You go by some marble tombs sheltered by weary bushes, beneath the enormous shadow of a mosque, and some steps farther on you look by an arched doorway and see on the marble flooring of a dimly lighted corridor half-naked males, with tufts of black hair drooping from partly shaved heads and striped towels girt spherical their loins, going softly from side to side, or bending a couple of fountain from which water gushes with a silvery noise. This can be a Turkish bathtub. All through Stamboul there are bath-houses with little cupolas on their roofs, and all through Stamboul there are tombs; however the uneasy and watchful crowds throng the quarters close to the waterside and the nice bazaars and the areas earlier than the principal mosques. They aren’t unfold all through the town. Many components of Stamboul are because the waste locations of the earth, deserted by males.
By evening they’re silent and black; by day they seem like the methods of a fantastic picket village from which the inhabitants have fled. Of their open areas, patches of waste floor, maybe just a few goats try to browse amongst garbage and stones, just a few little kids are loitering, two or three silent males could also be sitting beneath a vine by a shed, which is a Turkish cafe. There isn’t any sound of steps or of voices. One has no feeling of being in a fantastic metropolis, of being in a metropolis in any respect. Little there’s of romance, little of that mysterious and beautiful melancholy which imaginative writers have described. Dullness and shabbiness brood over every part. But an unlimited inhabitants lives within the apparently empty homes. Girls are watching from the home windows behind the grilles. Life is fermenting within the midst of the mud, the discomfort, the just about ghastly silence.
The nice bazaar of Stamboul
The nice bazaar of Stamboul is a metropolis inside a metropolis. As you stand earlier than its entrance you consider a fortress stuffed with immured treasures. And there are treasures of worth beneath the heavy arches, within the lengthy roofed-over lanes. The bazaars of Tunis appear minute, of Damascus ephemeral, of Cairo dressed up, of Jerusalem crushed collectively and stifling, when put next with the huge bazaars of Stamboul, which have a solidity, a massiveness, unshared by their rivals. I noticed there many low-cost items similar to I’ve seen on sure cubicles within the East Finish of London, however they had been surrounded with a sure pomp and dignity, with a curious environment of age. Some components of the bazaars are slender.