

He indicated a location in the sky where a faint crescent could be seen: it was the new moon, the moon of Ramadan (or ‘Ramazan’ in Turkish), which appeared, pale, on the horizon. The festival does not begin until it is clearly visible from the top of the minarets or mountains surrounding the city. Its commencement is communicated by signal.

— ‘What did you do when you arrived in Constantinople?’ I asked next, having found that the old man enjoyed recalling these memories of his youth.

— ‘Constantinople, sir, was more brilliant than it is today; oriental taste dictated the appearance of its houses and public buildings, which, whenever appropriate, have been rebuilt in the European style since. The moral strictures then were severe, but the difficulty of intrigue was its greatest charm.’

— ‘Go on!’ I said, keenly interested, when he paused again.

— ‘I will not speak to you, sir, of various delightful relationships which I formed with persons of ordinary rank. The danger, in that sort of commerce, exists only for the woman, unless one has the grave imprudence to visit a Turkish lady at her house, or to enter the dwelling furtively. I forgo boasting of the adventures of that kind which I risked. The last alone may interest you.

My parents had been pained at my parting from them; their persistence in refusing me the means to stay in Constantinople obliged me to place myself in a commercial house in Galata. I kept the accounts for a rich Armenian jeweller; one day, several women presented themselves there, followed by slaves who wore the Sultan’s livery.

          At that time, the ladies of the seraglio enjoyed the freedom to shop at merchants in the Frankish quarters, since the punishment for showing disrespect to them was so great none would dare do so. Moreover, at that time, Christians were hardly regarded as human.... When the French ambassador himself visited the seraglio, he was made to dine separately, and the Sultan would later say to his first vizier: “Have you fed the dog?” — “Yes, the dog has eaten,” the minister would reply. — “Well, let him be thrust outside!” These words were accepted etiquette.... The interpreters simply substituted a compliment when translating them for the ambassador, and that was all.’

I cut short these digressions, and asked my interlocutor to return to the visit by the ladies of the seraglio to the jeweller.

— ‘You understand that, in the circumstances, the beautiful women were always accompanied by their usual guardians, commanded by the kislar agha (the head of the eunuchs). Moreover, the outward appearance of these ladies held charms only for the imagination, since they were as carefully draped and masked as dominos at a theatrical ball. She who appeared to command the rest had various pieces of jewellery shown her, and, having chosen one, was about to bear it away. I observed that the setting needed cleaning, and that some small stones were missing.

— “Well,” she said, “when can I send for it?... I need it for a celebration, during which I must appear before the Sultan.”

I spoke, respectfully; and, in a somewhat trembling voice, replied that one could not answer for the exact time which would be required to complete the work.

— “Then,” said the lady, “when it is ready, send one of your young men to the palace of Besiktas.”

She looked around distractedly....

— “I will go there myself, Highness,” I replied; since one could not entrust, jewellery of such value to a slave, or even a clerk.

— “Well,” she said, “bring it to me, and you will receive payment.”

A woman’s eye is more eloquent here than elsewhere, for it is all that may be seen of her in public. I thought I thought I could discern in the Princess’s expression a particular benevolence, which my face and my age sufficiently justified.... Sir, I can say today, without displaying excessive self-esteem, that I was one of the most handsome men in Europe.’

He straightened as he spoke these words, and his form seemed to regain a certain elegance that I had not noted until then.

— ‘When the work was complete,’ he continued, ‘I went to Besiktas, by the same road from Büyükdere on which we stand at this moment. I entered the palace via the courtyards which overlook the countryside. I was made to wait awhile in the reception room; then the Princess ordered that I be introduced. After handing her the jewellery, and having received payment, I was ready to retire, when an officer asked me if I would like to attend a performance of tightrope-walking which was being given in the palace, its performers having entered before me. I accepted, and the princess had them serve dinner to me; she even deigned to inquire how I had fared. There was doubtless some risk to me in witnessing a person of such high rank act towards me with so much directness.... When night had fallen, the lady showed me into a room even richer than the previous one, and had coffee and hookahs brought.... musicians were seated in a high gallery, surrounded by balustrades, and it seemed as if they were awaiting something unusual which their music was to accompany. It seemed evident to me that the Sultana had prepared the occasion for myself alone; however, she still remained half-reclining on a sofa at the rear of the room, in the attitude of an empress. She seemed particularly absorbed in contemplating the performance taking place before her. I could not understand this timidity or reserve of etiquette which prevented her from confessing her feelings to me, and I thought more audacity might be required....

I had clasped her hand, which she freed with but little resistance, when a loud noise was heard.

— “The Janissaries! The Janissaries!” cried the servants and slaves.

The Sultana appeared to ask a question of her officials, then she gave an order whose meaning I failed to grasp. The two tightrope-dancers and I were led, by hidden stairs, to a low-ceilinged room, where we were left for some time, in darkness. We heard above our heads the hurried footsteps of the soldiers, then a sort of struggle which caused us to freeze with fear. It was evident that they were forcing the door which had protected us until then, and were about to reach our retreat. The Sultana’s officials hurriedly descended a staircase and raised a sort of trapdoor, in the floor of the room where we were hiding, saying to us:

— “All is lost!... come this way!”

We expected a series of steps, but our feet suddenly lacked support. All three of us plunged into the Bosphorus.... The palaces which border the sea, a mile from the city, notably that of Besiktas, which you will have seen from the European coast, are partly built on stilts. The floors of the lower rooms, parqueted in cedar, cover the surface of the water, sections of which are removed when the ladies of the seraglio wish to practice swimming. It was into one of these baths that we had plunged, in the darkness. The trapdoor had been closed over our head, and it was impossible to lift it. Moreover, pacing feet and the noise of weapons could still be heard above. While supporting myself on the surface of the water, I was able to breathe from time to time. No longer able to re-enter the palace, I tried to escape by swimming. But I found myself obstructed by a barrier, formed by a sort of grille between the piles, and which served it seems to prevent the women from being able to leave the palace that way, or be seen from the outside.

Imagine, sir, the discomfort of such a situation: the solid floor forming a ceiling above, six inches of air below its planking, and the water rising little by little with that almost imperceptible movement of the Mediterranean tide which rises, every six hours, by a foot or two. I was assured of drowning swiftly. So, I shook, with desperate force, the timbers that surrounded me like a cage. From time to time, I heard the groans of the two unfortunate tightrope-dancers who, like me, were trying to force a passage. Finally, I came upon a pile less solid than the others, which, possibly eroded by the humidity, or made of older wood than the others, gave under my hand. I managed, by a desperate effort, to detach a length that was rotten and to slip through, thanks to the slender form I possessed at that time. Then, by grasping the outer piles, I managed, despite my fatigue, to regain the shore. I know not what became of my two companions in misfortune. Terrified by the risk I had undergone, I hastened to leave Constantinople.’

I could not help saying to my interlocutor, after having sympathised with the dangers he had run, that I suspected him of having glossed over certain aspects of his adventure.

— ‘Sir,’ he replied, ‘I say nothing as regards that; in any case, nothing would make me betray a kindness....’

He broke off. I had already heard of shadowy affairs of the kind, attributed to certain ladies of the Old Seraglio towards the end of the last century.... I respected the discretion of this Buridan (the philosopher who, as legend has it, was thrown, in a sack, into the Seine, after an affair with Margaret of Burgundy), frozen by age. (Author’s note: the details of this walk through the districts of Constantinople would have no merit if they were lacking in accuracy. The adventure related was not invented. It relates, in fact, to the sister of one of the preceding sultans, and probably dates back to the time of Selim II. At that time, the Janissaries were charged with the night-patrol, and even entered imperial palaces if they felt suspicious. The appeal that entertainers and jugglers held, where women were concerned, was the cause of a similar scene, at the time of Mahmud I. A group of unfortunate equerries nearly became victims. They were saved by a boatman from Kuruçesme who happened to be close to the palace.)

Chapter 6: A Greek Village

We had arrived at a height overlooking Saint Demetrios (Agios Demetrios, Kuruçesme), which is a Greek village located between the great and little Fields of the Dead. One descends to it via a street lined with elegant wooden houses, which recall Chinese style somewhat, in their construction and exterior ornamentation.

I thought that this street would shorten the distance required to reach Pera. It was only necessary to descend the valley whose floor is crossed by a stream. Its bank serves as a path to attain the shore. A large number of casinos and restaurants line both sides.

My companion asked:

— ‘What do you wish to do now?’

— ‘I would be very happy to retire to bed,’ I replied.

— ‘But, during Ramadan, one only sleeps during the day. Let us see out the night.... At sunrise, you can return to your lodgings. Now, if you permit, I shall take you to a house where one can play baccarat.’

The facades of the houses between which we descended, with rooms projecting onto the street, grilled windows lit from within, and walls varnished in bright colours, represented, in fact, gathering-places no less cheerful than those we had recently traversed.

One would have to cease describing the customary habits of Constantinople, if one feared having to provide information of a rather delicate nature. The fifty thousand Europeans contained by the suburbs of Pera and Galata; Italians, French, English, Germans, Russians and Greeks, share no common bond, not even unity of religion, the various sects being more divided among themselves than they are from cults most hostile to them. However, in a city where female society leads so reserved a life, it would be wholly impossible to see merely the face of a woman born there, if certain casinos or circles had not been created whose composition, it must be admitted, is rather mixed. Ships-officers, young men engaged in superior forms of commerce, various personnel from the embassies, all the scattered and isolated elements of European society, feel the need for meeting-places on neutral ground, more than merely the evening events involving ambassadors, dragomans and bankers. This explains the quite large number of subscription balls which often take place within Pera.

Here, we found ourselves in an entirely Greek village, which is the Capua (luxurious retreat) of the Frankish population. I had already, traversed this village, in daylight, without suspecting that it contained so many nocturnal entertainments, casinos, Vauxhall-type pleasure gardens, and even, let us confess, gambling dens. The patriarchal air of the fathers, and husbands, seated on benches or working away at carpentry, tile-making, or the weaving trade; the modest attire of the women dressed in the Greek style; the carefree gaiety of the children; the streets full of poultry and pigs; the cafes with high balustraded galleries overlooking the misty gorge; the stream bordered with grass; all this resembled, coupled with the green of the pine-trees and the houses of sculpted timbers, a peaceful view in the Alpine valleys — and how was one to know it was otherwise, at night, since nothing was visible behind the window trellises? However, after the curfew, many of these interiors remained lit from the inside, and the dances, as well as the gambling, must have continued there from evening to morning. Even without recalling the ancient tradition of the Greek hetaerae (courtesans), one imagines the young people attaching garlands above these painted doors, as in the days long-past of Alcimadura (see La Fontaine’s ‘Fables: XII’). There passed by, however, not a Greek lover crowned with flowers, but a man with an English-looking face, probably a ship’s officer, but dressed entirely in black, with a white cravat and gloves, a violinist preceding him. He walked, gravely, behind the fiddler charged with enlivening his walk, who himself possessed a rather melancholy face. We judged the Englishman must be some ship’s master, some boatswain, who was spending his pay freely after making the crossing.

My guide stopped before a house as discreetly dark outside as the others, and knocked gently at the varnished door. A black African opened it, showing signs of apprehension; then, on seeing our hats, he saluted and called us effendis.

The house we had entered did not entirely correspond, though graceful and elegant in appearance, to the idea one generally forms of a Turkish interior. Time has marched on, and the proverbial immobility of the ancient Orient is stirring, goaded by civilisation. The Reform movement, which has capped the Osmanli with a tarbouch, and imprisoned him in a frock-coat buttoned up to the collar, has also brought to his dwelling that sobriety as regards ornamentation in which modern taste takes pleasure. Thus, no more dense arabesques, ceilings shaped as honeycombs or stalactites, no more fretworked dentils, no more cedar-wood coffering, but smooth walls of matt hue and shades of varnish, their cornices a simple moulding; a few commonplace designs framing the woodworked panels, a few sculpted flower vases from which scrolls and foliage emerge, all in a style, or rather absence of style, only distantly recalling the oriental fashion of the past, so capricious, and so enchanting.

In the first room the servants stood about; in the second, somewhat more ornate, I was struck by the spectacle that presented itself. In the centre of the room was a kind of table, covered with thick carpeting, and surrounded by antique beds, an arrangement which, in that country, is called a tandour; there, several women  half-reclined, their feet stretched out like the spokes of a wheel towards the table which concealed, beneath the fabric, a stove full of embers; women whose majestic and venerable plumpness, bright clothes, jackets bordered with fur, and old-fashioned hairstyles showed that they had reached the age when a woman should not be offended by the title of matron, so well regarded among the Romans; they had simply brought their daughters or nieces to the evening event, and were awaiting its conclusion like mothers at the Opera waiting in the foyer for the ballet to end. Most of them came from neighbouring houses, to which they were not expected to return until daybreak.

Chapter 7: Four Portraits

The third room, which among us would be the living-room, was furnished with sofas covered in silk in bright and varied colours. On the divan at the back were enthroned four beautiful women who, by picturesque chance or deliberate choice, each represented a distinct oriental type.

She who occupied the middle of the divan was a Circassian, as could be guessed at once from her large black eyes contrasting with a matt white complexion, her aquiline nose with its fine pure bridge, her elongated neck, her tall, slender figure, and her delicate hands and feet; all distinctive signs of her origin. Her hairstyle, formed of gold-speckled locks twisted into a turban, released profusions of jet-black plaits, which highlighted her cheeks brightened with rouge. A jacket decorated with embroidery and bordered with frills and silk festoons, whose variegated colours formed a flowery fringe around the material, a silver belt, and wide trousers of pink lamé silk completed this costume, as brilliant as it was graceful. According to custom, her eyes were accentuated by lines of surmeh (kohl), which enlarged them and added to their brilliance; her long nails, and the palms of her hands, had an orange tint produced by henna; the same attention had been given to her bare feet, as neat as hands, which she had folded gracefully on the couch beneath her, making the silver rings about her ankles jingle from time to time.

Beside her sat an Armenian woman, whose costume, less richly barbaric, recalled more the current fashions of Constantinople; a fez similar to those of the men, displaying a torrent of of blue silk produced by the tassel attached to it, set back on her head, topped a face with a slightly hooked profile, and somewhat proud features, but of an almost creature-like serenity. She wore a sort of spencer (double-breasted jacket) of green velvet, trimmed with a thick border of swan’s down, the whiteness and mass of which gave elegance to her neck bordered by fine lace, from which hung silver aigrettes. Her waist was encircled with goldsmith’s work, on the sections of which large filigree buttons roses in the form of bosses, and, by a refinement quite modern in nature, her feet, freed from the slippers she had deposited on the carpet, were covered by silk stockings with embroidered corners.

Unlike her companions, who allowed their braids, intertwined with cords and small metal plaques, to hang freely over their back and shoulders, the Jewess, seated next to the Armenian, hid hers discreetly, as her strictures required, under a kind of white bonnet, rounded into a ball, recalling the headgear of women of the sixteenth century, of which that of Christine de Pisan may communicate the idea. Her costume, more severe in style, consisted of two tunics superimposed, the outer one descending to knee height; the colours were more muted, and the embroidery of a less lively brilliance than that of the tunics worn by the other women. Her physiognomy, of a resigned gentleness and a delicate regularity, recalled the Jewish type peculiar to Constantinople, and which in no way resembles the types we know. Her face lacked those Semitic features which, in our country, mark one named Rebecca or Rachel.

The fourth, seated at the end of the divan, was a young blond Greek woman with the sort of profile popularised by ancient statuary. A taktikos (skull-cap) from Smyrna with festoons and golden tassels, coquettishly placed towards one side, and encircled by two enormous braids of twisted hair forming a turban around the head, admirably accompanied her spiritual features, illuminated by blue eyes in which intelligence gleamed, contrasting with the motionless and thought-free brilliance of the large black irises of her lovely rivals.

— ‘Here,’ said the old man, is a perfect sample of the four female nations which make up the Byzantine population.’

We greeted these beautiful people, who responded with a Turkish greeting. The Circassian woman stood up, clapped her hands, and a door opened. I saw beyond it another room where card-players, in various costumes, were seated at a green table.

— ‘This is simply the Frascati (a Parisian café and gambling den) of Pera,’ said my companion. We can play a few rounds while waiting for dinner.’

— ‘I prefer this room,’ I told him, not very curious to mingle with the crowd of gamblers, dotted with several Greek costumes.

Meanwhile, two little girls had entered, one holding a glass dish containing compote, on a tray, the other a carafe of water and drinking glasses; she also held a napkin, edged with silver, of embroidered silk. The Circassian woman, who seemed to play the part of qaden or mistress of the establishment, advanced towards us, took up a silver-gilt spoon which she dipped in rose preserve, and presented the spoon to my mouth with a most gracious smile. I knew that in such a case it was necessary to swallow the spoonful, then wash it down with a glass of water; the little girl then presented me with the napkin to wipe my mouth. All this was done according to the etiquette of the best Turkish houses.

— ‘I seem to be witness,’ I said, ‘to a scene from the Thousand and One Nights and to be dreaming at this moment the dream of that ‘waking sleeper (Abou Hassan). I could readily name these beautiful women: Charmer-of-Hearts, Tormenter, Eye-of-Day, and Flower-of-Jasmine...’.

The old man was about to tell me their true names, when we heard a loud noise at the door, accompanied by the metallic blows of rifle-butts. A great tumult took place in the gambling-house, and several of those present attempted to flee or hide.

— ‘Are we caught with the Sultanas?’ I cried, remembering the story the old man had told me; ‘Are we about to be drowned in the sea?’

His impassive expression reassured me somewhat. ‘Let us simply listen,’ he said.

We were mounting the stairs, while the sound of confused voices was already audible in the main room, where the matrons sat. A police officer entered the drawing-room alone, and I heard the word Franguis being pronounced as he pointed to us; he chose to return to the gambling-room, where those players who had not fled were calmly continuing their game.

It was simply a patrol of cavas (local police) seeking to establish if there were any Turks or students from the military schools in the house. It is clear that those who had fled belonged to one of the two categories. But the patrol had made so much noise on entering one was forced to believe they were paid to see nothing, and neglect reporting any violation of the law. Such is the case, moreover, in many a country.

The hour for supper had arrived. The card-players, happy or unhappy, but reconciled after doing battle, surrounded a table laid out in the European style. Only, the women did not gather to this meeting which had become openly cordial, but went to seat themselves on a platform. An orchestra, playing at the far end of the room, accompanied the meal, according to oriental custom.

The mixture of modern civilisation and Byzantine tradition is not the least attraction of these joyous nights created by the present-day contact between Europe and Asia, of which Constantinople is the brilliant centre, and which Turkish tolerance makes possible. In reality, we were attending a party quite as innocent as an evening in some café in Marseilles. The young girls who contributed to the splendour of this gathering were engaged, for a payment of a few piastres, to grant foreigners some idea of local beauty. But nothing suggested that their presence was for any other purpose than to appear charming and well-dressed, according to the fashion of the country. Indeed, everyone separated at the first light of morning, and we left the village of Saint Demetrios to its apparent calm and tranquility — nothing seemed more innocent than the idyllic landscape without, seen by the light of dawn, nor than those wooden houses whose doors were opening here and there as housewives appeared, to view the morning.

We parted. My companion returned home to Pera, and as for myself, still dazzled by the wonders of that night, I took a walk in the vicinity of the dervishes’ tekeh, from where one enjoys the full view of the entrance to the strait. The sun was not long in rising, vivifying the distant lines of the shores and promontories, and at that very moment a peal of cannon resounded over the port of Tophane (Galata). From the little minaret above the tekeh, there immediately came a soft and melancholy voice which sang:

— ‘Allah akhbar! Allah akhbar! Allah akhbar!’

I could not resist a strange emotion. Yes, God is great! God is great!... And those poor dervishes, who invariably repeat that sublime verse from the summit of their minaret, seemed to me, and for me, to be criticising a night badly-spent. The muezzin repeated:

— ‘God is great! God is great!’

— ‘God is great! Muhammad is his prophet; lay your sins at the feet of Allah!’ these are the terms of this eternal plaint.... as for myself, God is everywhere, whatever name one grants him, and I would have been unhappy to feel guilty at that moment of a true sin; but I had merely enjoyed, like all the Franks of Pera, one of those nights of celebration in which people of all religions join, in this cosmopolitan city — why then fear the eye of God? The earth impregnated with dew responded with perfumes to the passing sea-breeze which, blew towards me, from the Seraglio gardens on that headland of the far shore. Our dazzling star outlined, in the distance, the enchanted geography of the Bosphorus, which everywhere fills the eye, with its coastal heights, and its various aspects of landscape pierced by the sea. After an hour of admiration, I tired, and returned, in full daylight, to the hotel run by some young ladies named Péchefté, where I lodged, and whose windows looked out on the little Field of the Dead.

The End of Part XIII of Gérard de Nerval’s ‘Travels in the Near East’