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You walk, you sail, you move and you settle somewhere... And you are gone like a little bird that can never be caught. Dear little bird, capricious, tired, who is swayed by the wind, lured by mirages, you who do not yet know where you would lay your weary head and quivering wings to rest. Weaving in Thessaloniki, weaving elsewhere too! Fly, fly still, until, tired of your unconscious flight, you settle on some fresh green branch... No, you will not fold your wings and you will not sink into the ravine, because the God of the little birds has once spoken, and the angels guard that light loving head. So it's all over! So you won't come under the lime trees this year! Winter is coming, and you haven't even walked on our grass fields! For five years I have seen our flowers bloom and our shadows play, in my mind that sweet and charming thought that I would see you two here. Every season, every summer, it has been my luck…. Now it's just you, and we can't see you anymore. I am writing to you in Brightbury on a beautiful August morning, in the country, in our hall, the windows of which open onto the linden alley. The birds are chirping and the sun's rays are shining cheerfully everywhere. It's Saturday, and the freshly washed stone stairs and floors tell a whole little, homely country poem, which I know you won't be indifferent to either. The strong, oppressive heat has passed and now follows that time of peace and soothing Sulo, which can be so well compared to the second age of man. Tired of all the pleasures of summer, the flowers and plants rise now, and bloom powerfully, in the darkest colors amid the brilliant green, and some already yellowed leaves add to the mature beauty of nature blooming again in summer. In this little corner of my paradise, everyone was waiting for you, dear brother. It felt like everything grew because of you… and then everything is allowed to wither away from you. It's decided: we're not allowed to see you anymore.
The noisy district of Taxim in the hills of Pera. European vehicles and European costumes crowded among Oriental carriages and costumes. It's terribly hot and the sun is shining. The warm wind raises clouds of dust and the yellowed leaves of August. The myrtles are fragrant, the fruit sellers are noisy, the streets are full of grapes and sweets... The first moments of my stay in Constantinople have drawn these images into my memory.
I often spent my afternoons along that Taxim road, sitting in the wind under the trees and being a stranger to everyone. Dreaming of the time that had just ended, I followed the motley crowd passing by with my eyes. I thought about him a lot , and wondered that he had penetrated so deeply into my soul. In this part of town I met some old Armenian priests who taught me the first rudiments of the Turkish language. I did not yet love that country as I did later, but viewed it like a traveller; and Stambul, feared by the Christians, I scarcely knew. During the three months I lived in Pera, trying to find ways to carry out my impossible plan: to go live with him on the other side of the Golden Horn, to live a Mohammedan life, his life, to devote whole days to him, to understand and find out his thoughts, to read those fresh, untamed thoughts from the bottom of his heart , which I had hardly imagined in those Saloniki nights — and to take her completely to myself. My house was in Pera's farthest peruks, high up. From there you could see the Golden Horn and the distant Mohammedan city. The beauty of summer made my apartment charming. Studying the language of Islam by my large open window, I let my eyes wander over old, sun-bathed Stambul. Just beyond, in the cypress grove, Eyoub could be seen, where it would have been sweet to go with him to hide his existence, a mysterious unknown place where our life would have received a strange, sweet frame. My hut is surrounded by lands higher than Stambul, with cypresses growing between their graves, and desolate fields, where, wandering, I have spent many a night seeking careless adventures with Armenian or Greek girls. However, in my heart I remained loyal to Aziyadé, but days passed and he was not heard from... All I have left of those beautiful creatures is a charmless memory left by the feverish frenzy of the senses. Nothing else ever attached me to any of them, and I soon forgot about them. But when I walked around the cemetery at night, I often met dangerous people there.
in Constantinople on Aug. in 30 p. It is midnight! It is five o'clock according to Turkish time. The night watchmen beat the ground with their heavy iron clubs. The dogs have made a revolution on the Galata side and are letting out lamentable howls. The ones in my neighborhood stay neutral and I'm grateful they sleep in droves outside my door. Everything around me is at deep peace. The lights have gone out one by one during the three long hours I've spent at my window. The old Armenian cottages under my window are dark and asleep. In front of me is a very deep gorge, at the bottom of which an ancient cypress forest spreads like a black mantle. Those sad trees shade the old Mohammedan graves, from them rises the scent of balsam at night. The infinite horizon is calm and pure. I can see the whole region. Amidst the cypresses there is a bright spot — A golden horn; and above it, very high, the outline of an oriental city. There is Stambul. Minarets, those high towers of mosques, are reflected against the starry sky, from which hangs a thin quarter of the moon. Minarets cut across the line of sight, faintly silhouetted as blue streaks against the pale color of the night. The big domes of the mosques rise dimly up to the moon, and seem gigantic in the imagination. In one of those palaces far away in Seraskierat, a dark tragedy is taking place. The mighty pashas have gathered there to dismiss Sultan Murad. Tomorrow, Abdul Hamid will already be in his place. That sultan, whose accession to the throne we celebrated three months ago, and who is still worshiped like a god, will perhaps be killed tonight in some corner of the seraglio. However, everything is quiet in Constantinople... At eleven o'clock, the cavalry and artillery marched towards Stambul at full gallop. Then the humming rumbling of the radiators faded into the distance and everything fell into silence again. The owls call in the cypresses with the same voice as in my country. I like that summer sound that takes me back to the Yorkshire woods, to the beautiful evenings of my childhood, under the trees, far away in Brighbury. In the midst of this peace, the images of the past have vividly returned to my mind, my past, which is past and will never return.
I thought Samuel would be with me tonight, but I probably won't see him again for a while. My heart was troubled and loneliness weighed on me. A week ago I let him earn some money for the ship to Salonika. The three ships on which he could have come have returned from him, the last one tonight, and none of them had heard of Samuel. The crescent moon slowly sets behind Stambul, in the shadow of Suleimanich's domed roofs. In this big city I am strange and unknown. Samuel was the only one who knew my name and position, and I began to love him sincerely. Has he left me, or has he had an accident?
Friends are like dogs: Friendship always ends badly, so it's better not to have friends.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — My friend Saketo, who travels back and forth between Constantinople and Thessaloniki on Turkish ships, often visits me. At first he is afraid of the house inside the walls, but in the end he comes to it like his home. Kunnon's son, Samuel's childhood friend, to whom he brings news from home. Old Esther, that Jewess from Salonica, whose business it was there to dress me as a Turk, and who gave me the affectionate name of Caro Piccolo , sends me good wishes and greetings through her. Saketo is welcome, especially when he brings greetings, which Aziyadé conveys to him with the help of her negro maid. — Hanum , (Turkish noblewoman) says Saketo, — sends greetings to Mr. Lot. He tirelessly urges us to wait, and says he will arrive before winter comes…
Loti, to William Brown.
people pass on from generation to generation, this one has the most immortal truth. That pure love you dream of is a myth, just like friendship. Forget your loved ones, for the joy girl. That kind of female ideal slips out of your hands. Fall in love with a circus girl with a beautiful body. There is no God, and no morals, there is nothing that we are taught to respect There is only life that passes, and from which we are allowed to ask for as many pleasures as possible while waiting for that fearful end, death. The real misfortunes are diseases, ugliness and old age. Neither you nor I have those flaws. We may have a bunch of grace and enjoy life. I open my heart to you, I confess my faith to you: my only guideline in life is to always do what pleases me, without caring about any morals or social conventions. I believe in nothing, no one, I love nothing, no one; I have no faith and no hope. It has taken me seventy-three years to get here. If I have sunk lower than ordinary people, I have started higher. Goodbye, I embrace you! Loti.
The Eyoub Mosque on the banks of the Golden Horn was built by Muhamed II on the tomb of Eyoub, a companion of the Prophet. Christians can never get there, and they are not safe in its surroundings either. The monument is built of white marble in a lonely place, in the country. Tombs surround it on all sides. Its dome and minarets are almost completely covered by the dense greenery of giant plane trees and hundred-year-old cypresses. The corridors of those cemeteries are very shady and dark, laid with stones or marble mostly between the embankments. They are bordered by very old marble buildings, whose still undarkened whiteness shines brightly against the dark background of the cypresses.
There are richly gilded tombs surrounded by flowers in the shade of palm trees. They are the graves of famous deceased, former pashas, high Mohammedan officials. The Sheik-id-Islams also have their tomb here along a sad corridor. Sultans are crowned in the Eyoub Mosque.
On September 6, at 6 in the morning, I managed to break into the second courtyard of the Eyoub mosque. The old building was empty and quiet. A couple of dervishes accompanied me, both shuddering at the excess of that enterprise. We stepped on the marble pavement without saying a word. In the early morning, the mosque was snow white. Hundreds of crown pigeons pecked and flew in lonely yards. The sarcastic dervishes raised the leather curtain of the shrine so that I could look into that deified place, the holiest in Stambul, which Christian eyes had never been allowed to look at. It was the day before Abdul Hamid's coronation. I remember the day when the new sultan took possession of the government palace with great pomp. I had been one of the first to see him when he left the dark hiding place of that old seraglio where the heirs to the crown are kept in Turkey. The great boats of splendor had come to fetch him from there, and my boat almost touched his platform. A few days of power have already aged the Sultan: then the features of his face expressed youth and vigour, which have since disappeared. The extreme simplicity of her dress contrasted curiously with the oriental splendor that surrounded her. That man, who was brought from a relatively cheap position to the heights of power, seemed to have fallen into troubled dreams. He was thin, pale, and haunted by sad thoughts. His large black eyes were surrounded by dark circles, and his face was intelligent and noble. Sixty-three oarsmen steered the sultan's magnificent ships. They were graceful in an oriental shape, absolutely brilliant, completely embroidered with gold images, a golden spur in the bow. The costume of court servants is green, blue-red and gold
strange that it would rather have been considered a product of some Oriental's demented imagination than a fact.
Samuel's return brought some joy to my gloomy house. Onni smiled at me at Pera's roulettes, and autumn is gorgeous in the East. I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, and my freedom is unlimited. I can wander as much as I want in the villages, mountains and forests of the coast of Europe or Asia. Many human beings would live the whole year with the impressions and conflicts of my one single day. May Allah grant long life to Sultan Abdul Hamid, who has revived the great religious festivals, these glorious expenditures of Islam. Stambul is illuminated every evening, Bengal fires blaze on the Bosphorus, those last lights of the dying East, magnificent magic shows that I doubtless will never see again. Despite my political indifference, my sympathies are with this beautiful doomed country, and slowly, without realizing it, I am becoming a Turk.
… About Samuel: He is Turkish by chance, Jewish by religion and Spanish by nationality. In Salonika he was some kind of Russian man, a rower and a porter. Here, as there, he practices his profession in the harbor. Since he is more pleasant looking than the others, he has a lot of work, and he gets good daily wages. In the evening, he eats grapes and a piece of bread and returns home feeling happy. Roulette is no longer profitable, and we are both very poor, but so carefree that it makes up for everything, enough young people to obtain for free the satisfaction that others pay very much for. Samuel pulls on a pair of holey pants when he goes to work. He imagines that the holes won't hurt and that he's in a perfect suit. Every evening, like decent Turks at least, we smoke our hookahs under the plane trees of a Turkish cafe, or we go to a shadow theater to see Karagunuz, a Turkish puppet theater that charms us. We live outside of all unrest, and politics is not for us.
However, there is terror among the Christians of Constantinople, and Stambul is a place of fear for the inhabitants of Pera; only trembling do they step over the bridges.
Yesterday I rode through Stambul to go to Izedol Ali. There was a big Bairam celebration, an oriental magic show, the last scene of Ramazan. All the mosques were illuminated, the minarets glittered to their highest peaks, and verses of the Koran made of letters of fire fluttered in the air. Thousands of people shouted at the same time, with the thunder of cannons, the merciful name of Allah. People in festive costumes carried thousands of fires and lanterns through the streets, veiled women walked around in groups, dressed in gold, silver and silk. After touring the whole of Stambul with Izedol Ali, we finally ended up in an underground cave in the suburbs, where young Asian boys dressed as dancers performed lewd dances for an audience that included all kinds of people who escaped from the hands of Ottoman justice. As I could not be bothered to watch the end of the play, which would have been suitable for performing in the best moments of Sodom, we returned home at daybreak.
Karaguez. The adventures and antics of Mr. Karagueuz have amused the Turks for many centuries, and there is still no indication that the popularity of this person is over. There are many similarities in the character of Karagueuz and the old French Polichinelle. After beating everyone, including his wife, he is finally given a back by the devil, Sheita, and finally takes him to his place, much to the delight of the onlookers. Karagueuz is either made of cardboard or wood. He appears to viewers as a puppet or in silhouette, being equally crazy in both cases. He invents tones and tricks that Guignol would not have imagined, the caresses he bestows on Mrs. Karaguez are irresistibly insane. Karagueuz sometimes likes to ask the opinion of the viewers and argue with the audience. It also happens that he dares to make very inappropriate pranks, and do
When we go up another floor, we are on a roof that is flat, like in Arabia. It is shaded by a vine, which, unfortunately, has already turned yellow badly in the November wind. Right next to the hut is an old village mosque. When my friend muozzin climbs his minaret, and arrives at the level of my roof, he sends me, before he sings his prayer, a friendly salam. The view is beautiful from up here. In the background is the Golden Horn and the dark landscapes of Eyoub, that holy mosque, which rises marble-white from its mysterious, hundred-year-old forest, and then low-lying hills with dark shades of color, sprinkled with marble — an infinite cemetery, a real city of the dead. On the right, furrowed gilded tusks Golden horn. The whole of Stambul can be seen in miniature. The mosques are as if entwined with each other, domes and minarets get mixed up. The white-housed hill visible in the distance is Pera, the city of the Christians, and behind it is Deerhound.
A sense of despondency took over my mind in that empty house with its bare walls, shaken windows and unlocked door. It was so far away, from the rest of the world, far from Deerhound , and utterly impractical…
Samuel spent a week washing, bleaching and papering. We nail the permanno with white mats that cover it completely — a clean and comfortable Turkish way. Swimmers and a wide sofa covered with red floral fabric complete the first, rather modest in quality, furniture. Now everything has already changed. I find it possible to make a home out of this house, where all the winds blow, and it's not such a corner to me anymore. However, he who has promised to come would be needed there; and maybe it's only because of him that I'm isolated from the world. On Eyoub, I'm like the favorite kid on the block, and Samuel is also liked there a lot.
At first, my suspicious neighbors have become lovably polite to a guest whom Allah sent them, and where everything is very mysterious to them. After a two-hour visit, dervish Hassan-Effendi explains his impression as follows: — You are an incredible man, and everything you do is strange! You are very young, or at least you look like it, and you live in such a peculiar way that even full- grown men cannot be like that. We don't know where you come from, and you don't have any known occupation. You've already peeked into all the nooks and crannies on five continents. You know way more than all of us ulema put together. You remember everything you see. You are twenty, maybe twenty-three years old, and human age would not be enough for your mysterious past. Your place would be in the front row of Pera's European social circle, and you settle in Eyoub with your strange companion, a Jewish wanderer. You are an incredible man, but I love to look at you and I am delighted that you live among us.
In September 1876. Feast of Surre-humayou. The ruler's gifts go to Mecca. Every year, the Sultan sends a caravan loaded with treasures to the holy city. The procession from Dolma-Bagtshe Palace boards the ship from Top-Hane Pier to go to Ikutar of Asia. In front of it, Arabs dance to the beat of the tam-tam, waving long sticks in the air around which gold bands are wrapped. The camels tread heavily. They have ostrich feathers on their heads, and gold brocade devices decorated with jewels on their backs. The most expensive gifts are in those containers. Bumpy-headed mules carry the Caliph's other gifts in gold-embroidered silk chests. The ulemas, high officials, follow on horseback, and the military troops stand in a parade of honor along the road. It is forty days' journey from Stambul to the Holy City.
Loti to her sister in Brigtbury. In Eyoub 1876. … Opening my heart to you is becoming more and more difficult, because my viewpoints and yours are getting further and further apart every day. The Christian idea had remained hidden in my soul for a long time, even when I didn't dare anymore. It had a dark, comforting charm. Now that charm is completely gone; I don't know anything more useless, false and impossible. You know, I've had terrible moments in my life, I've suffered deeply. I wanted to get married; I told you that. I left it to you to find a young girl who would be worthy of our home roof and our old mother. Please don't think like that anymore, I would make the woman who would become my spouse unhappy, and I'd rather go on with my life having fun... I am writing to you in my sad hut on Eyoub. My companion is only a little boy named Yussuf, and he too I have accustomed to obey only signs, to save myself from the tedium of talking. I spend hours at home without speaking a word to any living thing. I said I did not believe in anybody's susceptibility; it is true. I have some friends who show it a lot, but I don't believe it. Samuel, who left me, probably likes me the most anyway. However, I don't imagine anything. It's just a child's great enthusiasm on his part, which will one day evaporate like smoke. In your friendship, sister, I trust to a certain extent, — whether it will be the result of habit, I don't know, but you have to believe in something anyway. If it's true that you love me, then say it, or show it to me... I have to join something. If it is true, act so that I may believe it. I feel the ground fail under my feet, the emptiness opens up around me, and I feel great anxiety... As long as I get to keep our old mother I'll seemingly remain what I am now. When he is gone, I will come to say goodbye to you, and then I will disappear without leaving a trace of myself…
Loti for Plumkett. on Eyoub in Nov. on the 15th of 1876. Behind all that oriental masquerading that veils my life, behind Arif-Effendink, there is a small boy parka who often feels a deadly coldness in his heart. There are very few people with whom that generally reserved young man would sometimes converse a little more familiarly — but you are one of them. — I'll do anything, Plumkett, I'm not happy; no advice may confuse my thoughts. My heart is full of weariness and bitterness. In my loneliness I am deeply attached to a tramp I found on the quays of Thessaloniki, whose name is Samuel. His heart is sensitive and sincere; an unpolished diamond soldered to iron, as Raoulde Nanzis deceased would have said. However, his company is childlike and special, and I miss him less when he is with me. I am writing to you in the pressing moment of winter twilight. Nothing can be heard from the surroundings except the voice of the muezzin, who, to the glory of Allah, sings his centenary lament. The images of the past come to mind with sharp clarity, the objects around me look menacing and mournful, and I ask myself what I have actually come to do here in the distant wig of Eyoub. If only he were here, he, Aziyadé!… I always wait for him, — but alas! as my sister Anna was waiting for me too.
