I had left the West behind—I was again in the East, the enchanting, poetical East.
This feeling was strengthened when, on reaching my hotel, I found a letter from my mother telling me not to come to our home on the island that day, because it was Tuesday, as ill-omened a day with the Greeks as Friday is with the rest of Europe.
Indeed this was the East again—the East with its cry to Allah, and its predominating superstitions. But I could not yet feel the proper respect for ancestral superstitions. I had the arrogant self-confidence of youth in full, and, as youth feels, I felt that the right lay with my own inclinations. It was a hot and oppressive summer day in town, and in disregard of maternal displeasure I decided to go on immediately by the morning boat.
In spite of the heat and of a strange feeling of oppression in the atmosphere, I went on foot to the Bridge of Galata, in order that I might revel again in the crooked streets of Constantinople, hear the merchants cry out their wares, be followed by some of the stray dogs, salute my old friend Ali Baba, the boatman, and thus assure myself that I really was again in my beloved city on the Golden Horn.
By the time I had bought my ticket for the steamer, Paris was as far from my spirit as it was from my flesh—and the superstitions of my mother no longer seemed unworthy of attention, even though I still persisted in pleasing my selfish self. The idea of a happy compromise suggested itself: I would take the boat to the island, but instead of going home I would spend the day at my cousin’s, at the other end of the island, and arrive home on the following day, as my mother had requested.
Thereupon, in pursuit of this comfortable arrangement, on entering the boat, instead of making my way to the first class deck, where men and Christian women sit together, I betook myself to one of those private little rooms which exist on the Mahshousettes boats exclusively for the convenience of aristocratic Turkish ladies. By secluding myself in one of these I effectually avoided the risk of recognition and report.
I opened the door of one. The cabin was in semi-obscurity, and occupied by three veiled ladies. However, as the place could accommodate four, I entered. It was their privilege to ask me to depart, if they did not care for the company of an unbeliever. I sat down and waited to see if they would use their prerogative. To my surprise a lithe young woman rose hastily and stood before me. Her two slender and tightly gloved hands grasped my shoulders, and a pair of fine eyes peered into mine.
“Why, little Thunderstorm!”
A feredjé enveloped me and my lips came into close contact with the filmly yashmak of Chakendé of the Timur-Lang. It was indeed delightful to fall in thus with her. We had before us an hour and a half’s sail with no one to disturb us; for the other two women were her attendants and sat without saying a word. We spent the time in the happiest of talk about the years during which we had not seen each other, and during which we had left behind our girlhood, and crossed the threshold of womanhood; for in the East we become women at an early age.
After I had told her all about myself, at her insistence—she being the elder, and I having therefore to tell my story first—I said: