CHAPTER VII
GOOD-BYE TO YOUTH—TAKING THE VEIL
Territet, Jan. 1907.
I am thinking of a sad spring morning of long ago. I was twelve years old, but the constant terror in which I had lived had increased my tendency towards uneasiness and melancholy. The life I was forced to lead had nothing in common with my nature. Ever since I can remember, I had loved the bright light, open horizons, galloping on horses against the wind, and all my surroundings were calm and monotonous.
As time went on, I put off every day the moment for wakening, because I had to open my eyes in the same room, and the same white muslin curtains were always there to greet me.
How can I explain to you my jealousy at seeing how contentedly all the furniture lay in the soft light which filtered through the latticed windows of our harems? A heavy weight was pressing on my spirit! How many times when the governess came into my room did she not find me in tears!
“What is the matter, my darling?” she would ask, and under the influence of this unexpected tenderness I would sob without even knowing the cause of my sorrow.
Then I dressed myself slowly, so that there should be less time to live. How was it, I wondered, that some people feared death? Death would have been such a change—the only change to which a Turkish woman could look forward.
In our house there was scarcely a sound; hardly were the steps of the young Circassian slaves heard as they passed along the corridors.
Our mother was kind but stern, and her beautiful face had an expression of calm resignation. She lived like a stranger amongst us, not being able to associate herself with either our thoughts or our ideals.