Rolled cigarette

The outdated Turk rolled a cigarette

The outdated Turk rolled a cigarette in his knotty fingers, trying dreamily down on the baby, who sat together with his little legs underneath him silently staring on the water under, upon which no vessels, no caiques have been shifting. On the naked hill to my left I noticed the white gleam of the stones in a Jewish cemetery; and, beneath, the pale curve of the Golden Horn, ending not far off within the peace of the desolate nation. Purple-roofed Eyub, shredding out into blanched edges of cupolas and tombs by the sultan’s landing-place, marked the bottom of the hill; and, past, within the distance, mighty Stamboul, brown, with pink lights right here and there the place the solar struck a roof, streamed away to Seraglio Level. The good prospect was closed by the shadowy mountains of Asia, amongst which I divined, somewhat than truly noticed, the crest of Olympus.

In these Turkish cemeteries there’s a romantic and poignant melancholy resembling I’ve present in no different locations of tombs. They breathe out an environment of fatalism, of cold resignation to the inevitable. Their dilapidation suggests somewhat than mere indifference a way of the uselessness of care. Mud unto mud—and there an finish! However far off in Stamboul the minarets contradict the voices that whisper over the fields of the useless. For the land of the Turk is the house of contradictions; and amongst them there are some which are welcome.

The clinging impression of disappointment

To rid myself of the clinging impression of disappointment that stole over me among the many cypresses of Eyub, I took a ship, later within the day, to the shore of Asia, and visited the English graveyard at Haidar Pasha, the place way back Florence Nightingale established her hospital for troopers wounded within the Crimean Warfare, and the place now Germans have constructed an elaborate station from which some day we will have the ability to set out for Bagdad. Already good hall vehicles, with white roofs and spotlessly clear curtains, and with “Bagdad” printed in massive letters upon them, are operating from the coast to mysterious locations within the inside of Asia. Within the wonderful restaurant beer flows freely. If the mystic phrase “Verboten” weren’t absent from the partitions, one may fancy himself in Munich on coming into the station at Haidar Pasha. On the hill simply above the station lies the English cemetery, a pleasant backyard of relaxation, filled with hope and peace. It’s superbly saved, and incorporates the house of the guardian, a British soldier, who lives together with his spouse and daughters in a comfy stone bungalow fronted by flower-beds and bushes. Near his home is a grave with a damaged column, raised on a platform which is approached by three steps and surrounded by a round grass-plot.


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