In Santa Sophia intricacy, by some magical technique of genius, ends in simplicity. Every little thing appears gently however irresistibly compelled to change into a minister to the sweetness and the calmness of the entire: the arcades of grey marble and gold; the sacred mosaics of Holy Mary, and of the six-winged Seraphim, which nonetheless testify to a different age and an-other faith; the pink columns of porphyry from Baalbec’s Temple of the Solar; the Ephesus columns of verde antico; the carved capitals and the bases of shining brass; the gold and grey pulpit, with its lengthy staircase of marble closed by a gold and inexperienced cur-tain, and its two miraculously lovely flags of pearly inexperienced and faint gold, by age made extra won-derful than after they first flew on the battle-field, or have been carried in sacred processions; the traditional prayer-rugs mounted to the partitions; the Sultan’s field, a form of lengthy gallery, ending in a kiosk with a gilded grille, and raised upon marble pillars; the good doorways and the curtains of lifeless pink wool; the piled carpets which might be prepared towards the winter, when the cool yellow matting is roofed up; the good inexperienced shields within the pendentives, bearing their golden names of God and his prophet, of Ali, Osman, Omar, and Abu-Bekr.
Every little thing slips into the center of the good concord, nonetheless valuable, nonetheless easy, even nonetheless crude. There are a couple of ugly issues in Santa Sophia: whitewash protecting mosaics, stains of fierce yellow, blotches of plaster which needs to be eliminated. They don’t actually matter; one can not heed them when one is immersed in such virtually mysterious magnificence.
Birds are relaxed in Santa Sophia
Males and birds are relaxed in Santa Sophia. Doves have made their residence within the holy place. They fly underneath the long- arcades, they circle above the gal-leries, they relaxation towards blocks of cool marble the colour of which their plumage resembles. And all day lengthy males move in by way of the gateways, and change into directly little, but surprisingly important within the vastness which incloses and liberates them. They take off their footwear and carry them, or lay them down within the picket trays on the edges of these huge, railed-in platforms lined with matting, referred to as masbata, that are attribute of mosques, and that are presupposed to be for using readers of the Koran.
Then they’re freed from the mosque. A few of them wander from place to position silently gazing; others kneel and pray in some quiet nook; others research, or sing, or gossip, or sink into reverie or slumber. Many go as much as the masbata, take off their outer clothes and cling them over the rails, cling their handkerchiefs beside them, tuck their legs underneath their our bodies, and stay thus for hours, staring straight earlier than them with solemn eyes as if hyp-notized. Youngsters, too, go to the masbata, settle cozily down and skim the Koran aloud, interspersing their research with homosexual dialog. On considered one of them I discovered my singing boy. Small, fanatical, with head thrown again and the fez upon it, he defiantly poured forth his tune, whereas an older companion, reverse to him and looking out* not not like an idol in its shrine, stared impassively as if on the voice.
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