From a sketch by Auguste Rodin.Les DésenchantéesFrom a sketch by Auguste Rodin.
Les DésenchantéesFrom a sketch by Auguste Rodin.
Many beautiful works attracted our attention that afternoon, the most striking being Mary Magdalene, in repentant anguish at the feet of her Master, Jesus; the Prodigal Son with his hands clasped in useless regret towards a wastedand ill-spent life. Then there was a nude (I forget the name by which she will be immortalised), her wonderful arms in a movement of supplication, so grand, that the Eastern woman and I together stretched out our hands towards it in appreciation.
The sculptor saw our movement, understood and thanked us; a few moments later, conscious of our action, we blushed. What had we done?
I, the Scotch puritan, had actually admired one of those beautiful nudes before which we, as children, shut our eyes. But the Oriental?
“In my country these marble figures are not seen,” she explained, “‘the face and form created by God must not be copied by man,’ said our Prophet, and for centuries all good Moslems have obeyed this command.”
“Do you know the legend of the Prophet’s son-in-law Osman?” she said.
“No,” I answered, “please tell me.”
“One day, long, long ago,” related Melek, “when the followers of Christ had left their church, Osman entered and broke all the sacred images except one. Then when he had finished his work of destruction, he placed his axe at the foot of the figure he had left intact.
“The next day, the Christians discoveringwhat had happened, tried to find the guilty person. Osman’s air of calm triumph betrayed him.
“‘What have you done?’ they cried, rushing towards him.
“‘Nothing,’ he answered, ‘I am innocent; it is your Divinity who has destroyed everything.’
“‘Our Divinity cannot move.’
“‘If your Divinity is lifeless,’ answered Osman, ‘why do you pray to a God of stone?’7
*****
“In the Meandre valley in Asia,” went on Melek, “the sculptured heads on the tombs are cursed. At Ephesus and Herapolis the Turcomans turn away in horror from the faces that are engraven in marble; and never are to be seen these Western pictures in stone, and statues erected to the immortal memory of heroes.”
*****
The two Hanoums left for Switzerland.
Territet,Dec.1906.
I wonderif you know what life is like in a bigcaravanseraion the shores of Lake Leman in December. Thishotelis filled from the ground to the sixth floor, and from east to west with people of all ages, who have a horror of being where they ought to be—that is to say, in their own homes—and who have come to the Swiss mountains with but one idea—that of enjoying themselves. What can be the matter with their homes, that they are all so anxious to get away?
I have been more than a month in this place, and cannot get used to it. After the calm of the Forest of Fontainebleau and the quiet little house where, for the first time, we tasted the joys of real rest, this existence seems to me strange and even unpleasant. Indeed, it makes me tired even to think of the life these people lead and their expense of muscular force to no purpose.
But the doctor wished me to come here, and I, who long above everything else to be strong, am hoping the pure air will cure me.
On the terrace which overlooks the lake I usually take my walks, but when I have taken about a hundred steps I have to sit down and rest. Certainly I would be no Alpinist.
One thing to which I never seem to accustom myself is my hat. It is always falling off. Sometimes, too, I forget that I am wearing a hat and lean back in my chair; and what an absurd fashion—to lunch in a hat! Still, hats seem to play a very important rôle in Western life. Guess how many I possess at present—twenty.
I cannot tell whom I have to thank, since the parcels come anonymously, but several kind friends, hearing of our escape, have had the thoughtfulness and the same original idea of providing us with hats. Hardly a day passes but someone sends us a hat; it is curious, but charming all the same. Do they think we are too shy to order hats for ourselves, and are still wandering about Switzerland in ourtcharchafs?8
*****
Every morning the people here row on thelake, or play tennis—tennis being one of their favourite forms of amusement. I watch them with interest, yet even were I able I should not indulge in this unfeminine sport.
Women rush about the court, from left to right, up and down, forwards and backwards. Their hair is all out of curl, often it comes down; and they wear unbecoming flat shoes and men’s shirts and collars and ties.
The ball comes scarcely over the net, a woman rushes forward, her leg is bared to the sight of all; by almost throwing herself on the ground, she hits it back over the net, and then her favourite man (not her husband, I may mention), with whom she waltzes and rows and climbs, chooses this moment to take a snapshot of her most hideous attitude. What an unpleasant idea to think a man should possess such a souvenir!
And yet after tennis these people do not rest—on they go, walking and climbing; and what is the use of it all?—they only come back and eat four persons’ share of lunch.
At meal-time, the conversation is tennis and climbing, and climbing and tennis; and again I say, I cannot understand why they employ all this muscular force to no higher end than to give themselves an unnatural appetite.
A friend of my father’s, who is staying here, tells me the wonderful climbing he has accomplished. He explains to me that he has faced death over and over again, and only by the extraordinary pluck of his guide has his life been spared.
“And did you at last reach your friend?” I asked.
“What friend?”
“Was it not to rescue some friend that you faced death?”
“No,” he said, “for pleasure.”
“For pleasure,” I repeated, and he burst out laughing.
He spoke of this as if it were something of which to be proud, “and his oft-repeated encounters with death,” he said, “only whetted his appetite for more.” Was life then of so little value to this man that he could risk it so easily?
Naturally in trying to explain this curious existence I compare it with our life in the harem, and the more I think the more am I astonished. What I should like to ask these people, if I dared, is, are they really satisfied with their lot, or are they only pretending to behappy, as we in Turkey pretended to be happy? Are they not tired of flirting and enjoying themselves so uselessly?
We in Turkey used to envy the women of the West. We, who were denied the rights of taking part in charitable works, imagined that the European women not only dared to think, but carry their schemes into action for the betterment of their fellow-creatures.
But are these women here an exception? Do they think, or do they not? I wonder myself whether they have not found life so empty that they are endeavouring to crush out their better selves by using up their physical energy. How is it possible, I ask myself, that, after all this exercise, they have strength enough to dance till midnight. Life to me at present is all out of focus; in time perhaps I shall see it in its proper proportions.
We go down sometimes to see the dancing. Since I have been here, I perfectly understand why you never find time to go to balls, if dancing in your country is anything like it is here. When we were children of twelve, before we were veiled, we were invited to dances given in Constantinople. I have danced with youngattachés at the British Embassy, yet, child though I was, I saw nothing clever in their performance.
All the people at this dance are grown up, not one is under twenty—some are old gentlemen of fifty—yet they romp like children all through the evening till deep into the night, using up their energy and killing time, as if their life depended on the rapidity with which they hopped round the room without sitting down or feeling ill.
The waltz is to my mind senseless enough, but the lancers? “The ring of roses” the little English girls play is more dignified.
It seems to me that women must forfeit a little of the respect that men owe to them when they have romped with them at lancers.
To-night, I have found out, dancing here is after all an excuse for flirting. In a very short while couples who were quite unacquainted with one another become very intimate. “Oh! I could not wish for a better death than to die waltzing,” I heard one young woman say to her partner. His wishes were the same. Surely the air of Switzerland does not engender ambition!
A Turkish DancerA Turkish Dancer
A Turkish Dancer
A Turkish Lady dressed as a Greek Dancer.A Turkish Lady dressed as a Greek DancerTurkish women spend much of their time dressing up.
A Turkish Lady dressed as a Greek DancerTurkish women spend much of their time dressing up.
One gentleman came and asked me if I coulddance. I said, “Yes, I candance,” laying particular emphasis on the worddance. But I do not think he understood.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “Idanceby myself.” He stared at me as if I were mad—probably he took me for a professional dancer.
*****
When you come to stay with us at Nice, after we have had enough of this pure air to justify our leaving Switzerland and these commonplace and unsympathetic people, and we are in our own villa again and free to do as we will, then we will teach you Turkish dances, and you will no longer be surprised at my criticisms.
Dancing with us is a fine art. In the Imperial Harem more attention is paid to the teaching of dancing than to any other learning. When the Sultan is worn out with cares of state and the thousand and one other worries for which his autocratic rule is responsible, his dancing girls are called into his presence, and there with veils and graceful movements they soothe his tired nerves till he almost forgets the atrocities which have been committed in his name.
A Turkish woman who dances well is seen to very great advantage; a dancing woman maybecome a favourite, a Sultana, a Sultan’s mother, the queen of the Imperial Harem.
I can assure you a Western woman is not seen at her best when she dances the lancers.—Your affectionate
Zeyneb.
Territet,Dec.1906.
I amconservative in my habits, as you will find out when you know me better, although Turkish women are generally supposed to be capricious and changeable.
Every day you can picture me sitting on the same terrace, in the same chair, looking at the same reposeful Lake Leman and writing to the same sympathetic friends.
The sea before me is so blue and silent and calm! Does it know, I wonder, the despair which at times fills my soul! or is its blue there to remind me of our home over yonder!
In the spring the Bosphorus had such sweet, sad tints. As children when we walked near its surface my little Turkish friends said to me, “Don’t throw stones at the Bosphorus—you will hurt it.”
Lake Leman also has ships which destroy the limpid blue of its surface and remind me ofthose which passed under my lattice windows and sailed so far away that my thoughts could not follow them.
Here I might almost imagine I was looking at the Bosphorus, and yet, is the reflection of snow-clad peaks what I ought to find in the blue sea away yonder? Where are the domes and minarets of our mosques? Is not this the hour when the Muezzins9lift up their voices, and solemnly call the faithful to prayer?
On such an autumn evening as this in Stamboul, I should be walking in a quiet garden where chrysanthemums would be growing in profusion. The garden would be surrounded by high walls, giant trees would throw around us a damp and refreshing shade, and the red rays of the dying sun would find their way through the leaves, and my companions’ white dresses would all be stained with its roseate hues.
But suddenly we remember the sun is setting. To the cries of the frightened birds we hurry back quickly through the trees. How can a
Turkish woman dare to be out after sunset?... Ah! I see it all again now—those garden walls, those knotted trees, those jealous lattice-work windows which give it all an impression of distress! and I am looking at it without a veil and eyes that are free!
*****
Even as I write to you, young men and maidens pass and repass before me, and I wonder more than ever whether they are happy—yet what do they know of life and all its sorrows; sorrow belongs to the Turks—they have bought its exclusive rights.
In spite of our efforts not to have ourselves spoken about, the Sultan still interests himself in us. In all probability, he has had us reported as “dangerous revolutionists” whom the Swiss Government would do well to watch. And perhaps the Swiss authorities, having had so many disagreeable experiences of anarchists of late, are keeping their eyes on us! Yet why should we care? All our lives have we not been thus situated? We ought to be used to it by this time.
Around me I see people breathing in the pure air, going out and coming in, and no government watches their movements. Why shouldFatehave chosen certain persons rather than others to place under such intolerable conditions? Why should we have been born Turks rather than these free women who are here enjoying life? I ask myself this question again and again, and all to no purpose; it only makes me bitter.
Do you know, I begin to regret that I ever came in contact with your Western education and culture! But if I begin writing of Western culture, this letter will not be finished for weeks, and I want news of you very soon.—Au revoir, petite chérie,
Zeyneb.
*****
Territet,Jan.1907.
Your letter of yesterday annoys me. You are “changing yourpension,” you say, “because you are not free to come in to meals when you like.”
What an awful grievance! If only you English women knew how you are to be envied! Come, follow me to Turkey, and I will make you thank Allah for your liberty.
Ever since I can remember, I have had a passion for writing, but this is rather the exception than the rule for a Turkish woman. Atone time of my life, I exchanged picture postcards with unknown correspondents, who sent me, to aposte restanteaddress, views of places and people I hoped some day to visit.
This correspondence was for us theDREAM SIDEof our existence. In times of unhappiness (extra unhappiness, for we were always unhappy), discouragement, and, above all, revolt, it was in this existence that we tried to find refuge. The idea that friends were thinking of us, however unknown they were, made us look upon life with a little more resignation—and you, my friend, who complain that “you are not free to have your meals when you like,” should know thatthis correspondence had to be hidden with as much care, as if it had been a plot to kill the Imperial Majesty himself.
*****
When our correspondence was sent to us direct, it had to pass through the hands of three different persons before we had the pleasure of receiving it ourselves. All the letters we sent out and received were read not only by my father and his secretary, but by the officials of the Ottoman Post.
One day, I remember, the daughter of an ex-American minister sent me a long accountof her sister’s marriage, and she stopped short at the fourth page. I was just going to write to her for an explanation, when the remaining sheets were sent on to me by the police, whose duty it was to read the letters, and who had simply forgotten to put the sheets in with the others.
You could never imagine the plotting and intriguing necessary to receive the most ordinary letters; not even the simplest action could be done in a straightforward manner; we had to perjure our souls by constantly pretending, in order to enjoy the most innocent pleasures—it mattered little to us, I do assure you, “whether we had our meals at the time we liked” or not.
*****
All around me little girls are playing. They wear their hair loose or in long plaits, their dresses are short. Up the steps they climb; they play at hide-and-seek with their brothers and their brothers’ friends. They laugh, they romp, their eyes are full of joy, and their complexions are fresh—surely this is the life children should lead?
I close my eyes, and I see the children of my own country who at their age are veiled. Their childhood has passed before they know it. They do not experience the delight of playingin the sun, and when they go out they wear thick black veils which separate them from all the joys of youth.
I was scarcely ten years old when I saw one of my little friends taking the veil, and from that day she could no longer play with us. That incident created such an impression on us that for days we could hardly speak. Poor little Suate! No longer could she dance with us at the Christians’ balls nor go to the circus. Her life had nothing more in common with ours, and we cried for her as if she had died.
But we were happy not to be in her place, and I remember saying to my sister, “Well, at least I have two years before me; perhaps in a short time our customs will have changed. What is the use of worrying so long beforehand?”
“I am still more certain to escape, for I have four years before me,” she answered.
Little Suate was veiled at a time when those delightful volumes of theBibliothèque Rosewere almost part of our lives. From them we learnt to believe that some good fairy must come, and with the touch of her magic wand all our destinies would be changed.
But to-day, when I am no longer a child, I askmyself whether my great-great-grandchildren can ever free themselves from this hideous bondage.
Melek is writing for you her impressions of taking the veil. They are more recent than mine.—Your affectionate
Zeyneb.
Territet,Jan.1907.
I amthinking of a sad spring morning of long ago. I was twelve years old, but the constant terror in which I had lived had increased my tendency towards uneasiness and melancholy. The life I was forced to lead had nothing in common with my nature. Ever since I can remember, I had loved the bright light, open horizons, galloping on horses against the wind, and all my surroundings were calm and monotonous.
As time went on, I put off every day the moment for wakening, because I had to open my eyes in the same room, and the same white muslin curtains were always there to greet me.
How can I explain to you my jealousy at seeing how contentedly all the furniture lay in the soft light which filtered through the latticed windows of our harems? A heavyweight was pressing on my spirit! How many times when the governess came into my room did she not find me in tears!
“What is the matter, my darling?” she would ask, and under the influence of this unexpected tenderness I would sob without even knowing the cause of my sorrow.
Then I dressed myself slowly, so that there should be less time to live. How was it, I wondered, that some people feared death? Death would have been such a change—the only change to which a Turkish woman could look forward.
In our house there was scarcely a sound; hardly were the steps of the young Circassian slaves heard as they passed along the corridors.
Our mother was kind but stern, and her beautiful face had an expression of calm resignation. She lived like a stranger amongst us, not being able to associate herself with either our thoughts or our ideals.
The schoolroom where we worked the greater part of the day looked on to a garden thick with trees and perfumed with the early roses. Its furniture consisted of a big oak table and chairs, shelves full of books, a globe, and three busts in plaster of Paris, of Napoleon, Dante, andMozart. What strange thoughts have those three men, so different and yet so interesting, not suggested to me! What a curious influence they all three had on my child mind!
It was in this schoolroom, twice a week, that we studied the Koran; but before the lesson began an old servant covered up the three great men in plaster. TheHodja10must not see these heathenish figures.
When the Imam arrived, my sister and I went to the door to meet him, kissing his hand as a sign of respect. Then he used to pass his bony fingers over our hair, saying as a greeting, “May Allah protect you, my children.”
With the Hodja Effendi came into our schoolroom a perfume of incense of burnt henna and sandal-wood. His green tunic and turban, which showed he had visited the Holy Tomb at Mecca, made his beard so white and his eyes so pale, that he seemed like a person from another world—indeed he reminded me, not a little, of those Indian Fakirs, who live on prayers.
From the moment he sat down at the table, my sorrows seemed to vanish for a while, and an atmosphere of calm and blessed peace took possession of my soul.
“Only God is God,” he began.
“And Mahomet is His Prophet,” we responded, as we opened the Koran at the place he had chosen for the lesson.
“Read, my child,” he said.
I took the book, and began to read the prayer, which is a rhythmed chant. The Imam read with me in a soft, low voice, and when the chapter was finished he murmured, “You read well, Neyr; may Allah protect you.”
Then he questioned us on the prayers we had learnt, on the good we had to do and the evil to avoid, and his voice was so monotonous that each sentence sounded like a prayer.
When we had finished, he asked, as he always did, to see our governess. I went to find her in the garden, and she came at once.
As the Hodja could not speak English, he asked us to say to her, “You have a fine face. Allah loves the good and the kind and those who go the way they should go. He will be with you.” And before he went away, taking with him the delightful perfume of incense, he shook the hand of the Englishwoman in his.
Turkish Lady in Tcharchaff. Outdoor Costume.Turkish Lady in Tcharchaff. Outdoor CostumeDuring the reign of Abdul Aziz (videtext) Turkish ladies wore the Yashmak in the street, now they wear a thick black veil through which they can see and are not supposed to be seen. The women must always wear gloves.
Turkish Lady in Tcharchaff. Outdoor Costume
During the reign of Abdul Aziz (videtext) Turkish ladies wore the Yashmak in the street, now they wear a thick black veil through which they can see and are not supposed to be seen. The women must always wear gloves.
Another day he came, and after the lesson he said to me, “Neyr, you are twelve years old; you must be veiled. You can no longer haveyour hair exposed and your face uncovered—you must be veiled. Your mother has not noticed you have grown a big girl, I therefore must. I teach you to love Allah, you are my spiritual child, and for that reason I must warn you of the danger henceforward of going out unveiled. Neyr, you must be veiled.”
I was not even listening to the Imam! An awful agony had seized and numbed my soul; the words which he had uttered resounded in my brain, and little by little sank into my understanding—“Neyr, you must be veiled”—that is to say, to be forever cloistered like those who live around you; to be a slave like your mother, and your cousins, and your elder sister; to belong henceforth to the harem; no longer to play in the garden unveiled; nor ride Arabian ponies in the country; to have a veil over your eyes, and your soul; to be always silent, always forgotten, to be always and alwaysa thing.
“Neyr, you must be veiled,” the old Hodja began again.
I raised my head. “Yes, I know, Hodja Effendi, I shall be veiled, since it is necessary.” Then I was silent.
The old Imam went away, not understanding what had happened to me, and without myhaving kissed his hand. I remained in the same place, my elbows on the table. I was alone. All around was deadly still.
Suddenly, however, Miss M. opened the door; her eyes were red. Gently shutting the door and coming towards me, she said:
“Neyr, I have seen the Imam, and I understand that from to-morrow you must be veiled.”
I saw the pain stamped on her face, but I could say nothing. Already she had taken me in her arms and carried me into her room at the end of the corridor, murmuring all the while, “The brutes!”
Together we wept; I, without unnecessary complaints, she without useless consolation.
Once my sorrow had passed a little, I questioned my governess.
“You are English, are you not?”
“Yes, dear, I am English.”
“In England are the women veiled, and the children free?”
“The women and children are free.”
“Then I will go to England.”
“Silence, Neyr, silence.”
“Take me to England.”
“I cannot, Neyr,” she answered.
But all that day and all that night I dreamt of dear, free England, I longed to see.
*****
The country house where we lived was large, with big rooms, long corridors, and dark halls. Now and again carriages passed, bringing excursionists to the neighbouring wood, and when we heard the wheels rumbling over the uneven road, we rushed to the latticed windows to see all we could.
Sometimes we used to go with Miss M. to see Stamboul, which was on the opposite shore. Miss M. loved the town, and used to take us there as often as possible. Sometimes we used to ride with my brother in the country, and I loved to feel the wind blowing through my untidy hair, but all that would be over now. Sometimes my father would take me to see friends of his—foreigners they were—and the girls and boys played together, and I laughed and played with them. But I understood that I was only on the margin of their great life, that each day part of my right to existence would be taken from me, a veil would soon cover my face, and I would only be a Moslem woman, whose every aspiration and emotion would be trampled under foot.
That moment had come.
*****
We were to go out with mother that afternoon. On my bed in the monotonous room I disliked so much, a black mantle, a cape, and a veil were placed.
Several persons had come to see me veiled for the first time. Awkwardly I placed the pleated skirt round my waist, the cape over my shoulders, and the veil over my face; but, in order that the tears which were falling should not be seen, I did not lift it up again.
“Neyr,” asked mother, “are you ready?”
“Yes,” I answered, and followed her with my head up in spite of this mourning. And from that day, from that moment, I had determined on revolt.
Melek (N. Neyr-el-Nirsa).
Territet,Jan.1907.
I beganto write to you the other day of the influence which Western culture has had on the lives of Turkish women.
If you only knew the disastrous consequences of that learning and the suffering for which it is responsible! From complete ignorance, we were plunged into the most advanced culture; there was no middle course, no preparatory school, and, indeed, what ought to have been accomplished in centuries we have done in three, and sometimes in two generations.
When our grandmothers could sign their names and read the Koran, they were known as “cultured women” compared with those who had never learnt to read and write; when a woman could dispense with the services of a “public letter-writer” she was looked upon as a learned woman in the town in which she lived, and hertime was fully occupied writing the correspondence of her neighbours.
What I call the disastrous influence was the influence of the Second French Empire.
One day, when I have time, I shall look up the papers which give a description of the Empress Eugénie’s visit to the East. No doubt they will treat her journey as a simple exchange of courtesies between two Sovereigns. They may lay particular emphasis on the pageantry of her reception, but few women of that time were aware of the revolution that this visit had on the lives of the Turkish women.
The Empress of the French was incontestably beautiful—butshe was a woman, and the first impression which engraved itself on the understanding of these poor Turkish captives, was, that their master, Abdul Aziz, was paying homageto a woman.
The extraordinary beauty and charm of the Empress was enhanced by the most magnificent reception ever offered to a Sovereign, and even to-day, one figure stands out from all that wonderful Oriental pageant—a slight, lovely woman before whom a Sultan bowed in all his majesty.
In honour of awoman, a jewelled palace in marble and gold was being built, and from the opposite side of the Bosphorus the captives watched it coming into existence with ever-increasing wonderment.
For awoman, had been prepared rose and gold caïques all carpeted with purple velvet. From a magnificent little Arabian kiosk especially built Ottoman troops from all corners of the Empire passed in review before awoman; even her bath sandals were all studded with priceless gems; no honour was too high, no luxury too great forthis woman. The Sultanas could think of nothing else; in the land of Islam great honour had been rendered to awoman.
It was after the visit of the Empress Eugénie that the women of the palace and the wives of the high functionaries copied as nearly as they could the appearance of the beautiful Empress. They divided their hair in the middle, and spent hours in making little bunches of curls. High-heeled shoes replaced the colouredbabouches;11they even adopted the hideous crinolines, and abandoned forever those charming Orientalgarments, thechalvar12andenturi,13which they considered symbols of servitude, but which no other fashion has been able to equal in beauty.
As might be supposed, the middle class soon followed the example of the palace ladies and adopted Western costume. Then there was a craze foreverythingFrench. The most eccentric head-dresses and daring costumes were copied. To these Oriental women were given more jewels than liberty, more sensual love than pure affection, and it mattered little, until they found out from reading the foreign papers that there was something else except the beauty of the body—the beauty of the soul.
The more they read and learnt, the greater was their suffering. They read everything they could lay their hands on—history, religion, philosophy, poetry, and evenrisquébooks. They had an indigestion of reading, and no one was there to cure them.
This desire for everything French lasted until our generation. No one seemed to understandhow harmful it was to exaggerate the atmosphere of excitement in which we were living.
With the craze for the education of the West, French governesses came to Constantinople in great numbers; for it was soon known what high salaries the Turks paid, and how hospitable they were.
If you had seen the list of books that these unfortunate Turkish girls read to get a knowledge of French literature, I think you would agree with me they must have been endowed with double moral purity for the books not to have done them more harm.
For nearly thirty years this dangerous experiment went on. No parents seemed to see the grave error of having in one’s house a woman about whom they knew nothing, and who in a very short time could exert a very disastrous influence over a young life. It was only when catastrophe after catastrophe14had broughtthis to their notice, they began to take any interest in their daughters’ governesses, and occupy themselves a little more seriously about what they read.
When I look back on our girlhood, I do feel bitterly towards these women, who had not the honesty to find out that we had souls. How they might have helped us if only they had cared! How they might have discussed with us certain theories which we were trying to apply disastrously to our Eastern existence! But they said to themselves, no doubt, Let us take advantage of the high salary, for we cannot stand this tedious existence too long. And the Turkish women went on reading anything that came within their reach.
Could these Turkish girls be blamed for thus unknowingly destroying their own happiness? What was there to do but read? When all the recognised methods of enjoyment are removed, and when few visits are paid (and to go out every day is not considered ladylike), think what an enormous part of the day is still left unoccupied.
In our grandmothers’ days, the women used to assemble in the evening and make thosebeautiful embroideries which you admire so much. Others made their daughters’ trousseaux, others told stories in the Arabian Nights style, and with that existence they were content. Not one of them wanted to read the fashionable French novels, nor had they any desire to play the piano.
It was at the beginning of the reign of Abdul Hamid that this craze for Western culture was at its height. The terrible war, and the fall of the two beloved Sultans, woke the women from their dreams. Before the fact that their country was in danger, they understood their duty. From odalisques15they became mothers and wives determined to give their children the education they themselves had so badly needed.
The new monarch then endowed the Ottoman Empire with schools for little girls. The pupils who applied themselves learnt very quickly, and soon they could favourably be compared with their sisters of the West.
This was the first step that Turkish women had made towards their evolution.
*****
At the age of ten, when I began the study ofEnglish, we were learning at the same time French, Arabic, and Persian, as well as Turkish. Not one of these languages is easy, but no one complained, and every educated Turkish girl had to undergo the same torture.
What I disliked most bitterly in my school days was the awful regularity. My mother, rather the exception than the rule, found we must be always occupied. As a child of twelve, I sat almost whole days at the piano, and when I was exhausted, Mdlle. X. was told to give me needlework. Delighted to be rid of me, she gave me slippers to work for my father, whilst she wrote to “Mon cher Henri.” She took no notice of me, as I stitched away, sighing all the while. In order to get finished quickly, I applied myself to my task; the more I hurried, the more I was given to do, and in a few weeks the drawers were full of my work. Our education was overdone.
*****
So we Turkish women came to a period of our existence when it was useless to sigh for a mind that could content itself with the embroidery evenings of our grandmothers. These gatherings, too, became less and less frequent, forwomen were not allowed out after dark, no matter what their age.
Silent Gossip“Silent Gossip” of a group of Turkish WomenThey will often spend an afternoon in silent communion.
“Silent Gossip” of a group of Turkish WomenThey will often spend an afternoon in silent communion.
Turkish Ladies in their Garden with their Children.Turkish Ladies in their Garden with their Children’s GovernessesLittle boys remain in the Harem until they are eight, after that they are counted as men.
Turkish Ladies in their Garden with their Children’s GovernessesLittle boys remain in the Harem until they are eight, after that they are counted as men.
Then it was, however, that, in spite of its being forbidden, I inaugurated a series of “white dinner parties”16for girls only. This created a scandal throughout the town. Our parents disliked the idea intensely, but we remained firm, and were happy to see our efforts crowned with success. Later, when we were married, we continued those dinners as long as we dared, and then it was we discussed what we could do for the future of women.
And what delightful evenings we spent together! Thosesoiréeswere moments when we could be ourselves, open our hearts to one another, and try to brighten for a little our lives. The fourteen friends I most loved in Turkey were all of the company of “white diners,” and all those fourteen girls have played some special rôle in life.
*****
I am sending you a letter, written by a friend whom I shall never see again.
“Since your departure,” she wrote, “we have not been allowed to go a step out of doors, lest we should follow your example. We are living under a régime of terror which is worse than it has ever been before.
“I want to implore you to work for us. Tell the whole world what we are suffering; indeed it would be a consolation, much as it hurts our pride.”
*****
I look around me and see all these happy children here in Switzerland without one care, and again I say to myself, how unjust is life.—Your affectionate friend,
Zeyneb.
Inanswer to my query as to whether Caux had smart enough visitors to justify an editor sending there a special correspondent, I had the following letter from Zeyneb:
Caux,Jan.1907.
The articles which I have written for you on the beauties of Switzerland will possibly not appeal to the British public.
For a long time last night, when I returned to my room, I tried to make you understand the intense delight I had felt in watching the good-night kiss which the lovesick moon had given to the beautiful lake, before going away far into space.
This moon scene reminds me more than ever of one of our magnificent moonlights on the Bosphorus, and I am sure if you had been with me on the Terrace you would have loved themoonlit Bosphorus for its resemblance to Leman, and Leman for helping you to understand how wonderful is the Bosphorus. But the poetry of moonlight does not appeal evidently to the British soul, since they are clamouring for news of people who are “smart.”
I have always wondered at the eagerness with which the society ladies here seize the paper. Now I understand—it is to see whether their names are included amongst people “who are smart.” What a morbid taste, to want to see one’s name in a newspaper!
I could not tell you whether the people or the life at Caux would be considered smart. They certainly are extraordinary, and the life they lead seems to me to be a complete reversal of all prevailing customs. From early in the morning till late at night they toboggan and skate. Everything is arranged with a view to the practice of these two sports. I cannot tell you the disagreeable impression that the women produce on me, sitting astride of their little machines and coming down the slope with a giddy rapidity. Their hair is all out of order, their faces vivid scarlet, and their skirts, arranged like those of a Cambodgian dancer, are lackingin grace. But this is not a competition for a beauty prize; all that counts is to go more quickly down the course than the others, no matter whether you kill yourself in the attempt.
That there are people in England who are interested in knowing who is staying at a Swiss Hotel, the guests they receive, and the clothes they wear, is an unpleasant discovery for me. I thought English people were more intelligent.
One of the reasons for which we left Turkey was, that we could no longer bear the degrading supervision of the Sultan’s spies. But is it not almost the same here? Here, too, there are detectives of a kind! Alas! Alas! there is no privacy inside or outside Turkey.
The people who interest me most are not the smart ladies, but the Swiss themselves. They alone in all this cosmopolitan crowd know that the sun has flooded with its golden tints the wonderful panorama of their mountains, the lake stretches out in a mystery of mauve and rose, and they alone have time to bow in admiration to the Creator of Beauty and the great Poet of Nature.—Affectionately,
Zeyneb.
Thetwo fugitives left Switzerland for Nice. Melek was in perfect health, and still delighted with her Western liberty.
Zeyneb, although better, began more and more to see her new life lose its glamour. But it was too late—there was no going back.
I wonder which of the two suffers more—the person who expects much and is disappointed; or the person of whom much is expected and feels she has disappointed. It seemed to me so often, I could often read in Zeyneb’s eyes, “Was it worth it?” Was she like the woman of her own country, counting the cost when the debt had already been incurred. I, who thought I saw this, suffered in consequence.
Perhaps, as elder sister and ringleader in the preparations for their flight, Zeyneb was feeling her responsibility. Would the younger sister,when the glamour of freedom had passed, reproach her for the step they had taken? That was a question that had to be left to the uncertain answer of the Future.
A little while after they were installed at Nice, Zeyneb resumed her correspondence with me.
Nice,15th Feb.1907.
For a week now we have had the sun shining almost as in the East. After the mountains and the snow of Switzerland, how good it is to be here! I just love to watch the blue sky, the flowers and the summer dresses! And I am warm again for a little while.
We are living at Cimiez, well up the hill, in a little villa surrounded by a big garden full of flowers and exotic plants and a few cypress trees; the only sad note in our whole surroundings, except for us its name, the Villa Selma, for curiously enough our villa has a Turkish name—the name of a friend for whom the sadness of life had been too great, and who is now sleeping under the shade of the cypress in acomfortable cemetery17in our own land. Howstrange that fate should have directed our steps to a villa that bears her name, and surrounded us with trees that remind us day and night of her past existence.
Hardly had we arrived at Nice, when in a restaurant we met a lady friend from Turkey, a friend whom the Sultan, in a fit of madness, or shall I call it prudence, allowed to come to Nice with her husband and children for a change of air. Our departure, no doubt, has made this great despot think, and in order to prove to all his subjects how great was his generosity, he had allowed this woman to travel alone as she wished.
But we did not waste time discussing the psychology of Hamid’s character, we were only too delighted to see one another. How many things had we not to talk about! how many impressions had we not in common! If only a snapshot had been taken of us and sent to Constantinople what a very bad impression it would have made on our poor captive friends away yonder. How they would have envied us!
Imagine! the next day we all three lunched together at Monte Carlo, and thatwithout our friend’s husband! We were seated on the terrace overlooking the blue sea, and the newcomer was breathing in the “free air” for the first time, whilst we, old refugees of a year, were pleased to see her enthusiasm.
“When I think,” she said, “that only three of us are enjoying this liberty compared to the thousands of poor women who have not any idea of what they have been deprived, it makes me unhappy.”
But the weather was too fine for such sad thoughts. Near us a Hungarian band was playing, and it seemed so in harmony with the surroundings. Not one of the faces round us betrayed the least suspicion of sadness. Could they all be happy, these unknown people? It really matters so little—we are happy as prisoners to whom liberty has been given, and it is at a moment like this that we appreciate it most.
At dessert, after having discussed many questions, we finally spoke of the dear country which only she of us three would see again, and now, a certain melancholy overshadows the table where a while ago we were so gay.
The Orient is like a beautiful poem which is always sad, even its very joy is sadness. All Eastern stories end in tragedy. Even the landscape which attracts by its beauty has its note of sorrow, and yet one of the many women writers who was introduced to us, and welcomed as our guest, said to me: “I never laughed anywhere as I laughed in Constantinople.” That was quite true, for I was witness of her delightful merriment, always caught from one of us; for no one can laugh like a Turkish woman when she takes the trouble.
The foundation of our character is joyous, persistently joyous, since neither the monotony of our existence, nor the tragedy of the Hamidian régime, nor the lamentable circumstances of our life has been able to utterly crush laughter out of life. There is no middle course in Turkey.
But I told you that it was from studying the customs of Western Europe that I was beginning to better understand the land I had left. If the joys of freedom have been denied to Turkish women, how many worries have they been spared. Are not women to be sincerely pitied who make “Society” the aim and object of their existence? No longer can they do whatthey feel they ought for fear of compromising a “social position.” Is not thegaietyof their lives worse even than themonotonyof ours? Ofttimes they have to sacrifice a noble friendship to the higher demands of social exclusiveness. How strange and narrow and insincere it all seems to a Turkish woman.
I never made the acquaintance of the disease “snobbery” in my own land. Here, for the first time, I have an opportunity of studying its victims. There may be something wanting in my Turkish constitution to prevent my appreciating the rare delight of a visit from a greatpersonage. Ambitious people I have often met—in what country do they not thrive? There are many in Turkey, and that is only natural when it is remembered the very limited number of ways for individuality to express itself. But snobs! How childish they are! Can they really believe I am a more desirable person to have at a tea-table since I have been noticed by an ex-Empress? Only by inflicting their society on people who obviously do not want them, and by “bluff”—another word which does not exist in the Turkish language—can they be invited at all. Not a single woman inthe whole of Turkey would put so low an estimate on her own importance! So snobbery would never get a foothold with us.
You cannot know how this simple black veil, which covers our faces, can completely change the whole conditions of the life of a nation.
What is there in common between you and us?
“The heart,” you will say.
But is the heart the same in the East as in the West? And what a difference there is between our method of seeing things, even of great importance. Ambition with us does not seek the same ends; pride with us is wounded by such a different class of actions; and individuality in the East seeks other gratifications than it does in the West.
How would it be possible for “snobbery” to exist in a country where there is no society, and where the ideal of democracy is so admirably understood; where the poor do not envy the rich, the servant respects his master, and the humble do not crave for the position of Grand Vizier?
I said there were ambitious people in my country, yes; but they are still more fatalists. If a man has been unsuccessful, he blames his“written destiny,” which no earthly being can alter. Is not this resignation to the yoke of the tyrannical Sultan a proof of fatalism? What other nation would, for thirty-one years, have put up with such a régime?
It is only since I have seen other Governments and other peoples that I can fully realise the passionate fatalism of the Turks.
Those “discontents,” whom I knew, were the true “Believers,” for at least they knew how to distinguish between belief and useless resignation. Their number, fortunately, grows every day. More and more impatiently am I waiting for the result of a Revolution intelligently arranged, the aim of which will be the Liberty of the Individual, and the uplifting of the race.
*****
And yet arevoltéethough I was, I think I envied my grandmother’s calm happiness.
“My poor little girls,” she used to say, “your young days are so much sadder than mine. At your age I didn’t think of changing the face of the world, nor working for the betterment of the human race, still less for raising the status of women. Our mothers taught us the Koran, and we had confidence in its laws. If one ofus had less happiness than another, we never thought of revolting; ‘it was written,’ we said, and we had not the presumption to try to change our destiny.”
“Grandmother,” I asked her, “is it our fault if we are unhappy? We have read so many books which have shown us the ugly side of our life in comparison with the lives of the women of the West. We are young. We long for just a little joy; and, grandmother,” I added slowly, and with emphasis, “we want to be free, to find it ourselves.”
Did she understand? That I cannot tell, for she did not answer, but her eyes were fixed on us in unending sadness; then suddenly she dropped them again on to her embroidery.
In the autumn or in the spring our darling grandmother came to fetch us to stay with her in her lovely home at Smyrna. I must add, to point out to you another beautiful feature of our Turkish life, that this woman was not my father’s own mother. She was my late grandfather’s seventh and only living widow, but she treated all my grandfather’s children with equal tenderness. Rarely is it otherwise in Turkey. She loved us, this dear, dear woman, quite asmuch, if not more, than the children of her own daughter, and we never supposed till we came to the West there was anything exceptional in this attachment. Just as a woman loves her own children, she cares for the children of a former wife, confident, when her time comes to die, her children will be well treated by her successor.
In our grandmother’s home life was just a lovely long dream; a life of peace unceasing—the life of a Turkish woman before the régime of Hamid and thoughts of Revolution haunted our existence. Every evening young women and girls brought musical instruments. First, there was singing, then one after another we danced, and the one who danced the best was applauded and made to dance until she almost fell exhausted.
Towards midnight we supped by the light of the moon, either in our garden or at friends’ houses; and we talked and danced and laughed, all so happy in one another’s society, and none of us remembering we were subjects of a Mighty Tyrant, who, had we been at Constantinople, would have stopped those festivities by order of the police.
The gatherings in this house, covered with wisteria and roses, and surrounded by an old-world garden, where flowers were allowed to grow with a liberty of which we were jealous, were moments of joy indescribable. It was good for us to be in a garden not trimmed and pruned and spoilt as are the gardens of the West, but whose greatest charm is that it can be its own dear natural self; to live in peace when the meaning of terror had been learnt, and comparative freedom when we had known captivity.
If ever you have a chance find out for yourself the difference between the harems in the town and those of the country, then I know you will understand the few really happy moments of my life.—Your affectionate friend
Zeyneb.