A COUNTRY PICTURE
Sometimes in the summer afternoons, in large parties, and in big
springless waggons, we drove to the olive woods or the vineyards near
the seashore. In spite of our veils, we just revelled in the beauty
of the sky and the scenery all round. Sometimes we spent all day in
the country, lunching on the grass, and playing like children, happy,
though not free. Then we went for excursions—wonderful excursions to
the ruins of Ephesus and Hierapolis and Parganu. Those women who had
learnt Ancient History explained the ruins to the others, and all that
mass of crumbling stones took life and breath for us captives.
Many times, too, we stayed with the country people, who divided up
their rooms for us, and we lived their life for a time. Those were the
moments when I learnt to know and appreciate our fine, trustworthy,
primitive Turks. With what kindness they took care of us, paying
particular attention to our beds, our meals, our horses, even our
attendant eunuchs! Whole families put themselves at our disposal, and
very often they would not let us pay for anything we had had during our
stay. In no country in the world, I am sure, could such hospitality
and such cordial generosity be found, being as we were to them perfect
strangers.
One day at Gondjeli, after having visited the ruins of Taacheer, we
lost the last train home. One of our attendants, however, called on the
Imam, who was known throughout the village for his kindness. He and
his wife, a delightful woman whom I shall never forget, not only gave
us food and lodging for the night, but the next day begged us to stay
longer.
We were five women and three attendants. The meals offered us were
abundant; the beds, simple mattresses thrown on the floor, were
spotlessly clean, and ever so daintily arranged; and the next morning,
early, before we dressed, our baths were ready. When the moment of
departure came mother wished to leave them something for all the
trouble they had taken. But the old Imam answered: “My child, there
are no poor in our village. Each man here has his own little bit of
ground to till, and enough bread to eat. Why should he ask Allah for
more?”
I have often thought of those words. Every time I used to look at the
useless luxury of our Turkish households, the Imam’s little modest
dwelling and his kindly face rose up to reproach me.—Your affectionate
ZEYNEB.