夥しい数の誇り高きトルコの民が、ピクリとも動くことなく、死んでいた。カシム・パシャの通りで。ペラの高台の上の密集しているタクシムで。そしてスルタン・セリムの長いムーア風のアーケードの下に、屋外床屋のカミソリと床屋の骨、それに髭を半分沿った信徒の頭骸骨と、長い二時間用の水キセルが、tembakiとハッシシの燃え跡と一緒にまだ鉢の中に残っているのを目にした。今ではなにもかもが灰と乾いた黄色い骨になっていた。だがファナルと喧騒に満ちたかつてのガラタ、そしてプリ・パシャのユダヤ人居住区の家の中ではでは、その黒い靴とギリシャの頭飾りは、まだヘブライの青色と区別できた。ここでは、ブーツと帽子に宗教的な色彩が混ざっていた。ムスリムは黄色、赤い靴と黒のカルパックはアメリカ、知識人は白いターバン、ギリシャ人は黒。タタール人の頭骨は高く先の尖ったカルパック(訳注:トルコやイランを中心とした地域の男性が被る、高く先が尖った帽子。通例フェルトや羊皮で作られる)の下で、Nizain-djidの頭骨はメロン型をしたヘッドピースの下で、輝いていた。イマーム(訳注:イスラム教の導師)とダーヴィシュ(訳注:イスラムの修道僧)は灰色をした円錐型のフェルトの下でだ。そしてあちらこちらに、ヨーロッパのボロ布に包まれた西欧人がいた。ぼくはバシブズーク(訳注:トルコの傭兵)のターバンとその長い剣が山になっているのを見た。そしてスタンボウルの大きな城壁の上のドームの中に何人かのソフタ(訳注:イスラム寺院の宗教活動に関係する人びと)を、乞食を、スイカを、砂糖菓子を、干しぶどうを、シャーベットなどが載った大きな盆を持った行商を、熊の見世物を、バーバリーオルガンを、さらには、長いランタン、二丁のピストル、短刀、木製のジャベリン(訳注:槍)を手にして、いつでも「火!」と叫んでいる夜警を、目にした。不思議なことに、かつての生活が今のぼくの夢想へと入り込んできたが、極めて鮮やかで、最近何度かここに来ていたが、初めてのことだった。ぼくは城壁を超えて、どちらかといえば単調な峰の連なる光景の見える平原に出かけたことがあるが、街は黒い糸杉の先から付き出したミナレットしか見えず、ぼくにはどこかの頂上にいる興奮した祈祷時刻の告知係が、正午の祈祷を呼びかけているのが見えるかのように思われた。「モハメッドはアッラーの使徒なり!」――その男は熱を帯びた声で叫ぶのだ。そしてそのスクタリの墓地を横断している糸杉の大通りから、スタンボウルの城壁に囲まれた街が、ぼくの前の糸杉の森の中にあるファナとEyoubにまでずっと広がっていたが、その街全体が今では木々に覆われており、道は複雑に入り組み、暗い裏通りには貼り出したバルコニーを持った、かつてのビサンティン風の家が並んでいて、その下では乗り物に乗った人は頭を屈めなければならず、年を重ねたトルコ人でさえ、その絵のように美しい迷路の中では道に迷うであろう。そして陰影のあるボスフォラス海峡沿岸のフォウンドウクリ、そしてさらにその彼方には、いくつかのいくつかのヤリ(注:ボスフォラス海峡特有の家のタイプ)と、雪のように白い宮殿、あるいは古いアルメリアの小屋が垣間見えた。そして海辺には、街の中の街ともいうべき、セラグリオ(注:イスラムの後宮)があった。そして南のマルモラ海は、碧く白く、巨大で、生まれたばかりの海のようにみずみずしくて、誕生と陽気な太陽に歓喜しており、爽やかに、抜け目なく、幻の島々の彼方へと広がっていた。そうして見つめていたとき、荒々しい狂った言葉が、神よ、野蛮で狂人のような言葉が、地獄に向かって哄笑する狂った人間の金切り声ののように、口を突いて出た。何かがぼくの舌を借りて、言ったのだ。「この街はまだ完全に死んだわけではない!」
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These proud Turks died stolidly, many of them. In streets of Kassim-pacha, in crowded Taxim on the heights of Pera, and under the long Moorish arcades of Sultan-Selim, I have seen the open-air barber's razor with his bones, and with him the half-shaved skull of the faithful, and the long two-hours' narghile with traces of burnt tembaki and haschish still in the bowl. Ashes now are they all, and dry yellow bone; but in the houses of Phanar and noisy old Galata, and in the Jew quarter of Pri-pacha, the black shoe and head-dress of the Greek is still distinguishable from the Hebrew blue. It was a mixed ritual of colours here in boot and hat: yellow for Mussulman, red boots, black calpac for Armenian, for the Effendi a white turban, for the Greek a black. The Tartar skull shines from under a high taper calpac, the Nizain-djid's from a melon-shaped head-piece; the Imam's and Dervish's from a grey conical felt; and there is here and there a Frank in European rags. I have seen the towering turban of the Bashi-bazouk, and his long sword, and some softas in the domes on the great wall of Stamboul, and the beggar, and the street-merchant with large tray of water-melons, sweetmeats, raisins, sherbet, and the bear-shewer, and the Barbary organ, and the night-watchman who evermore cried 'Fire!' with his long lantern, two pistols, dirk, and wooden javelin. Strange how all that old life has come back to my fancy now, pretty vividly, and for the first time, though I have been here several times lately. I have gone out to those plains beyond the walls with their view of rather barren mountain-peaks, the city looking nothing but minarets shooting through black cypress-tops, and I seemed to see the wild muezzin at some summit, crying the midday prayer: 'Mohammed Resoul Allah!'―the wild man; and from that great avenue of cypresses which traverses the cemetery of Scutari, the walled city of Stamboul lay spread entire up to Phanar and Eyoub in their cypress-woods before me, the whole embowered now in trees, all that complexity of ways and dark alleys with overhanging balconies of old Byzantine houses, beneath which a rider had to stoop the head, where old Turks would lose their way in mazes of the picturesque; and on the shaded Bosphorus coast, to Foundoucli and beyond, some peeping yali, snow-white palace, or old Armenian cot; and the Seraglio by the sea, a town within a town; and southward the Sea of Marmora, blue-and-white, and vast, and fresh as a sea just born, rejoicing at its birth and at the jovial sun, all brisk, alert, to the shadowy islands afar: and as I looked, I suddenly said aloud a wild, mad thing, my God, a wild and maniac thing, a shrieking maniac thing for Hell to laugh at: for something said with my tongue: 'This city is not quite dead.'
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These proud Turks died stolidly, many of them. In streets of Kassim-pacha, in crowded Taxim on the heights of Pera, and under the long Moorish arcades of Sultan-Selim, I have seen the open-air barber's razor with his bones, and with him the half-shaved skull of the faithful, and the long two-hours' narghile with traces of burnt tembaki and haschish still in the bowl. Ashes now are they all, and dry yellow bone; but in the houses of Phanar and noisy old Galata, and in the Jew quarter of Pri-pacha, the black shoe and head-dress of the Greek is still distinguishable from the Hebrew blue. It was a mixed ritual of colours here in boot and hat: yellow for Mussulman, red boots, black calpac for Armenian, for the Effendi a white turban, for the Greek a black. The Tartar skull shines from under a high taper calpac, the Nizain-djid's from a melon-shaped head-piece; the Imam's and Dervish's from a grey conical felt; and there is here and there a Frank in European rags. I have seen the towering turban of the Bashi-bazouk, and his long sword, and some softas in the domes on the great wall of Stamboul, and the beggar, and the street-merchant with large tray of water-melons, sweetmeats, raisins, sherbet, and the bear-shewer, and the Barbary organ, and the night-watchman who evermore cried 'Fire!' with his long lantern, two pistols, dirk, and wooden javelin. Strange how all that old life has come back to my fancy now, pretty vividly, and for the first time, though I have been here several times lately. I have gone out to those plains beyond the walls with their view of rather barren mountain-peaks, the city looking nothing but minarets shooting through black cypress-tops, and I seemed to see the wild muezzin at some summit, crying the midday prayer: 'Mohammed Resoul Allah!'―the wild man; and from that great avenue of cypresses which traverses the cemetery of Scutari, the walled city of Stamboul lay spread entire up to Phanar and Eyoub in their cypress-woods before me, the whole embowered now in trees, all that complexity of ways and dark alleys with overhanging balconies of old Byzantine houses, beneath which a rider had to stoop the head, where old Turks would lose their way in mazes of the picturesque; and on the shaded Bosphorus coast, to Foundoucli and beyond, some peeping yali, snow-white palace, or old Armenian cot; and the Seraglio by the sea, a town within a town; and southward the Sea of Marmora, blue-and-white, and vast, and fresh as a sea just born, rejoicing at its birth and at the jovial sun, all brisk, alert, to the shadowy islands afar: and as I looked, I suddenly said aloud a wild, mad thing, my God, a wild and maniac thing, a shrieking maniac thing for Hell to laugh at: for something said with my tongue: 'This city is not quite dead.'
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"The Purple Cloud"
Written by M.P. Shiel
(M.P. シール)
Translated by shigeyuki