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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
it is, after the nervous strain of the exaggerated Democracy of
France.

* * * * *

Brussels, Nov. 1911.

I have had this letter quite a fortnight in my trunk. I did not want to
send it to you. Somehow I felt ashamed to let you see how much I
had loved Italy—Turkey’s enemy.
I left Venice the day after the Declaration of War, if such a
disgraceful proceeding would be called a Declaration of War. For a
long time I could not make up my mind that that nation of
gentlemen, that nation of poetry and music and art, that nation
whose characteristics so appealed to my Oriental nature, that nation
whom I thought so civilised in the really good sense of the word,
could be capable of such injustice.
Even in the practice of “the rights of the strong” a little more tact
could have been exercised. Surely it is not permissible in the
twentieth century to act as savages did—at least those we thought
savages.
In a few years from now, we shall be able to see more clearly how
the Italian Government of 1911 was able to step forward and take
advantage of a Sister State, whose whole efforts were centred on
regeneration, and no one protested. What a wonderful account of
the history of our times!
When I think that it is in Christian Europe that such injustice passes
unheeded, and that Christian Europe dares to send us missionaries
to preach this gospel of Civilisation—I curse the Fate which has
forced me to accept the hospitality of the West.

* * * * *

Paris, Feb. 1912.

Two chapters more seem necessary to my experience of the West. I
submit in silence. Kismet.
Hardly had I returned from Brussels than I became seriously ill. Do
not ask me what was the matter with me. Science has not yet found
a name for my suffering. I have consulted doctors, many doctors,
and perhaps for this reason I have no idea as to the nature of my
illness. Each doctor wanted to operate for something different, and
only when I told them I had not the money for an operation have
they found that after all it is not necessary. I think I have internal
neuralgia, but modern science calls it “appendicitis,” and will only
treat me under that fashionable name. At Smyrna, I remember
having a similar attack. My grandmother, terrified to see me
suffering, ran in for a neighbour whom she knew only by name. The
neighbour came at once, said a few prayers over me, passed her
magic hands over my body, and in a short time I was healed.
Here I might have knocked up all the inhabitants of Paris: not one
would have come to help me.
“The progress of modern science” was my last illusion. Why must I
have this final disappointment? Yet what does it matter? Every cloud
has a silver lining. And this final experience has brought me to the
decision, that I shall go back to Turkey as soon as I can walk. There
at least, unless my own people have been following in the footsteps
of modern civilisation, I shall be allowed to be ill at my leisure,
without the awful spectre hovering over me of a useless operation.
One night I was suffering so much that I thought it advisable to
send for the doctor. It was only two o’clock in the morning, but the
message the concierge sent back was, “that one risked being
assassinated in Paris at that hour,” and he refused to go.
The next day I had a letter from my landlord requesting me not to
wake the concierge up again at two o’clock in the morning. And this
is the country of liberty, the country where one is free to die,
provided only the concierge is not awakened at two o’clock in the
morning.
This little incident seems insignificant in itself, but to me it will be a
very painful remembrance of one of the chief characteristics of the
people of this country—a total lack of hospitality.
If our Oriental countries must one day become like these countries
of the West, if they too must inherit all the vices, with which this
civilisation is riddled through and through, then let them perish now.
If civilisation does not teach each individual the great and supreme
quality of pity, then what use is it? What difference is there, please
tell me, between the citizens of Paris and the carnivorous inhabitants
of Darkest Africa? We Orientals imagine the word civilisation is a
synonym of many qualities, and I, like others, believed it. Is it
possible to be so primitive? Yet why should I be ashamed of
believing in the goodness of human beings? Why should I blame
myself, because these people have not come up to my expectations?
This musing reminds me of a story which our Koran Professor used
to tell us. “There was once,” he said, “in a country of Asia Minor, a
little girl who believed all she heard. One day she looked out of her
window, and saw a chain of mountains blue in the distance.
“‘Is that really their colour?’ she asked her comrades.
“‘Yes,’ they answered.
“And so delighted was she with this information that she started out
to get a nearer view of the blue mountains.
“Day after day she walked and walked, and at last got to the summit
of the blue mountains, only to find grass just as she would have
found it anywhere else. But she would not give up.
“‘Where are the blue mountains?’ she asked a shepherd, and he
showed another chain higher and farther away, and on and on she
went until she came to the mountains of Alti.

Melek on the Veranda at Fontainebleau

“All her existence she had the same hopes and the same illusions.
Only when she came to the evening of her life did she understand
that it was the distance that lent the mountains their hue—but it was
too late to go back, and she perished in the cold, biting snow.”

* * * * *
I do not know if there is another country in the world where
foreigners can be as badly treated as they are here; at any rate they
could not be treated worse. They are criticised, laughed at, envied,
and flattered, and they have the supreme privilege of paying for all
those people whose hobby is economy.
Everything is done here by paradox; the foreigner who has talent is
more admired than the Frenchman, yet if he does anything wrong,
there is no forgiveness for him.
An Englishwoman I knew quarrelled with a Frenchwoman, and the
latter reproached her with having accepted one luncheon and one
dinner. The Englishwoman (it sounds fearfully English, doesn’t it?)
sent her ex-hostess twelve francs, and the Frenchwoman not only
accepted it but sent a receipt. If I had not seen that receipt I don’t
think I could have believed the story!
Another lady, whose dressmaker claimed from her a sum she was
not entitled to, was told by that dressmaker, unless she were paid at
once, she would inform the concierge. Tell me, I beg of you, in what
other country would this have been possible? In what other country
of the world would self-respecting people pay any attention, far less
go for information, to the vulgar harpies who preside over the
destinies of the fifteen or twenty families who occupy a Paris house?
When I have been able to get my ideas and impressions a little into
focus, I intend to write for you, and for you only, what a woman
without any preparation for the battle of life, a foreigner, a woman
alone, and last but not least, a Turk, has had to suffer in Paris.
You who know what our life is in Turkey, and how we have been
kept in glass cases and wrapt in cotton wool, with no knowledge of
the meaning of life, will understand what the awful change means,
and how impossible for a Turkish woman is Western life.
Do you remember the year of my arrival? Do you remember how I
wanted to urge all my young friends away yonder to take their
liberty as I had taken mine, so that before they died they might have
the doubtful pleasure of knowing what it was to live?
Now, I hope if ever they come to Europe they will not come to Paris
except as tourists; that they will see the beautiful things there are to
be seen, the Provence with its fine cathedrals and its historic
surroundings; that they will amuse themselves taking motor-car trips
and comparing it with their excursions on a mule’s back in Asia; that
they will see the light of Paris, but never its shade; and that they will
return, as you have returned from Constantinople, with one regret,
that you couldn’t stay longer.
If only my experience could be of use to my compatriots who are
longing as I longed six years ago for the freedom of the West, I shall
never regret having suffered.—Your affectionate friend,
Zeyneb.
 CHAPTER XX

THE END OF THE DREAM

Marseilles, 5th March, 1912.

Itis to-morrow that I sail. In a week from to-day, I shall again be
away yonder amongst those whom I have always felt so near, and
who I know have not forgotten me.
In just a week from to-day I shall again be one of those
unrecognisible figures who cross and recross the silent streets of our
town—some one who no longer belongs to the same world as you—
some one who must not even think as you do—some one who will
have to try and forget she led the existence of a Western woman for
six long, weary years.
What heart-breaking disappointments have I not to take away with
me! It makes me sad to think how England has changed! England
with its aristocratic buildings and kingly architecture—England with
its proud and self-respecting democracy—the England that our great
Kemal Bey taught us to know, that splendid people the world
admires so much, sailing so dangerously near the rocks.
I do not pretend to understand the suffragettes or their “window-
smashing” policy, but I must say, I am even more surprised at the
attitude of your Government. However much these ill-advised
women have over-stepped the boundaries of their sex privileges,
however wrong they may be, surely the British Government could
have found some other means of dealing with them, given their
cause the attention they demanded, or used some diplomatic way of
keeping them quiet. I cannot tell you the horrible impression it
produces on the mind of a Turkish woman to learn that England not
only imprisons but tortures women; to me it is the cataclysm of all
my most cherished faiths. Ever since I can remember, England had
been to me a kind of Paradise on earth, the land which welcomed to
its big hospitable bosom all Europe’s political refugees. It was the
land of all lands I longed to visit, and now I hear a Liberal
Government is torturing women. Somehow my mind will not accept
this statement.
Write to me often, very often, dear girl. You know exactly where I
shall be away yonder, and exactly what I shall be doing. You know
even the day when I shall again begin my quiet, almost cloistered
existence as a Moslem woman, and how I shall long for news of that
Europe which has so interested and so disappointed me.
Do you remember with what delight I came to France, the country of
Liberté, Egalité, and Fraternité? But now I have seen those three
magic words in practice, how the whole course of my ideas has
changed! Not only are my theories on the nature of governments no
longer the same, but my confidence in the individual happiness that
each can obtain from these governments is utterly shattered.
But you will say, I argue like a reactionary. Let me try to explain. Am
I not now a woman of experience, a woman of six years’ experience,
which ought to count as double, for every day has brought me a
double sensation, the one of coming face to face with the reality,
and the other, the effort of driving from my mind the remembrance
of what I expected to find?
You know how I loved the primitive soul of the people, how I
sympathise with them, and how I hoped that some scheme for the
betterment of their condition would be carried out.
But I expected in France the same good honest Turks I knew in our
Eastern villages, and it was from the Eastern simplicity and loyalty
that I drew my conclusions about the people of the West. You know
now what they are! And do not for a moment imagine that I am the
only one to make this mistake: nine out of ten of my compatriots,
men and women, would have the same expectation of them. Until
they have come to the West to see for themselves and had some of
the experiences that we have had, they will never appreciate the
calm, leisurely people of our country.
How dangerous it is to urge those Orientals forward, only to reduce
them in a few years to the same state of stupidity as the poor
degenerate peoples of the West, fed on unhealthy literature and
poisoned with alcohol.
You are right: it is in the West that I have learned to appreciate my
country. Here I have studied its origin, its history (and I still know
only too little of it), but I shall take away with me very serious
knowledge about Turkey.
But again I say, what a disappointment the West has been. Yes,
taking it all round I must own that I am again a désenchantée. Do
you know, I am now afraid even of a charwoman who comes to
work for me. Alas! I have learned of what she is capable—theft,
hatred, vengeance, and the greed of money, for which she would
sell her soul.
I told the editor of a Paris paper one day that I blushed at the
manner in which he encouraged dirty linen to be washed in public.
“All your papers are the same,” I said. “Take them one after the
other and see if one article can be found which is favourable to your
poor country. You give the chief place to horrible crimes. Your
leading article contains something scandalous about a minister, and
from these articles France is judged not only by her own people but
by the whole world.”
He did not contradict me, but smiling maliciously, he answered, “Les
journalistes ont à cœur d’être aussi veridique que possible.”
(“Journalists must try to be as truthful as possible.”) A clever phrase,
perhaps, but worse than anything he could have written in the six
pages of his paper.
But perhaps I am leaving you under the impression, désenchantée
though I be, that nothing has pleased me in the West. Not at all! I
have many delightful impressions to take back with me, and I want
to return some day if the “Kismet” will allow it.
Munich, Venice, the Basque Countries, the Riviera, and London I
hope to see again. Art and music, the delightful libraries, the little
towns where I have worked, thought, and discovered so many
things, and a few friends “who can understand”—surely these are
attractions great enough to bring me back to Europe again.
The countries I have seen are beautiful enough, but civilisation has
spoiled them. To take a copy of what it was going to destroy,
however, civilisation created art—art in so many forms, art in which I
had revelled in the West. It was civilisation that collected musical
harmonies, civilisation that produced Wagner, and music to my mind
is the finest of all its works.
But there are books too, you will say, wonderful books. Yes, but in
the heart of Asia there are quite as many masterpieces, and they are
far more reposeful.

6th March.
This morning early I was wakened by the sun, the advance-guard of
what I expect away yonder. From my window I see a portion of the
harbour, and the curious ships which start and arrive from all corners
of the earth. Again I see the Bosphorus with its ships, which in my
childish imagination were fairy godmothers who would one day take
me far, far away ... and now they are the fairy godmothers who will
take me back again.
I like to watch this careless, boisterous, gay crowd of Marseilles. It is
just a little like the port of Échelles du Levant with its variegated
costumes, its dirt, which the sun makes bearable, and the continual
cries and quarrelling among men of all nations.
All my trunks are packed and ready, and it is with joy and not
without regret that I see I have no hatbox. Not that I care for that
curious and very unattractive invention, the fashionable hat, but it is
the external symbol of liberty, and now I am setting it aside for ever.
My tchatchaff is ready, and once we have passed the Piræus I shall
put it on. How strange I shall feel clad again from head to foot in a
black mantle all out of fashion, for the Turks have narrowed their
tchatchaffs as the Western women have tightened their skirts. It will
not be without emotion, either, that I feel a black veil over my face,
a veil between me and the sun, a veil to prevent me from seeing it
as I saw it for the first time at Nice from my wide open window.
Yet what anguish, what terrible anguish would it not be for me to
put on that veil again, if I did not hope to see so many of those I
have really loved, the companions of my childhood, friends I know
who wanted me and have missed me. Even when I left
Constantinople, you know under what painful circumstances, I
hoped to return one day.
“The world is a big garden which belongs to us all,” said a Turkish
warrior of the past; “one must wander about and gather its most
agreeable fruits as one will.” Ah! the holy philosophy! yet how far are
we from ever attempting to understand it! Will there ever come a
personality strong enough, with a voice powerful enough to
persuade us that this philosophy is for our sovereign being, and that
without it we shall be led and lead others to disappointments?
During the time I was away yonder, I believed in the infallibility of
new theories. I had almost completely neglected the books of our
wise men of the East, but I have read them in the libraries of the
West, where I have neglected modern literature for the pleasure of
studying that philosophy, which shows the vanity of these struggles
and the suffering that can follow.
I am longing to see an old uncle from the Caucasus. When we were
young girls he pitied us because we were so unarmed against the
disenchantment which inevitably had to come to us.
“You are of another century,” we said to him. “You reason with
theories you find remarkable, but we want to go forward, we want
to fight for progress, and that is only right.”
Ah! he knew what he was talking about, that old uncle, when he
spoke of the disenchantment of life.
“You are arguing as I argued when I was a little boy, and my father
gave me the answer that I have given to you. My children,” he
continued, “life does not consist in always asking for more: believe
me, there is more merit in living happily on as little as you can, than
in struggling to rise on the defeat of others. I have fought in all the
battles against the Russians, and had great experience of life, but I
remind you of the fact merely lest you should think me a vulgar
fatalist in the hands of destiny. I, too, have had many struggles, and
it was my duty.”
What a lot I shall have to tell this dear old uncle! How well we shall
understand each other now, how happy he will be to see that I have
understood him! We shall speak in that language which I need to
speak again after six long years. Loving the East to fanaticism as I
do, to me it stands for all that glorious past which the younger
generation should appreciate but not blame, all the past with which I
find myself so united.
I will tell this dear old uncle (and indeed am I not as old and
experienced as he?) that I love my country to-day as I never loved it
before, and if only I may be able to prove this I shall ask nothing
more of life.

* * * * *

Naples.
I can only write you a few lines to-day. The sea has been so rough
that many of the passengers have preferred to remain on board.
Some one impertinently asked me if I were afraid to go on shore,
but I did not answer, having too much to say. Around me I hear the
language which once I spoke with such delight; now it has become
odious to me, as odious as that Italy which I have buried like a
friend of the past.
Now there is a newspaper boy on board crying with rapture “Another
Italian victory.” He offers me a paper. I want to shout my hatred of
his country, I want to call from Heaven the vengeance of Allah on
these cowardly Italians, but my tongue is tied and my lips will not
give utterance to the thoughts I feel. I stand like one dazed.
Surely these accounts of victory are false. Are not these reports
prepared beforehand to give courage to the Italian soldiers in their
glorious mission of butchering the Turks, those fine valiant men who
will stand up for their independence as long as a man remains to
fight?
At last I go and lock myself in my cabin, so as not to hear their
hateful jubilation, but they follow me even to my solitude. Some one
knocks. Reluctantly I open. It is a letter. But there must be some
error. Who can have written to me when I particularly asked that I
should have no letters until I arrived?
But the letter came from Turkey, and the Turkish stamp almost
frightened me: for a long time I had not the courage to open it.
When at last I slowly cut the envelope of that letter, I found it
contained the cutting of a newspaper which announced the death of
the dear old uncle whom more than anyone I was longing to see
again.
Outside the conquerors were crying out, even louder than before,
“More Turkish losses, more Turkish losses.” I folded up the letter and
put it back in its envelope with a heart too bitter for tears.

* * * * *
What did it all mean? What was the warning that fate was sending
to me in this cruel manner? Désenchantée I left Turkey,
désenchantée I have left Europe. Is that rôle to be mine till the end
of my days?—Your affectionate friend,
Zeyneb.
 FOOTNOTES:
1 Yali = a little summer residence resorted to when it is too hot to
remain in Constantinople itself.
2 The Turkish women with whom I lived in Constantinople read
the Bible by the advice of the Imam (the Teacher of the Koran) to
help them in the better understanding of the Koran. I may add
that Zeyneb’s knowledge of our Scriptures, and her understanding
of Christ’s teaching, would put to shame many professing
Christians in our Western Churches.
3 French time.
4 When I asked a Turkish friend to write in my album, to my
surprise and pride she wrote from memory a passage from Ships
that Pass in the Night.
5 Prayer which all devout Moslems say before beginning a work.
6 Hanoum = Turkish lady.
7 The answer to such an observation is obvious, but I prefer to
present the Hanoum’s anecdote as she gave it.—G.E.
8 Tcharchafs = cloak and veil worn by Turkish women when
walking out of doors.
9 Muezzins = the religious teachers amongst the Mohammedans,
whose duty it is five times a day to ascend the minaret and call
the faithful followers of Mohammed to prayer from the four
corners of the earth.
10 Hodja = teacher of the Koran.
11 Babouche = Turkish slippers without heels.
12 Chalvar = Turkish pantaloons, far more graceful than the
hideous harem skirts, which met with such scant success in this
country.
13 Enturi = the tunic, heavily embroidered, which almost covered
the pantaloons.
14 The Western governesses, in so many cases, took no interest
in their pupils’ reading, and allowed them to read everything they
could lay their hands on. With their capacity for intrigue, they
smuggled in principally French novels of the most harmful kind.
Physical exercise being impossible to work off the evil effects of
this harmful reading, the Turkish woman, discontented with her
lot, saw only two ways of ending her unhappy existence—flight or
suicide; she generally preferred the latter method.
15 Slaves.
16 They were called “white” because they were originally
attended by unmarried women only, and they all wore white
dresses.—G. E.
17 It sounds strange to the Western mind to speak of a
“comfortable cemetery,” but the dead are very near to the living
Turks; the cemetery is the Turkish woman’s favourite walk, and
the greatest care is taken of the last resting-place of the loved
ones.—G. E.
18 The editor is not responsible for the ideas expressed in this
book, which are not necessarily her own.
19 Karakheuz = Turkish performance similar to our Punch and
Judy Show.
20 Zeyneb has forgotten that as well as Fridays and various fast
days, every Catholic receives the Holy Communion fasting.—G. E.
21 Inhabitants of Pera. There is no love lost between these ladies
and the Turkish women proper. I personally found many of them
very charming.—G. E.
22 I received this letter in Constantinople, where I was staying in
a Turkish harem, having travelled there in order to be present at
the first debate in the newly-opened Turkish Parliament.—G. E.
23 I leave my friend’s spelling unchanged—G. E.
24 It may be reasonably urged in reply that Zeyneb’s criticism of
our Christianity is far from adequate. But I have preferred to
present the impressions of a Turkish woman.—G. E.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.

Edinburgh & London
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