A CHILD OF THE ORIENT
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
SOME PAGES FROM THE LIVES OF TURKISH WOMEN
IN THE SHADOW OF ISLAM
ETC.
A CHILD OF THE ORIENT
BY DEMETRA VAKA
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
TORONTO: BELL AND COCKBURN. MCMXIV
_Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh_
To
TRUMBULL WHITE
EDITOR AND FRIEND, WHOSE APPRECIATION
AND ENCOURAGEMENT
HELPED TO SMOOTH THE HARD ROAD
OF A BEGINNER
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE TOKEN 3
II. ECHOES OF 1821 8
III. OTHER FACES, OTHER PHASES 15
IV. DJIMLAH 24
V. WE AND THEY 30
VI. AUNT KALLIROË 36
VII. IN THE HOLLOW OF ALLAH’S HAND 46
VIII. YILDERIM 60
IX. I AM REMINDED OF MY SONS AGAIN 73
X. THE GARDEN GODDESS 85
XI. MISDEEDS 110
XII. HOW I WAS SOLD TO ST GEORGE 118
XIII. THE MASTER OF THE FOREST 133
XIV. ALI BABA, MY CAÏQUE-TCHI 157
XV. MY LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN 166
XVI. CHAKENDÉ, THE SCORNED 193
XVII. A GREAT LADY OF STAMBOUL 212
XVIII. THE INVENTIVENESS OF SEMMEYA HANOUM 221
XIX. THE CHIVALRY OF ARIF BEY 233
XX. IN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS 251
XXI. IN REAL AMERICA 266
XXII. BACK TO TURKEY 282
A CHILD OF THE ORIENT
CHAPTER I
THE TOKEN
On the morning of my fifth birthday, just as I awoke from sleep, my
grand-uncle came into my room, and, standing over my bed, said with a
seriousness little befitting my age:
“To-day, _despoinis_, you are five years old. I wish you many
happy returns of the day.”
He drew up a chair, and sat down by my bed. Carefully unfolding a piece
of paper, he brought forth a small Greek flag.
“Do you know what this is?”
I nodded.
“Do you know what it stands for?”
Before I could think of an adequate reply, he leaned toward me and said
earnestly, his fiery black eyes holding mine:
“It stands for the highest civilization the world has ever known. It
stands for Greece, who has taught the world. Take it and make your
prayers by it.”
I accepted it, and caressed it. Its silky texture pleased my touch.
Its heavenly blue colour fascinated my eyes, while the white cross,
emblem of my religion as well as of my country, filled my childish
heart with a noble thrill.
My grand-uncle bent over nearer to me.
“In your veins flows the blood of a wonderful race; yet you live, as I
have lived, under an alien yoke--a yoke Asiatic and uncivilized. The
people who rule here to-day in the place of your people are barbarous
and cruel, and worship a false god. Remember all this--and hate them!
You cannot carry this flag, because you are a girl; but you can bring
up your sons to do the work that remains for the Greeks to do.”
He left his chair, and paced up and down the room; then came again and
stood beside my bed.
“Sixty-one years ago we rose. For nine consecutive years we fought, and
to-day two million Greeks are free--and Athens, with its Acropolis, is
protected by this flag. But the greater part of the Greek land is still
under the Mussulman yoke, and St Sophia is profaned by the Mohammedan
creed. Grow up remembering that all that once was Greece must again
belong to Greece; for the Greek civilization cannot and must not die.”
He went away, leaving me with thoughts too vast for a child of five
years, too big for a child who was not even strong. Yet even at that
age I knew a great deal about the past of Greece, and better yet did I
know of the fight of those nine years, which had made the little flag
I was caressing again a flag among free nations. I folded and unfolded
the miniature flag, which my sons must some day carry forward.
It was the last day of February. Outside a storm was raging. I could
hear the angry Sea of Marmora beating violently against the coast, as
if it would fain annihilate with its liquid force the solidness of the
earth. And the rain, imitating the sea, was beating mightily against
the window-panes, while the wind was forcing the tall, stalwart pines,
to bend humbly to the earth. Half of the elements were doing violence
to the other half--as if they were Greeks destroying the Turks, or
Turks oppressing the Greeks.
It was a gloomy birthday, yet an exaltation possessed me. I kept on
stroking the little flag. I loved it, and with all the fervour of my
five years I vowed to do my duty by it.
The door opened softly, and Kiamelé, my little Turkish attendant, came
in. Quickly I tucked away the tiny flag.
“Good morning, Rose Petal.” She kneeled by my bed, and, putting her
arms around me, smothered me with kisses. “So we are five years old
to-day--pretty old, I declare! We shall be looking for a husband very
soon. And now show me what the grand-uncle gave you.”
Her face was droll and piquant. Her eyes possessed infinite capacity
for expression. That I loved her better than anyone else at the time
was undeniable. And only a few minutes ago I had been told to hate her
race.
I entwined my fingers with hers. “Do you love me, Kiamelé?” I asked.
“After Allah, I love none better.”
“I wish you did love me better than Allah,” I said, “for then I could
make you a Christian.”
She shook her head drolly; “No, no, I like Allah.”
“But then,” I protested, “if you like Allah, you must hate me.”
“Hate you! You, whom I love better than my heart!”
“You’ve got to; for I am a Greek, and you are a Turk.”
She folded me in her arms. “What a funny baby--and this on your
birthday! Now don’t talk foolishness. Show me your presents.”
From under my pillow, where I had tucked it, I produced the little flag.
She gazed at it, her head cocked on one side.
“What’s this?”
“This,” I said with emphasis, “is the flag of my country--and my
birthday present.”
“What a funny present,” she murmured. “And is this all the grand old
gentleman gave you?”
I was disappointed at her reception of it, and to save my little flag
from feeling the mortification I hugged it and kissed it. I wanted very
much to explain to Kiamelé all that it stood for, and how my sons some
day must carry it forward; but how could I, since to show my allegiance
to that flag I must hate her, my bestest of friends? So I said nothing,
and on that, my fifth birthday, I began to see that battles did not
only exist between people, storms did not only rage among the elements
of nature, but that heart and mind could be at such variance as to
cause conflicts similar to those taking place outside my window.