The Sapphire Bosphorus

At daybreak, an employee with a foreign accent came to inform the passengers in their cabins that we were nearing the entrance to the Bosphorus. I had barely fallen asleep, having spent the night lost in thought, and awoke with a start, my heart pounding, at the mere mention of the Bosphorus.

On the cold deck, the passengers appeared one by one, indifferent and merely disappointed by what they were being shown. Indeed, the entrance to the Bosphorus looked rather gloomy, between those unremarkable mountains, still vaguely outlined in dark hues. It was an autumn sunrise, grey and misty, beneath a low, heavy sky. They could hardly see anything through the banks of fog trailing like veils.

A real shame for these tourists: the effect of the arrival would be lost. […] I had not noticed last night the third-class passengers crowding the deck: they are indeed real Turks, these men in caftans, these veiled women. And then suddenly, as we approach the shore, a penetrating, distinctive, exquisite scent reaches us, a scent once so familiar and long since forgotten: the scent of Turkish soil, something that comes from the plants or the people, I do not know, but which has not changed and which, in an instant, brings back a whole world of impressions from the past. Then, abruptly, a ten-year gap opens in my life, a collapse. […]

And finally, over there, high above, suddenly emerging through a break in the mist, appears the incomparable silhouette of Istanbul. Oh! Istanbul is there! Quite real, brought very close now, beneath a clear and commonplace light, reduced to its most ordinary appearance, which ten years of dreaming had somewhat transformed, yet almost as beautiful as in my memory. […]

Oh! I know all this so well: this hubbub of arrivals, these voices, these intonations, these faces; this mass of ships around us and these black plumes of smoke, above which, there in the clear sky, rise the domes of the holy mosques! I too mingle with all this noise; and Turkish words, even the most forgotten, come flooding back to me at once.

With the boatmen over my passage, with the porters over my trunks, I discuss matters that are utterly indifferent to me, simply out of a need to move, to talk. Even in the boat, where I am finally settled with my suitcases, I continue some astonishing haggling, and thus, almost without emotion, except perhaps for a tremor as my foot touches the ground, I find myself ashore, on the quays of Constantinople.

After more than an hour wasted on customs formalities, passports and I know not what else, on these quays in the lower part of Galata, still filled with the same strange swarming and the same clamour, here I am at last, up in Pera, settled into a respectable hotel crowded with tourists. Nearly ten o’clock already; what a waste of time, when every minute ought to be precious.

It is at Büyükdere that the beautiful scenes of the Bosphorus begin; from there they unfold like an immense panorama, with such a variety of hues, landscapes and effects of light that no painter could capture their harmonious whole, and no writer could convey their infinite charm. […]

The shores of the strait are crowded with them. Not a single spot remains vacant upon this alluring ground. Everyone wishes to have a dwelling there, a summer villa or a family home, small or large, no matter, provided it stands near the Bosphorus; provided one may enjoy that cloudless sky, the fragrance of flowers and the cool freshness of the waters. […]

There are some, and many of them, that even rebel against such submission and, borne upon slender piles, advance proudly out over the Bosphorus without regard for their neighbors. Whoever managed to build themselves a dwelling there consulted only their own taste, obeyed only their whim. This one wanted a chalet in the Jura, that one a Neapolitan villa, a Chinese kiosk. In shape, height, and size, all are painted in various colors. One would think one was seeing, says Byron, a freshly painted screen or an opera set. Near the salons of an ambassador is the humble dwelling of a boatman; near the barred windows of a pasha; near the mysterious palace of the Grand Seigneur is the room of a laborer, cheerfully open to the sea breezes and the light of day.

Seeing these immense rows of houses, these imperial harems and commoners’ homes, so many public squares with their shops and cafes, so many mosques with their minarets, so many buildings of every kind, gleaming like the iridescent wings of a flock of butterflies in the sunlight, one wonders if this isn’t the magnificent Byzantium, the voluptuous Rome of the Late Empire, the proud city of the sultanas.

Soon we see three distinct cities taking shape against the azure sea: Pera, the Frankish city; Scutari, the Asian city; and Constantinople, their queen. Little by little, we discern the undulations of the land they occupy, the slope, the wave that separates them, the cypress forests that, in the city of the living, veil the city of the dead.

Then we find ourselves in the harbor, between the Galata Tower and the dome of Hagia Sophia, facing this unparalleled port, best described by its name, the Golden Horn: to the left, the Sea of ​​Marmara breaking at the foot of the Seven Towers; to the right, the Bosphorus we have just sailed through; behind us, the vast districts of Shkodër, and on either side, barracks, mosques, clusters of houses and palaces huddled together, terraced on the hills, heaped on the plain.

A countless crowd bustles the quays. Ships from every country are moored around us; still others are arriving from southern and northern regions: others have raised their anchor and sail under full sail; Thousands of caïques glide, almost fly, over the surface of the water with such lightness that they scarcely leave behind them even the faintest fleeting wake.

I, on the other hand, have returned to my walk, deliberately lingering amid the teeming crowds crossing the water. I never tire of admiring this bridge over the Golden Horn. It is surely the most magnificent bridge in the whole world.

Within the space of a single crossing, I pass mounted soldiers and foot soldiers, porters bent beneath their loads, eunuchs in sharply tailored frock coats, a bewildered band of pilgrims from Bukhara, their Mongolian eyes wide with wonder; a harem carriage closed like a coffin; four Persians in astrakhan hats; two fire engines galloping past; twelve Turkish ladies wearing their veils for amusement; six policemen, five imams, three dervishes, a Bulgarian bishop, two Little Sisters of the Poor, and some two hundred other people whose origins defy classification. 

And I have not even mentioned the hubbub of the improbable vendors crowded along every pavement, crying their improbable wares at the top of their lungs: rose-flavoured Turkish delight, aniseed simites, Angora honey, harem lozenges, chequered handkerchiefs, English pins, Damascus apricots, postcards, obscene photographs and genuine cherry water. All this for a penny, for next to nothing: « On paras, bech paras, bech paraya!»

The water is not lapis lazuli, nor is the sky sapphire. Grey and blond prevail everywhere, with a kind of mauve haze floating over every line and softening every hue. There are marble palaces, but very few: eight or ten, scattered along two banks, each a good twenty kilometres long. The Bosphorus is much longer than one imagines. It is a very beautiful river, winding between lovely wooded hills that hug it closely and hem it in. At the foot of these hills, countless villages line the banks in continuous rows of little Turkish houses, half on land, half over the water, for many of their terraces, built of rough-hewn planks, rest upon stilts.

Here and there, a stretch of quay paved with old, chipped flagstones; a great villa, a yali of pink stone or ancient purplish wood; a white mosque with a beautiful dome, its minaret like a candle; and sometimes a Turkish cemetery descending in terraces towards the water—a cemetery planted with tall cypresses and translucent willows, scattered with little blue or green Muslim stelae and adorned with golden epitaphs. The charm of it all is gentle and captivating: a charm of harmony, perfect balance and peace. The rolling hills, the broad, low houses, the trees with their restrained European greenery, the diaphanous mist cast over the landscape like the bloom upon a plum, and the sun that gilds without dazzling—all combine to create a delightful and temperate whole, one that does not impose itself violently, but insinuates itself, penetrates deeply, and takes possession of you.

How I would love to bivouac in those barracks one evening after a battle, with my hussars! We would put everything back in order so neatly the following morning, with nothing more than a few bundles of sticks and a little kerosene.

Half past seven Turkish time, a quarter past two Frankish time. To the left, the large village of Yeniköy; to the right, the little town of Beykoz. Behind us, on a promontory of the Asian shore, Kanlıca, the most exquisite of the Bosphorus hamlets; ahead, on the European shore, Therapia and Büyükdere, the “select” spots chosen by the six embassies for their summer quarters. It is not bad; there are magnificent trees. The şirket approaches an admirable yali, red as dried blood, nestled against a terraced park planted with lindens, beeches, chestnuts and cedars—the most beautiful I have ever dreamed of: the French Palace. That is where I am going first.

We disembark. The quay is crowded with carriages. The gate. Footmen and servants. (The servants are sworn retainers, entitled to carry arms—and they make liberal use of the privilege.) All these liveried figures rush forward:

“Monsieur le Marquis…”

Damn! No more laughing.

Aged, wrinkled, faded, withered, dilapidated, swollen with damp—or concealing beneath later additions the ruins of their former youth—they told legends and recited poems. Some, freshly painted, groomed and adorned, spoke of youth, maturity and old age. Some were efendis, beys or pashas; others gossips or grand ladies, friends, relatives or strangers.

There were very tall ones, resembling giants grown beyond their natural proportions; medium-sized ones, giving the eye a reassuring sense of balance; and small ones, like children surrounded by their toys.

I recognised them all from afar by their outward appearance; of some, I even knew the secrets of their most hidden wounds, the depths of their souls.

The old yali belonging to the eldest member of my family, at the tip of Kanlıca, with its vast vestibules covered in matting, its chandeliers large enough to shelter countless little houses, and its rooms with pools, all teeming with dreams, resembled an enormous ship from bygone days, carrying within it something of the power of a vanished empire and now stranded upon the shore. Its garden ended in a latticed jetty sloping down towards the sea, as though the waters were slowly eroding it, piece by piece.

One of our neighbours had, in a garden shaded by ancient trees and tangled with flowers that seemed oblivious to winter, an orangery with multicoloured panes. It was as though, in this place where their fragrances lingered, the springs of former years had never died but continued to live on, mingling and intertwining to create an intoxicating atmosphere. Like those immense oceans whose farthest shores we dare not seek, I could not, swimming upon waves of perfume, reach their final shore, and so I turned back.

The Bosphorus is one of the purest cradles of poetry in the world, and its yalis, seemingly intoxicated by the enchantment of the waters in which they are reflected, are simple yet perfect snares, capturing the mind in the poetry of a contemplative life.

The Bosphorus is one of the purest cradles of poetry in the world, and its yalis, seemingly intoxicated by the charm of the waters in which they are reflected, are simple yet perfect snares, holding the mind captive to the poetry of a contemplative life.

How can one explain what a century, a lifetime, a season, a single day spent in the valleys of the Bosphorus is, without showing it or letting one breathe its air? It is like trying to convey what a rose is without showing it or letting one breathe in its fragrance. How can one describe its colour, which stirs the senses? How can one make another feel its perfume, which makes the heart swoon?

Then the maid would come, bringing tea and the morning paper; accompanied by the friendly breeze, she would enter and brighten the room with her presence, then leave again. Through the first open window, a new day dawned, sunny and joyful.

Just as, before plunging into the sea, we hesitate for a moment at the thought of the cold, then throw ourselves headlong into the delicious coolness awaiting us, so we plunged from our beds into the delights of the new day.

At such moments, I regretted not having devoted myself to poetry, drawing and music. For when we savour the beauty of life and the world, we long to be poets so that we might express it; when we contemplate its beauty, painters so that we might depict it; when we hear its harmony, musicians so that we might echo it. And then we are astonished at the impotence and sterility of the poets, painters and musicians we know.

There is something in the Bosphorus that seems to demand poetry, painting and music in order to be expressed; something that can never quite be grasped, and which leaves the soul with an eternal longing.

The idle, slow and carefree day, which had peacefully melted the gold of its light into the blue of ikindi, suddenly grew hurried; it faded and darkened, slipping into the mauve hours, the meditations of evening, its nostalgias and farewells.

It seemed to me that those blue, delicate, murmuring, flowing waters were rippling within my heart; I heard their music and their poetry within me, endlessly.

Between half past nine and noon, Turkish time, came the hour for a stroll. Should I take the steamer down towards Istanbul, or make my way up the Bosphorus in a rowboat? Alas, the choice of one pleasure had to be paid for by the sacrifice of another.

The Bosphorus possesses an awe-inspiring and melancholy beauty, like moonlight. It unfolds before the eyes and the mind like an incomparable vision, among the most delicate beauties the world has ever produced. A caique, dipping into the water and seeming to lie flat beneath the sky, appears to me the perfect, unsurpassed invention for savouring both water and sky. I believe humankind has found no better way of penetrating the spirit of the universe.

And then, sometimes, the moonlight would appear. With a magical charm, with glimmers that our literature, our painting and our music have failed to capture, it spread its poetry even over the last little waves at the foot of the yali, as though seeking to enter the house itself, to penetrate its very soul. That patch of moonlight upon the small wave rocking before the yali, that sliver of light playing innocently upon the surface of the indifferent water, moved me like a child, at once innocent and divine. How I loved it!

*Ikindi (Arabic); mid-afternoon time. Time of the third Muslim prayer.