ABSTRACT
The new house was in Selimié, an old Turkish quarter looking over to the Marmora across the inky cypress line of the Karadja Ahmed Cemetery on one side, while on the other hand the misty Istamboul Point with its hundreds of minarets rose softly into the blue dome of sky beyond the Bosphorus. The house belonged to an old minister of war, and one half was still occupied by the owners. But our side was even as large as our old house in Beshiktash, while a wild garden, especially full of rose-bushes, stretched toward the cemeteries, giving us an ample sense of space and freedom. The whole quarter had a number of immense wooden houses purpled with age and on the brink of decay, each belonging to some grand vizir of half a century ago. Granny, repelled by the raw ugliness of new things, unerringly chose these beautiful old places in spite of their being half tumbled down. The house itself and a great part of the whole quarter is now burned, but I have several times since wandered among its ashes in my visits to the old haunts. Besides the rose-bushes, the garden had a very big walnut-tree, up which MahmouréAblausedto climb daily. Its height made me dizzy even to look up at it.
