One gentleman came and asked me if I could dance. I said, “Yes, I can dance,” laying particular emphasis on the word dance. But I do not think he understood.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “I dance by myself.” He stared at me as if I were mad—probably he took me for a professional dancer.
*****
When you come to stay with us at Nice, after we have had enough of this pure air to justify our leaving Switzerland and these commonplace and unsympathetic people, and we are in our own villa again and free to do as we will, then we will teach you Turkish dances, and you will no longer be surprised at my criticisms.
Dancing with us is a fine art. In the Imperial Harem more attention is paid to the teaching of dancing than to any other learning. When the Sultan is worn out with cares of state and the thousand and one other worries for which his autocratic rule is responsible, his dancing girls are called into his presence, and there with veils and graceful movements they soothe his tired nerves till he almost forgets the atrocities which have been committed in his name.
A Turkish woman who dances well is seen to very great advantage; a dancing woman may become a favourite, a Sultana, a Sultan’s mother, the queen of the Imperial Harem.
I can assure you a Western woman is not seen at her best when she dances the lancers.—Your affectionate
Zeyneb.