The large doors of the koniak were thrown open, as soon as our carriage stopped before them. The immense hall within was filled with women, in many coloured garments and beflowered head-dresses. And, as they salaamed to the floor, they looked like huge flowers bending before the wind. A number of times they rose and fell, rhythmically. Then a lovely lady, in the old Anatolian costume, advanced and greeted us.
There is no language in the world which lends itself so prettily to yards and yards of welcoming words as Turkish. I translated the phrases, full of perfume and flowers, which formed such a harmony with the ladies and the home we were in, until even my mother was touched by the pomp with which we were received; and the words full of exotic charm and courtesy did much to assuage her bitterness.
I could see that she was even beginning to take an interest in this life so entirely new to her. When the Turkish lady went on to say that she was a stranger in this land; that she had come from far-away Anatolia because her Lord-Master and Giver of Life was now near the Shadow of Allah on Earth, and that she wished guidance, my mother relented considerably. She had expected to be treated de haut en bas: instead she was received not only as an equal, but as one possessing superior knowledge.
With the same pomp and ceremony we were escorted upstairs, where we were served with sweetmeats and coffee; and again sweetmeats and sorbets. Then water was poured from brass pitchers into brass bowls; we rinsed our hands and wiped them on embroidered napkins.
The sweet-faced lady spoke again, and I translated.
She wished to know whether her little Nashan was dressed like a great lady, or like—whatever the word was.
“My mother has never seen Nashan,” I volunteered.
Thereupon Nashan was brought in, clad in a pale green satin gown, low-necked and short-sleeved, in perfect fashion for a European lady going to a ball.
My mother surveyed her doubtfully.
“Is she dressed like a great lady?” the hanoum asked.