The house itself is built as most Turkish houses are built, with two
separate entrances--the Haremlik and the Selamlik--and a central
entrance hall, arranged as a lounge, from which all the other rooms can
be entered. The lounge on the ground floor is marble tiled and in the
centre is a fountain which has long ceased to play. There are chairs
uncomfortably near the ground and unsteady-looking coffee tables, and
the whole place has not yet recovered from the recent overflowing of
the Bosphorus, a substantial piece of the front door being amongst
other things missing.
The front door possesses neither knocker nor bell. To obtain admission
one kicks or bangs, but not too violently, for the whole thing would
yield before very little pressure.
And the arrival at the house itself! How strange! The springless
old wagon which comes to the boat to meet one, and the faded green
curtains which are discreetly pulled along a rusty rod to hide us
from the glances of the passers-by! The weary old horse, not too
securely roped to the springless wagon, which rumbles and jaunts over
the “self-made” paths! The inhabitants peeping through the latticed
windows as we rumble by! How and where we were going to I just began
to wonder, when the turban-headed coachman drew up at the dilapidated,
God-forsaken-looking dwelling where I now am staying. But, really is
“God-forsaken” the word to use? “God-forsaken,” when the Turks have a
comfortable habit of leaving all the hard housework to God Himself! He
sends His rain to wash the steps and clean the windows. His wind blows
away the dust. His sun kills the microbes and dries the dampness. He
makes the fruit and flowers to come in their right season, and the Turk
looks on....
Three or four kicks and several sharp umbrella-taps at the door, and we
obtain admission. The male who opens for us first looks at me curiously
and then smiles, whilst Taqui, emerging from behind a palm as big as
a small tree, takes us all in her arms, and welcomes me with such
vehemence that my hair comes tumbling down. That means good luck, says
she. That is compensation!
A good, kind, sympathetic soul is Taqui. She was given as wife to the
gardener as a reward for his years of faithful service, and had borne
him a substantial family, all of whom live on the premises and walk in
and out of the salons as they please, except when there are _visites de
cérémonie_. I feel honoured to be classed as a member of the family;
and also _visites de cérémonie_, which are rare in Turkey, come quickly
and leave quickly, whilst I have come to take up my residence for as
long as it pleases me to stay. Taqui must have been born somewhere
within the influence of the “Joconde,” for she had the face and the
wicked smile of the much-discussed Italian, or perhaps had the real
“Joconde” Armenian ancestors?
She is a hard worker, judging from Oriental standards, and used to
complain bitterly about the lazy Turks, and as she takes her place
at the head of the procession of slaves carrying beds she urges her
companions to hurry, or the beds will never be made. Sometimes,
however, even she forgets herself and pauses as she carries the
mattresses to listen to some favourite song. At the end of the first
verse she drops her mattress, sits on it during the second, and then,
having given way so far, she waits until the singing is over. But it is
not often that Taqui goes astray, and considering how many times she
kept the others from committing this Turkish failing--killing time--a
little margin should be allowed her from time to time.
There is a beautiful old woman in the household whom I long to “Kodak.”
Once I thought I “had” her as she sat cross-legged on the carpet
rolling her quarter-hourly cigarette, but she noticed me, alas! then
cursed, screamed, and buried her head in her roomy pantaloons. I shall
not repeat the experiment.
This old lady is a personage in her way. Years before, she attempted
to visit the Holy Tomb at Mecca, and although she never really got
there, having lost all her worldly possessions in consequence, those
kind friends who gave her shelter when she returned penniless always
addressed her by the title “Hadgi,” a title given to those pilgrims who
go for their salvation to the Holy Tomb.
Hadgi loved the young master of the house more than the whole world.
She was at his birth and at his mother’s birth. Her great wish was to
see the master’s own little son make his appearance on life’s scene.
But the young master had acquired Western tastes, and in spite of
the teachings of the Koran, in spite of all the privileges the Koran
offers to those who enter into “holy matrimony,” the young master was
twenty-five, and had not yet taken unto himself a wife, nor was he
thinking of doing so.
It was this question of the master’s future that was tormenting poor
old Hadgi when my visit began. She did not care for my appearance in
a hat, but when I sat beside her on the floor and threaded her needle
and tucked away inside my veil all my hair, the old woman’s heart
melted, and she promptly offered me not only the master of the house
but all her worldly goods--four hand-woven coarse chemises, exquisitely
embroidered, which, tied up in a handkerchief, remained beside her on
the floor all day; at night, still tied up in a handkerchief, an honour
paid by women to the Koran, beside her bed. To me, these chemises were
more like armour than _lingerie_ and of not the slightest use; they
were, however, placed beside my bed for two nights, then given back to
their owner, and she rejoiced more over the return of her lost chemises
than over any present I could have made her. Dear old Hadgi, she could
be such a sweet angel. She tied me up with charms to protect me from
the evil eye, she sang to me and admired me and loved me, but only as
long as I was veiled. When I wore a hat I was a stranger to her--not
one of the “faithful”; and when I went to sit beside her, her usually
benevolent face clouded, her eyes flamed, and she rose from the floor
and hobbled away, casting at me a look which being interpreted might
have been, “What are you doing beside me, Giaour? Whose religion is the
better--yours or mine? I shall see you do no mischief here....”
* * * * *
The kitchen is a hundred yards from the house and the same distance
from the dining-room. It is quite an independent building and a really
excellent idea for those who object to kitchen “odours.” There is to
balance this convenience, however, the fact that should it rain or
snow the soup increases in quantity and the vegetables have water added
to the oil, and oil and water do not mix, also Taqui is tempted on the
way to question one of her children as to where he is going and what he
is doing or likely to be doing; but still, to those who really do not
know what is supposed to be hot and what cold, it does not matter.
The kitchen building is thick with ivy and creepers; even its unpoetic
chimney is encircled with a wealth of roses which spread all around a
welcome and delightful perfume. Above all, however, I love the garden.
In the days that had been, it was planted and cared for and attached
in terraces, as it were, to the side of a hill. Now it is left to the
freedom of its own sweet will, and the roses, jasmin, carnations,
lilies, and violets which grow all the year round are vying with one
another for supremacy. Everywhere the roses have an easy victory,
for it is they who can climb best, and they have climbed over every
convenient inch of territory they can find. Exquisite, glorious roses
they are! It seems a sin to pluck them in order to make jam, especially
in a land where the women have a pathetic tenderness for flowers.
“You mustn’t pluck a flower when the sun has gone to rest,” they tell
one, “for then the souls are coming into the flowers and you would
kill a little soul about to be born.” So I respect the little souls
that are being born, and wander along the weed-grown paths, roses
tearing my silk dress, roses tearing my veil. Who could be unhappy in
a garden when the sun has drawn out all around a most perfect concert
in perfumery--roses, lilies, jasmin, carnations, and violets? When I
am back in my country I will see what the distiller can make of this
concert; it will be to me a souvenir of this beautiful garden of the
East where I have dreamt and where I was glad, and at the same time
sad; where I have longed and hoped and am resigned. How far are the
perfumes of “Araby” responsible for the destinies of its curious people?
“In my country,” said I to my friends, “the book of ‘saws’ has it that
those who love flowers are born to sorrow.” “No doubt, no doubt,” they
answer, “but we will bear with the sorrow, for no Oriental can do
without the flowers.”