BEWILDERING EUROPE
What a curious thing it was I found so much difficulty in answering
Zeyneb’s letters. To send anything _banal_ to my new friend I felt
certain was to run the risk of ending the correspondence.
She knew I was in sympathy with her; she knew I could understand, as
well as any one, how awful her life must have been, but to have told
her so would have offended her. Most of the reasons for her escape,
every argument that could justify her action, she had given me, except
one; and it was probably that “one” reason that had most influenced her.
In due time probably she would tell me all, but if she did not,
nothing I could do or say would make her, for Turkish women will
not be cross-examined. One of them, when asked one day in a Western
drawing-room “how many wives has your father?” answered, without
hesitation, “as many as your husband, Madame.”
Zeyneb had once told me that I succeeded in guessing so much the truth
of what could not be put into words. She had on one occasion said
“we never see our husbands until we are married,” and a little later
“sometimes the being whose existence we have to share inspires us with
a horror that can never be overcome.” Putting these two statements
together, I was able to draw my own conclusions as to the “one”
reason.... Poor little Zeyneb!
It seemed to me from the end of her letter, that Zeyneb would have been
grateful had I said that I approved of her action in leaving her own
country. To have told her the contrary would not have helped matters in
the least, and sooner or later she was sure to find out her mistake for
herself.
And who that noticed her enthusiasm for all she saw would have dreamt
of the tragedy that was in her life? The innocent delight she had
when riding on the top of a bus, and her jubilation at discovering an
Egyptian Princess indulging in the same form of amusement!
Zeyneb told me that _economy_ was a word for which there was no
equivalent in the Turkish language, so how could she be expected to
practise an art which did not exist in her country? It was from her
I had learnt the habit of answering her letters by telegram, and the
result had been satisfactory. “Eagerly waiting for another letter,” I
wired her. The following letter arrived:
FONTAINEBLEAU, _Oct._ 1906.
A few days after our arrival began in earnest a new experience for
us. The “demands” for interviews from journalists—every post brought
a letter. Many reporters, it is true, called without even asking
permission; wanted to know our impressions of West Europe after eight
days; the reasons why we had left Turkey; and other questions still
more ignorant and extraordinary about harem life.
When, however, we had conquered the absurd Oriental habit of being
polite, we changed our address, and called ourselves by Servian names.
What an extraordinary lack of intelligence, it seemed, to suppose that
in a few phrases could be related the history of the Turkish woman’s
evolution; and the psychology of a state of mind which forces such and
such a decision explained. How would it have been possible to give the
one thousand and one private reasons connected with our action! And
what would be the use of explaining all this to persons one hoped
never to see again—persons by whom you are treated as a spectacle, a
living spectacle, whose adventures will be retailed in a certain lady’s
boudoir to make her “five o’clock” less dull?
“What made you think of running away from Turkey?” asked one of these
press detectives. He might as well have been saying to me, “You had
on a blue dress the last time I saw you, why are you not wearing it
to-day?”
“Weren’t you sorry to leave your parents?” asked another. Did he
suppose because we were Turks that we had hearts of stone. How could
anyone, a complete stranger too, dare to ask such a question? And yet,
angry as I was, this indiscretion brought tears to my eyes, as it
always does when I think of that good-bye.
“Good night, little girl,” said my father, on the eve of our departure.
“Don’t be so long in coming to dine with us again. Promise that you
will come one day next week.”
I almost staggered. “I’ll try,” I answered. Every minute I felt that I
must fling myself in his arms and tell him what I intended to do, but
when I thought of our years and years of suffering, my mind was made
up, and I kept back my tears.
Do you see now, dear Englishwoman, why we appreciated your discreet
interest in us, and how we looked forward to a friendship with you
who have understood so well, that there can be tears behind eyes
that smile, that a daughter’s heart is not necessarily hard because
she breaks away from the family circle, nor is one’s love for the
Fatherland any the less great because one has left it forever? All this
we feel you have understood, and again and again we thank you.—Your
affectionate
ZEYNEB.
FONTAINEBLEAU, _Oct._ 1906.
You ask me to give you my first impression of France (wrote Zeyneb),
but it is not so much an impression of France, as the impression of
being free, that I am going to write. What I would like to describe to
you is the sensation of intense joy I felt as I stood for the first
time before a window wide open that had neither lattice-work nor iron
bars.
It was at Nice. We had just arrived from our terrible journey. We had
gone from hotel to hotel, but no one would give us shelter even for
a few hours. Was that Christian charity, to refuse a room because I
was thought to be dying? I cannot understand this sentiment. A friend
explained that a death in an hotel would keep other people away. Why
should the Christians be so frightened of death?
I was too ill at the moment to take in our awful situation, and quite
indifferent to the prospect of dying on the street. Useless it was,
however, our going to any more hotels; it was waste of time and waste
of breath, and I had none of either to spare. No one advised us, and no
one seemed to care to help us, until, by the merest chance, my sister
remembered our friends in Belgrade had given us a doctor’s address.
We determined to find him if we possibly could. In half an hour’s
time we found our doctor, who sent us at once to a sanatorium. There
they could not say, “You are too ill to come in,” seeing illness was
a qualification for admittance. But I shall not linger on those first
moments in Europe: they were sad beyond words.
It must have been early when I awoke the next morning, to find the sun
forcing its way through the white curtains, and flooding the whole room
with gold. Ill as I was, the scene was so beautiful that I got out
of bed and opened wide the window, and what was my surprise to find
that there was no lattice-work between me and the blue sky, and the
orange trees, and the hills of Nice covered with cypress and olives?
The sanatorium garden was just one mass of flowers, and their sweet
perfume filled the room. With my eyes I drank in the scene before me,
the hills, and the sea, and the sky that never seemed to end.
A short while after, my sister came in. She also from her window had
been watching at the same time as I. But no explanation was necessary.
For the first time in our lives we could look freely into space—no
veil, no iron bars. It was worth the price we had paid, just to have
the joy of being before that open window. I sign myself in Turkish
terms of affection.—Your carnation and your mouse,
ZEYNEB.