DREAMS AND REALITIES
HENDAYE, _July_ 1907.
What a relief! What a heart-felt relief to leave Paris! Paris with its
noise and clamour and perpetual and useless movement! Paris which is so
different from what I expected!
We have had in Paris what you English people call a “season,” and I
shall require many months of complete rest, to get over the effects of
that awful modern whirlwind.
What an exhausting life! What unnecessary labour! And what a contrast
to our calm harem existence away yonder. I think—yes, I almost think I
have had enough of the West now, and want to return to the East, just
to get back the old experience of calm.
Picture to yourself the number of new faces we have seen in six weeks.
What a collection of women—chattering, irritating, inquisitive,
demonstrative, and obliging women, who invite you again and again, and
when you do go to their receptions you get nothing for your trouble but
crowding and pushing.
All the men and women in Paris are of uncertain years. The pale girl
who serves the tea might be of any age from fifteen to thirty, and the
men with the well-trimmed fingers and timid manners are certainly not
sixty, but they might be anything up to forty.
But where are the few _intellectuelles_? Lost between the lace and the
teacups. They look almost ashamed of being seen there at all. They
have real knowledge, and to meet them is like opening the chapter of a
valuable Encyclopedia; but hardly has one taken in the discovery, when
one is pushed along to find the conclusion of the chapter somewhere in
the crowd, if indeed it can be found.
As you know, since our arrival from Nice we have not had one free
evening. The _Grandes Dames_ of France wanted to get a closer view of
two Turkish women, and they have all been charming to us, especially
the elder ones.
Yes, charming is the word which best applies to all these society
ladies, young and old, and is not _to be charming_ the modern ideal of
civilisation? These women are all physically the model of a big Paris
dressmaker, and morally what society allows them to be—some one quite
inoffensive. But it is not their fault that they have all been formed
on the same pattern, and that those who have originality hide it under
the same exterior as the others, fearful lest such a blemish should
even be suspected!
But really, am I not a little pedantic? How can I dare to come to such
a conclusion after a visit which lasts barely a quarter of an hour?
At luncheon and dinner the favourite topics of conversation are the
pieces played at the theatres or the newest books. Marriage, too, is
always an interesting subject, and everyone seems eager to get married
in spite of the thousand and one living examples there are to warn
others of what it really is. This supreme trust in a benign Fate amuses
me. Every bride-elect imagines it is she who will be the one exception
to the general rule. Turkish women do not look forward to matrimony
with the same confidence.
Divorce has a morbid fascination for the men and women here: so have
other people’s misfortunes. And as soon as a man or woman is down—a
woman particularly—everyone delights in giving his or her contribution
to the moral kicking.
I must own, too, I cannot become enthusiastic about Mdlle. Cecile
Sorel’s clothes nor the grace of a certain Russian dancer. What I
would like to talk about would be some subject which could help us
two peoples to understand each other better, but such subjects are
carefully avoided as tiresome.
Do you remember how anxious we were to hear Strauss’s _Salome_
discussed, and what it was in all this work which interested these
Paris Society ladies?—nothing more nor less than whether it was
Trohohanova or Zambelli who was to dance the part of Salome.
That was a disappointment for me! All my life I looked forward to
being in a town where music was given the place of honour, for in
Constantinople, as you know, there is music for everyone except the
Turkish woman.
I had no particular desire to see the monuments of Paris, and now
I have visited them my affection for them is only lukewarm. The
Philistine I am! I wish I dared tell the Parisians what I really
thought of them and their beautiful Paris! I had come above all things
to educate myself in music, and now I find that they, with their
unbounded opportunities, have shamefully failed to avail themselves of
what to me, as a Turkish woman, is the great chance of a lifetime.
A WALK WITH PIERRE LOTI IN A WESTERN CEMETERY
Yesterday afternoon, accompanied by M. Pierre Loti, we visited the
cemetery of Birreyatou. Its likeness to Turkey attracted us at once,
for all that is Eastern has a peculiar fascination for Loti. There were
the same cypress trees and plants that grow in our cemeteries, and the
tombs were cared for in a manner which is quite unusual in Western
Europe.
To go for a walk in a burial-ground I know is exclusively an Eastern
form of amusement. But wait till you have seen our cemeteries and
compared them with your own, then you will understand better this
taste of ours. Oh, the impression of loneliness and horror I felt
when I first saw a Western cemetery! It was Père La Chaise, the most
important of them all. I went there to steal a leaf from the famous
weeping willow on Musset’s grave, and to my great surprise I found by
the Master’s tomb, amongst other tokens of respect, a Russian girl’s
visiting card with the corner turned down. But this was an exception.
How you Western people neglect your dead!
I could not for a long time explain to myself this fear of death, but
since I have seen here the painful scenes connected with it—the terror
of Extreme Unction,[18] the visit of the relatives to the dead body,
the funeral pomp, the hideous black decorations on the horses’ heads,
and last but not least the heart-rending mourning—I, too, am terrified.
We, like the Buddhists, have no mourning. The Angel of Death takes
our dear ones from us to a happier place, and night and morning we
pray for them. The coffin is carried out on men’s shoulders in the
simplest manner possible, and the relatives in the afternoon take their
embroidery and keep the dear ones company. It is as if they were being
watched in their sleep, and they are very, very near.
[Illustration: ZEYNEB IN HER WESTERN DRAWING ROOM
She is playing the oute, or Turkish guitar, which is played with a
feather. Although Turkish women are now good pianists and fond of
Western music, they generally like to play the oute at least once a
day.]
Yet here in the West what a difference! I shudder at the thought that
some day I might have to rest in one of these untidy waste heaps, and
that idea has been preying on my mind so that I have actually written
to my father and begged him, should I die in Paris, to have me taken
home and buried in a Turkish cemetery.
* * * * *
COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
Did I ever tell you of my visit to the Comédie Française? Alas, alas!
again I have to chronicle a disappointment. I am trying to think what I
pictured to myself I was going to see, and I am not at all clear about
it. In my childish imagination I must have thought of something I will
_never_ see.
Naturally the piece played was _Œdipus Rex_. Every time I am invited
to the Comédie Française I see _Œdipus Rex_. It seems a particular
favourite in Paris, I am sure I cannot tell why.
The scenery was perfect, so were the costumes, but you cannot imagine
how uncomfortable I was when I heard the actors, together or one after
the other, screaming, moaning, hissing, and calling on the whole
audience to witness a misfortune, which was only too obvious.
All the actors were breathless, hoarse, exhausted—in sympathy I was
exhausted too, and longed for the _entr’acte_. Then when at last a
pause did come, I began to hope in the next scene a little calm would
be established and the actors take their task a little more leisurely.
But no! they cried out louder still, threw themselves about in torture,
and gesticulated with twice as much violence.
When I heard the voice of Œdipus it reminded me of the night
watchers in my own country giving the fire alarm, and all those Turks
who have heard it are of the same opinion. As I left the theatre tired
out, I said to myself, “Surely it is not possible that this is the idea
the Greeks had of Dramatic Art.”
What a difference to the theatre I had known in Turkey! Sometimes our
mothers organised excursions, and we were taken in long springless
carts, dragged by oxen, to the field of Conche-Dili in the valley of
Chalcedonia, where there was a kind of theatre, or caricature of a
theatre, built of unpainted wood, which held about four hundred people.
The troop was composed of Armenian men and women who had never been
at the Paris Conservatoire, but who gave a fine interpretation of the
works of Dumas, Ohnet, Octave Feuillet, and Courteline. The stage was
small and the scenery was far from perfect, but the Moslem women were
delighted with this open-air theatre, although they had to sit in
latticed boxes and the men occupied the best seats in the stalls.
During the _entr’acte_, there was music and singing, the orchestra
being composed of six persons who played upon stringed instruments. The
conductor beat time on a big drum, and sometimes he sang songs of such
intense sadness that we wondered almost whence they came.
That was a dear little theatre, the theatre of my childhood. Primitive
though it was, it was very near to me as I listened to the piercing
cries of alarm sent out by Œdipus. Would they not, these rustic
actors of the Chalcedonian valley, I wonder, have given a truer and
better interpretation of the plays of Sophocles?
A BULL-FIGHT
Guess, my dear, where I have been this afternoon. Guess, guess! I,
a Turkish woman, have been to a bull-fight! There were many English
people present. They are, I am told, the _habitués_ of the place, and
they come away, like the Spaniards, almost intoxicated by the spectacle.
This is an excitement which does not in the least appeal to me. Surely
one must be either prehistoric or decadent to get into this unwholesome
condition of the Spaniards. Is the sight of a bull which is being
killed, and perhaps the death of a toreador, “_such a delightful
show_,” to quote the exact words of my American neighbour? He shouted
with frenzy whilst my sister and two Poles, unable to bear the sight of
the horses’ obtruding intestines, had to be led out of the place in an
almost fainting condition.
As for myself, I admit to having admired two things, the suppleness of
the men and the brilliant appearance of the bull-ring. The women of
course lent a picturesque note to the _ensemble_ with their sparkling
jewels, their faces radiant as those of the men, their dark eyes
dancing with excitement, and their handsome gowns and their graceful
mantillas. But shall I ever forget the hideous sight of the poor horse
staggering out of the ring, nor the roars of the wounded bull? It was a
spectacle awful to look upon. What a strange performance for a Turkish
woman, used to the quiet of our harem life!
Perhaps, however, for those to whom life has brought no emotion or
sorrow, no joy or love, those who have never seen the wholesale
butchery to which we, alas! had almost become accustomed—perhaps to
these people this horrible sight is a necessity. Spanish writers have
told me they have done their best work after a bullfight, and before
taking any important step in life they needed this stimulus to carry
them safely through. I can assure you, however, I heaved a sigh of
relief when the performance was over, and not for untold gold would I
ever go to see it again.
After leaving the scene I have described to you, we followed the crowd
to a little garden planted with trees, which is situated in the Calle
Mayor and stretches along the side of the stream till it meets the
Bidassoa. This is the spot where, on cool evenings, men and maidens
meet to dance the Fandango. Basque men with red caps are seated in the
middle to supply the music. On the sandy earth, which is the ballroom,
the couples dance, in and out of the gnarled trees, to the rhythm of
dance music, that is strange and passionate and at the same time almost
languishing.
The music played was more Arabian than anything I have yet heard in the
West, but unfortunately the modern note too was creeping into these
delightful measures. The Basques with their red caps, bronzed faces,
white teeth, and fine manly figures, the women with their passionate
and supple movements and decorated mantillas, and the almost antique
frame of Fontarabia, proud of its past, hopeful for its future, were
all so new and so different to me.
But it is dark now, the dancing has ceased, the crowd has dispersed.
How good it is to be out at this hour of the evening. I, who am free
(or think I am), delight in the fact there are no Turkish policemen to
question me as to what I am doing.
* * * * *
But alas! alas! I spoke of my freedom a little too soon. Even in this
quiet city can I not pass unobserved?
“Have you anything to declare?” a Custom House officer asks me.
“Yes,” I replied, “my hatred of your Western ‘Customs,’ and my delight
at being alive.”—Your affectionate friend,
ZEYNEB.