And who that noticed her enthusiasm for all she saw would have dreamt of the tragedy that was in her life? The innocent delight she had when riding on the top of a bus, and her jubilation at discovering an Egyptian Princess indulging in the same form of amusement!
Zeyneb told me that economy was a word for which there was no equivalent in the Turkish language, so how could she be expected to practise an art which did not exist in her country? It was from her I had learnt the habit of answering her letters by telegram, and the result had been satisfactory. “Eagerly waiting for another letter,” I wired her. The following letter arrived:
Fontainebleau, Oct. 1906.
A few days after our arrival began in earnest a new experience for us. The “demands” for interviews from journalists—every post brought a letter. Many reporters, it is true, called without even asking permission; wanted to know our impressions of West Europe after eight days; the reasons why we had left Turkey; and other questions still more ignorant and extraordinary about harem life.
When, however, we had conquered the absurd Oriental habit of being polite, we changed our address, and called ourselves by Servian names.
What an extraordinary lack of intelligence, it seemed, to suppose that in a few phrases could be related the history of the Turkish woman’s evolution; and the psychology of a state of mind which forces such and such a decision explained. How would it have been possible to give the one thousand and one private reasons connected with our action! And what would be the use of explaining all this to persons one hoped never to see again—persons by whom you are treated as a spectacle, a living spectacle, whose adventures will be retailed in a certain lady’s boudoir to make her “five o’clock” less dull?
“What made you think of running away from Turkey?” asked one of these press detectives. He might as well have been saying to me, “You had on a blue dress the last time I saw you, why are you not wearing it to-day?”
“Weren’t you sorry to leave your parents?” asked another. Did he suppose because we were Turks that we had hearts of stone. How could anyone, a complete stranger too, dare to ask such a question? And yet, angry as I was, this indiscretion brought tears to my eyes, as it always does when I think of that good-bye.
“Good night, little girl,” said my father, on the eve of our departure. “Don’t be so long in coming to dine with us again. Promise that you will come one day next week.”
I almost staggered. “I’ll try,” I answered. Every minute I felt that I must fling myself in his arms and tell him what I intended to do, but when I thought of our years and years of suffering, my mind was made up, and I kept back my tears.