I AM REMINDED OF MY SONS AGAIN
The little girl who made the fourth of our group was Nashan, whom I met
under peculiar circumstances.
My father was in the habit of taking me with him whenever he went for
a long walk. Generally other men went with us, and their conversation
consisted of politics, a subject which delighted me especially, though
I could but half understand it.
On one such day, we were walking on the St Nicholas Road, which was
long and wide, with the hills on one side, scattered cypress trees
and the sea on the other. The sun was setting, the heat of the day
was calming; and the Sea of Marmora, roused by the breeze, was
rhythmically lapping the shore, and adding freshness to the hour.
My father as usual was discussing politics with another Greek, and I,
my hoop over my shoulder, was holding fast to one of his long fingers,
while my little feet heroically tried to keep step with the big feet
beside them.
At a turn in the road we came upon a group of Turks, preceded by a
little girl, seated astride a richly caparisoned donkey whose head
was covered with blue beads. She herself fairly outshone the donkey
in gorgeousness. I knew her by sight, as children know each other,
and she always aroused the liveliest interest in me on account of her
costumes. I never wore any thing myself except simple white linen, with
an English sailor hat, my sole gold adornment the name of her majesty’s
dreadnought on its ribbon.
The first time I encountered her, I had almost yelled at her, thinking
she was dressed up for fun, but the calm dignity with which she had
worn her ridiculous attire had convinced me that these were indeed her
usual clothes.
To-day she had on a red velvet gown, trimmed with gold lace, and made
in the latest Parisian fashion for grown-up women. Her silk-mittened
hands, bejewelled with rings and bracelets, held a crop with a golden
head, from which floated yards and yards of pale blue ribbon. On her
head perched a pink silk hat, adorned with large white ostrich plumes.
Quite in contrast to all this, a lock of hair hung down the middle
of her forehead, to which were tied pieces of garlic and various
other charms to ward off the evil eye.
The men of her group saluted the men of mine. The little girl eyed me,
and I frankly stared at her. When the men’s _temenas_ were ended,
she piped up:
“Father, this is the little girl I was telling you of--the one that
always dresses in sheeting.”
To think of a person dressed as she was criticizing _my_ clothes.
I rose on the points of my little white shoes, and extended an accusing
finger at her:
“And you are dressed like a _saltimbanque_!” I said. A
circus-rider was the only person with whom I felt I could properly
compare her.
“Oh! it is not true,” the little girl wailed. “I am dressed like a
great lady.”
The pasha, her father, smiled at my father. “_Zarar yok
Effedim!_ They will some day be women.”
My father saluted, and apologized for me, and we went on our way. A
few minutes later, although I knew it had not been his intention, we
mounted the stone steps which led to a rustic, open-air café.
He chose a table apart from the others, and gave an order to the
waiter. He said no word either to his companion or to me, but I knew
that he was worried. After the waiter had filled his order and gone, he
spoke:
“My daughter, you have just insulted that child.”
“But, father,” I protested, “she insulted me first.”
“She did not. Are you not dressed in the material of which sheets are
made?”
“And is she not dressed like a _saltimbanque_?” I argued.
“That is an insult; for she thinks she is correctly dressed. Moreover,
my child, we are the conquered race, and they are the masters here. So
long as we _are_ the conquered race we must accept insults, but we
are not in a position to return them. When you become a woman, teach
this bitter truth to your sons, and may be some day we shall no longer
need to accept insults.”
This was the first time my father had referred to my sons and what I
ought to teach them, since the day he had asked me not to think about
them but to get well and strong. He remained silent for some time after
this, and so did his companion. When we had finished our refreshments
my father rose.
“We had better go home now. I fear that something may come of this.”
“I fear so, too,” the other man said.
The first thing my father asked, at home, was whether a message had
come from Saad Pasha.
None had.
He sent me to my room without my customary kiss, and a vague terror
brooded over me during the whole restless night.
The next morning when I went to my father’s study and wished him
good morning, he only nodded to me, and kept on reading his paper. I
retreated to the window, where I occupied myself with breathing on the
panes and tracing figures on them with the point of my forefinger. It
was only a pretence of occupation, and I was alert for every movement
of my father’s, hoping he would relent and make friends again.
Presently the door of our garden opened, and admitted a Turkish slave,
followed by another, carrying a much beribboned and beflowered basket
on his head. I greatly wished to impart this news to my father; but
glancing at him I decided that if I wished to remain in the room I had
better stay quiet.
But what could be in the basket? I might have gone to inquire, except
that I feared if I left the study its doors might close behind me.
Besides, if the basket were for my father it would be presently brought
in; perhaps I should be permitted to open it, and-- From experience I
knew that such baskets often contained the sweetest of sweets. So I
waited quietly.
The door opened. Instead of a basket, my mother entered, a perplexed
frown on her forehead, a letter in her hand.
“What is it?” my father asked, rising.
“Here is a letter which came with a basket from Saad Pasha. I cannot
read it. It is in Turkish.”
My father took the letter and read it, and as he did so an expression
of relief came into his face.
“His wife invites you to go to her at once.”
“What!” my mother cried, “I go to her? _I!_ And pray why?”
My father pointed to me. “This is the why,” and in a few words he
related the incident of the previous evening.
“I will not go!” My mother stamped her foot. “I have never crossed a
Turk’s threshold, and I hope to die without doing so.”
My father walked up and down the room twice. At length he said slowly:
“There is the choice of crossing this Turkish threshold--because you
are bidden to--or all of us may have to cross the frontier, leaving
home and comfort behind us. Saad Pasha is a powerful man--at the
present moment the favourite in the palace--and our child has insulted
his.”
Both my parents remained silent for a minute, and my childish heart
burned with hatred for these Turks, who were our masters. It seemed as
if I could never live a month without having to hate them anew.
“I cannot speak their dreadful language,” my mother protested, half
yielding.
“Take this child with you,” my father said, pointing again at me. It
was dreadful to be called “this child.”
Half an hour later I was driving by my mother’s side to the
_koniak_ of the powerful pasha.
My mother had said the truth. She had never crossed the threshold of a
_haremlik_; and to her all Turks, be they men, women or children,
were pestiferous beings. She hated them as loyally and as fervently as
she worshipped her Christian God, and adored her own flag. She was a
Greek of the old blood, who could believe nothing good of those who,
four hundred years before, had conquered her people, and beheaded her
patriarch.
And now, because of her daughter’s misbehaviour, she was forced to obey
the summons of a Turkish woman. It was cruel and humiliating, and,
child though I was, I felt this.
The large doors of the _koniak_ were thrown open, as soon as our
carriage stopped before them. The immense hall within was filled with
women, in many coloured garments and beflowered head-dresses. And,
as they salaamed to the floor, they looked like huge flowers bending
before the wind. A number of times they rose and fell, rhythmically.
Then a lovely lady, in the old Anatolian costume, advanced and greeted
us.
There is no language in the world which lends itself so prettily
to yards and yards of welcoming words as Turkish. I translated the
phrases, full of perfume and flowers, which formed such a harmony with
the ladies and the home we were in, until even my mother was touched
by the pomp with which we were received; and the words full of exotic
charm and courtesy did much to assuage her bitterness.
I could see that she was even beginning to take an interest in this
life so entirely new to her. When the Turkish lady went on to say
that she was a stranger in this land; that she had come from far-away
Anatolia because her Lord-Master and Giver of Life was now near the
Shadow of Allah on Earth, and that she wished guidance, my mother
relented considerably. She had expected to be treated _de haut en
bas_: instead she was received not only as an equal, but as one
possessing superior knowledge.
With the same pomp and ceremony we were escorted upstairs, where we
were served with sweetmeats and coffee; and again sweetmeats and
sorbets. Then water was poured from brass pitchers into brass bowls; we
rinsed our hands and wiped them on embroidered napkins.
The sweet-faced lady spoke again, and I translated.
She wished to know whether her little Nashan was dressed like a great
lady, or like--whatever the word was.
“My mother has never seen Nashan,” I volunteered.
Thereupon Nashan was brought in, clad in a pale green satin gown,
low-necked and short-sleeved, in perfect fashion for a European lady
going to a ball.
My mother surveyed her doubtfully.
“Is she dressed like a great lady?” the _hanoum_ asked.
My mother pronounced her dressed like a lady.
The _hanoum_ scrutinized my mother’s countenance.
“Ask your mother why she does not dress you the same way?” she said.
The reply was that I was too little for such a gown.
“How old are you?” the _hanoum_ inquired.
“I am nine”--and I should have added some remarks of my own about
Nashan’s dress, had not the memory of the results of recent
observations of mine been still too fresh.
“My little Nashan is eleven. Ask your mother whether she will dress you
like my Nashan the year after next.”
“No,” was the reply.
“Why not? Is it because you have not so much money as we have, and
because your father is not so powerful as my lord?”
That was not the reason.
Again the _hanoum_ scrutinized my mother, from her hat to her
boots, and back again.
“Why is your mother dressed so sombrely? Is she a sad woman, or is her
master a stingy man?”
In very polite words my mother conveyed to her that European women did
not wear gaudy clothes in the streets. And little by little, with the
help of a child’s interpretation, the woman from the remote district
of Anatolia comprehended that her child was not dressed as a well-bred
European child would be.
Tears of mortification came into her eyes.
“To think,” she wailed, “that I, who love my only baby so dearly and
who have made for her a gown for every day of the month, should only
have contrived to make her ridiculous!”
“Oh, mother!” cried Nashan, “am I then dressed like a
_saltimbanque_, and not like a great lady?”
The mother folded her little one in her arms, kissed away her tears,
and tried to comfort her.
“My little Rose Petal, thy mother has made a mistake. She begs thee,
Seed of Glorious Roses, to forgive her. Say so, my little one; say that
thou forgivest thy ignorant mother.”
“I love my mother!” the child sobbed. “I love my mother!”
“Then dry thy tears, my little Petal; for the lady here will help us.”
With a humility perhaps only to be found among Turkish women, a
humility which yet was self-respecting and proud, the wife of the
powerful pasha placed herself entirely under the guidance of the wife
of a Greek.
This was the beginning of my friendship with Nashan. Thenceforth she
dressed in “sheeting,” and was educated in a scrupulously European
manner. Masters were engaged to teach her French and music. The
_hanoum_ accepted every bit of advice my mother gave her, save
one: she would not consent to a resident foreign governess.
“No,” she said, in her humble yet determined way, “I will not give
up my child entirely to a foreign woman. Her character belongs to
_me_, and by me alone it shall be moulded.”
Naturally I saw a great deal of Nashan, and we came to love each other
dearly. She had brought from Anatolia, along with her adorable little
face, something of the character of her untamed mountains. As we grew
from year to year, we used, child-like, to talk of many things we
little understood; and once she said to me: “I am sure of the existence
of Allah; for at times he manifests himself to me so quickly that I
believe he lives within me.”
At such moments as these I believe the real Nashan was uppermost.
Usually, I am sorry to say, she more and more lost her native
simplicity, with her acquirement of European culture, and more openly
despised the customs of her own country.
Her early velvet and satin gowns were given us to play with; and many a
rainy day we spent in adorning ourselves with her former gorgeousness.
Then Nashan would stand before me and humorously demand:
“Am I a great lady, or am I a _saltimbanque_?”