It is difficult to find one’s way in Angora, but the coachmen are wonderful. They “take” anything in their headlong course, so that one is constantly jolted out of one’s seat as the carriages swing from angle to angle, up and down the steep slopes. To start from the Ottoman Bank on a wet day requires a double dose of fatalism.
“The carriages swing from angle to angle.”
Ismet Pasha was much amused when I told him that I always said my prayers before starting out for a drive, and uttered some “holy ejaculation” every five minutes of the way. Even a handsome car like M. Kemal Pasha’s can be seen dancing about like Shakespeare’s elf—“over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar!” A chauffeur who can pilot you through Angora could negotiate any country under the sun.
It was as well, perhaps, that my host, Feszi Bey, had arranged for me to be driven to his house under the cover of darkness, when pitfalls were not so obvious. He is Minister of Public Works, and was at the moment attending the debate on the dethronement of the Sultan. As none of his family speak French, Osman Noury Bey, of the Ottoman Bank, had been instructed to act as my escort, and we found them all in the sitting-room, with its lattice windows at each end, round as large a fire as it was safe to have. The heat was almost overpowering after our brisk drive in the night air.
Osman Noury Bey was obliged to leave me on the threshold, as he could not enter the women’s apartments. While the harīm and sex-separation are not now rigidly enforced by the most educated Turks, they have not by any means yet disappeared. I found that the whole “woman” question was really on much the same footing in Anatolia as in other countries; that is, “liberty” varies with education, upbringing, and surroundings. In this house the women were closely veiled and dependent upon their own sex for all their pleasures and companionships. Osman Bey himself is thoroughly liberal-minded and would have allowed his wife full freedom, provided only her hair was covered, but she goes out very little and clearly prefers the old ways.
On the other hand, the wife of Djavid Bey, ex-Minister of Finance, goes to private dances; while Halidé Hanoum goes everywhere and has mixed freely with men for many years. Yet I, a woman, have never seen her hair unveiled.
While we were waiting for my host’s return, I did my best to “make conversation” by signs and gestures, and was really surprised at my success. You can convey far more than one would suppose when you seriously endeavour to make your company understand. I had my book, too, of “conversations in Turkish,” and so managed to remark: “The house is large—the fire is warm—I like a warm fire.” Had I depended upon the women in Turkey, I might soon have learned something of their language.
Our host arrives, and he is kindness and courtesy itself.
At about half-past nine, his Excellency asked me when I would like to dine.