by Ann Bridge
“Tedeschi!” said a deck-hand in a striped jersey, with an unshaven chin, coming up to the rail beside him. Dr. Pierce continued to gaze; they couldn’t possibly be German ships. But the deck-hand was right—though Dr. Pierce only learned it later, he was watching the Goeben and Breslau entering Turkish waters.
Part Two
Chapter Four
On a sunny morning half-way through September, 1918, Réfiyé Hanim was sitting in her corner in the salon rolling bandages with her old hands; Dil Feripé and two of the other old women stood in front of her, each holding out, as best she could, an immense bed-spread of prune-coloured velvet embroidered in gold thread. They were of different shades, one more red, one more purple; Réfiyé Hanim looked at them with her head on one side.
“I think that one,” she said, indicating the one held by Dil Feripé— “but we had better ask Féridé Hanim. Dil Feripé, show me the prayer-mat, too.”
The dadi laid the bed-spread over a chair, and picked up a much smaller square of velvet embroidered to match; Réfiyé Hanim took it on her lap and examined it critically, lining and all, to see if it was in good condition.
“Yes, that will do. Put it over there, Dil Feripé; put them together.”
Réfiyé Hanim was engaged in the delightful task of going through the household treasures stored up by her for years to fit out her darling Féridé on her marriage. For Féridé was going to marry Ahmet’s friend Orhan, him who had composed the accompaniment to the Falcon song four years before; the wedding was to take place in a fortnight. The great painted chests hadjbeen opened, and maids and dadis were coming and going with armfuls of things; the Louis Quinze chairs and settees had almost disappeared under a sea of linens and fine muslins and embroideries. What Réfiyé Hanim was choosing at this moment was the bedroom set: the great bed-spread for the bed, always of velvet embroidered in metal thread, and the small prayer-mat to match, on which the husband knelt to say his prayers—most of all the ceremonial prayer on his wedding night.
“Put those two near it,” she went on to the other two old women; “then the child can choose. Now, let me see the towels.”
“The best, Hanim Effendi, or the ordinary ones?”
“The ordinary ones first.”
The “ordinary” towels would have struck most Europeans as almost too beautiful to use. The hand-spun thread” was woven in a very loose open texture, not much heavier than muslin; the ends were embroidered solidly eight or nine inches deep in silks in pale colours. Réfiyé Hanim looked them over swiftly and expertly, counted out five or six dozen, and told the “aunt” to let the maids take them to the room where Féridé’s things were being assembled. “Now the others.”
As for the best towels, which were now produced, they were astonishing. Rather narrow strips, as much as five feet long, of the same muslin-fine material were so thickly embroidered with gold thread that the original stuff was hardly visible; in the centre was a very small patch of regular “Turkish towelling,” but very silky and fine. There were not so many of these, and Réfiyé Hanim looked them over with more care; she counted out a dozen, and they too were taken away—such towels were of course only used for very honoured guests, or on ceremonial occasions.
Other things followed: diaphanous muslin bed-spreads; tablecloths, some small, more vast, richly embroidered in brilliantly coloured silks-over these the old lady lingered a little doubtfully. “I wish Féridé were here,” she said.
“They should be back soon, Hanim Effendi. Madame Hélène is always very slow over her fittings,” said Dil Feripé consolingly. “But Féridé is sure to be pleased with whatever the Hanim Effendi chooses— she does not care much about such things.”
“She will when she has a house of her own!” said Réfiyé Hanim. “I hope Mdlle Marthe will see that Madame Hélène makes that tailleur fit properly, and that the skirt is long enough. Ah, these shortages of everything, with this war! No English cloth for tailleurs! And no other is so good. The child will not have the trousseau she should have had.” She sighed, and turned again to her task. At length—“Very well— those, and those. Let Ayshé take them away.” Steps were heard in the hall outside—“Wait! Perhaps it is she,” said the old lady.
But it was not. The sea-green panelled door opened a little, and a lovely face looked round it. “Niné, may I come in? Do I disturb you?”
“No—come in, Nilüfer my child,” said Réfiyé Hanim warmly. “Comment ça val” she asked, as the young woman came up and kissed her.
Nilüfer was now her grand-daughter-in-law. Ahmet had married her two years before, in the middle of the war—poor old Sitaré, the silly “aunt,” had lived to see that vicarious ambition realised, though she did not long survive it; she died the following year. Ahmet had realised an ambition too—in 1916 he had been taken onto the staff of his idol Mustafa Kemal, when the latter re-captured Bitlis and Mus from the Russians. And by now Mustafa Kemal was Mustafa Kemal Pasha, a renowned General of Brigade, commanding the Seventh Army on the Palestine front. Orhan was on the Thracian front, but both young men were completely devoted to the commander, and Ahmet was even on terms of friendship with him.
And Nilüfer was living in the yali. This was an unusual arrangement. A house had actually been bought for her and Ahmet, but since he was always at the front, and she a great favourite with Réfiyé Hanim and the Pasha, an apartment had been organised for her in the vast house, in one of those curious re-duplications which were characteristic of old and important yalis. Féridé and Orhan were to live in another portion, at least while the war lasted; but in Féridé’s case the arrangement was much more typical of the patriarchal fashion obtaining in wealthy Turkish families—a son-in-law who was approved of and liked (as Orhan was) was quite often fitted in, with the beloved daughter, under the vast family roof-tree.
“Oh, what lovely things!” Nilüfer said now, looking at the tablecloths, and greeting the old women with familiar kindness.
“Yes—these are old things of mine; one can get nothing new! I was looking them out for Féridé.”
“Where is she, Niné?”
“Gone with Marthe to a fitting, so I am trying to choose some of these things for her ménage without her—just look at the room!”
Nilüfer took her at her word, and wandered about, picking up one object after another and exclaiming at their beauty, as well she might. Here was a wrought-silver ewer and basin for washing one’s hands, and with it a small silver bowl shaped like a lotus, with opened petals filling the centre—most exquisite of soapdishes; there a high slender fluted silver sherbet jug, a complicated heap of gilt fruit and leaves forming its lid. And high-heeled and high-soled sandals, enamelled in black on silver, to wear in the bath-house—nahlins, more for ornament than for use; and embroideries without end—mats, doyleys, covers for toilet-tables. The room was like Aladdin’s cave.
“Niné, what riches! Really, she is lucky,” Nilüfer said, handling the various beautiful things lovingly.
“She cares little for them as yet, as Dil Feripé was saying,” said Réfiyé Hanim smiling; “she is not like you, my child. For her it is all the war, and Kemal Pasha!”
Nilüfer returned to her. “Yes, Niné, that is true. She saw him once, you know—last year, at a concert, and she has always retained the impression. She thought him wonderful—blonde, and so young! And his eyes!—she cannot get over his eyes; like spears of ice, she said. They all talk about his eyes—Orhan, Ahmet, all of them.”
“Have you heard from Ahmet?” Réfiyé Hanim asked. She was really not greatly interested in Kemal Pasha’s eyes.
“Yes—today. He will be here on the 28th, for the wedding-Kemal Pasha is giving him leave, of course. When does Orhan come?”
“About three days before—for the Nikia, and so forth.” (The Nikia was the marriage contract, often signed as much as a couple of months in advance; there was also a document signed by the bridegroom, undertaking to pay a very considerable sum of money in the event of a divorce.
But in war-time all these arrangements had to be telescoped together, as it were.)
The last four years had laid a light hand on Réfiyé Hanim; as she sat talking to her grand-daughter-in-law in her accustomed corner, rolling bandages from strips of muslin in a huge basket by her side, there was little visible change from the Réfiyé Hanim of four years ago. (In fact, time does make little difference to people in the eighties.) Her laces, her long écru coat, were as crisp and impeccable as ever. Nor had the “aunts,” who went on bringing piles of linen and embroideries for approval, and carrying them away again, changed much; they were mostly in their eighties too, or nearly.
A resonant merry voice was suddenly heard on the big hall-like landing outside; the door was flung open, and Féridé came running in.
“Niné, my very dearest! I am so late! To fit with Madame Hélène is a torture! Nilüfer, chérie!” She pulled off her long black çarşaf, revealing a cool summer silk frock, and kissed them both.
“Where is Mdlle Marthe?” asked Réfiyé Hanim.
“Gone to her room to rest—she is worn out, and no wonder!” The girl looked around the salon, and began to laugh. “Niné-djim, but are we in a bazaar?”
Time had changed the two girls more than the old lady, but it had not altered the fundamental differences between them. Both were now elegant young women, wearing smart French-made dresses, their hair fashionably arranged, their shoes the last word in frivolous and expensive perfection. But Nilüfer was still languid, almost clinging, softly slow in voice and movement; Féridé was now taller than ever, and her childish impetuosity had developed into a swift decisiveness of mind and manner, very noticeable in those tranquil feminine surroundings—her eyebrows were even more expressive of concentration than of yore.
Réfiyé Hanim laughed at her last sally.
“My bonbon, we were looking out things for you—but I had to begin. Look—there are the three coverlets and prayer-rugs; those you must choose. I think the centre one.”
Féridé cast a swift eye over them.
“Yes, certainly; that prune-brown tone is much the loveliest. Darling Niné, thank you ten thousand times! You are far too good to me.”
There were a few more choices to be made and decisions to be taken, which were all pushed through by Féridé with a remarkable combination of speed, affection, and gratitude; no one’s feelings were hurt, but the business was somehow completed in an uncommonly short time, and the white-and-gold furniture re-emerged from under the sea of fabrics which had drowned it. Then she sat down between her grand-mother and Nilüfer.
“Now, Niné dearest, that that is all settled—and how can I ever thank you enough!—do tell us what my Father said about the dancers. Are we to have them?”
Réfiyé Hanim looked slightly distressed.
“Your Father thinks better not.”
“Oh Niné-djim, why? They were so fascinating at Nilüfer’s wedding.”
“That was two years ago, my child. Since then the losses, the suffering, have increased so greatly; it would be ostentatious, in bad taste, to have too much display, your Father thinks.”
“Oh Niné! And do you think so, too? I am sure you do not,” the spoilt child of the house exclaimed, pouting.
“Yes, I agree with your Father,” said Réfiyé Hanim quietly. “But everything else will be the same—the receptions, and your Father’s dinner in the selamlik, and the sheep to be slaughtered and roasted for the populace—to give them a proper meal, for once, when they come to wish you well on your marriage day.”
Féridé tapped on the floor with her pretty foot, a little impatiently: roasted sheep for the populace seemed rather dull to her by comparison with the hired dancers who had so delighted her at her brother’s wedding. She was only seventeen—her vexation was natural enough. Réfiyé Hanim watched her regretfully. Not for worlds would she have mentioned that in fact the wedding reception itself would cost a great deal, and that the Pasha had at first been tempted to veto the traditional feast to the poor people of the district, on grounds of expense. She had got round that by saying that she would pay for it herself; and she had sold—by discreet means—some of her jewels to have the money at hand for the purpose.
While Féridé was still tapping mutinously with her foot on the floor, her hands occupied in rolling a bandage from Réfiyé Hanim’s basket, the Pasha himself walked in. On him also four years had wrought little change. Tall, sparse, well-dressed, only different from any European father in the red fez that he wore on his head above his neat suit, he greeted his mother, his daughter and his daughter-in-law, and sat down. (To have appeared before them bare-headed, without the fez, would have been a grave discourtesy.)
“And what are the ladies of my household about?” he asked pleasantly.
Féridé sprang up, and went over to him.
“Oh Baba-djim, we speak of the dancers! Niné tells me that you do not wish me to have them and I do desire to, so much!”
Asaf Pasha frowned. He hated not to give this youngest child of his, his worshipped toy and treasure, whatever she wanted, but his sense of rectitude was immovable.
“No, my child,” he said. “It would be impossible; wrong. When the nation is in suffering, in danger, it is no time for such things. The reception of course there must be; that goes without saying. But music, dancers—no.”
There was a little silence. Then Féridé sprang up again and went over to her Father, who had risen from his chair. “Baba-djim, if it is really for our country, I say nothing more.” The Pasha kissed her on the forehead, and went out, looking gloomy.
He had good reasons for his gloom. The early successes of Turkish arms against the Entente in 1915 and 1916 had not been sustained. The entry of America into the war in 1917 had been a tremendous shock to all Germany’s allies, and latterly General Maude in Mesopotamia, and Allenby in Palestine, had been hitting the Turkish troops—under German command—hard. North of the Aegean the Bulgarians were now retreating before the Entente forces based on Salonika; if this advance could not be checked, Istanbul itself, the capital, would be menaced. As he returned to his study and sat down before his writing-table the Pasha recalled, unwillingly, what Ahmet—in that very room four years before—had quoted as Mustafa Kemal’s dictum that if Turkey went into the war, whoever won, the Ottoman Empire would go down. The Pasha, through his official contacts, knew all about the many differences that Kemal Pasha had had throughout the war with the Higher Command, Turkish and German alike: and the trouble was that whether he advised an attack or a retirement, in the long run the fellow always proved to have been right! Everyone knew how by an unauthorised attack at Anafarrtalar (as the Turks called Suvla) he had saved the day and precipitated the retirement of the British from the Dardanelles Peninsula. But now things looked black, very black. His little Féridé, his cherished and beloved child—what circumstances in which to get her married! Right and dignity, however, must be adhered to, whatever happened.
The next fortnight was a busy one for the women of the household. Féridé and Orhan were to occupy that part of the house beyond the central portion where she had hitherto lived with Réfiyé Hanim; this was of course already furnished, but the supplies of household linen and so on, chosen and given by Réfiyé Hanim, must be placed there, and the rooms arranged—all of which had to be done with a certain formality. The wedding-presents, too, had to be set out in what would be in future Féridé’s own main salon; chief among these was the dinner-service in Saxe porcelain, without which no upper-class Turkish bride was ever allowed to set up house, and always given by some near relation. Since new Saxe dinner-services could not be brought from Dresden to Turkey in 1918, Réfiyé Hanim had given her own. Then there was a lot of silver, mostly of the hand-wrought and florid indigenous sort; and, since Féridé was Murad Zadé Asaf Pasha’s daughter, some fine framed specimens of calligraphy. But silver was the standard gift.
Dil Feripé, however, was dissatisfied about one thing. In her youth, and among the circles from wh
ich she came, it had always been obligatory for the affianced bridegroom to bring one gift in particular, as an earnest both of his love and of his substance—a pair of very broad stiff bracelets of gold, or of silver filigree washed with gold, and a belt of fine plaited silver wire, also gold-washed, and as supple to fold as cloth, with a heavy gold buckle. With these objects Orhan, away at the front, had failed to provide her darling, and she was greatly upset. She grumbled about it to Réfiyé Hanim.
“My good Dil Feripé, he has sent the emerald ring and bracelet,” the old lady said pleasantly.
“But the other! He should have sent that too.”
“Well, there is the war now; everything is otherwise. How can he find such things at the front? Do not fret; there is nothing we can do.”
But there was something that Dil Feripé could do—and she did it. As a girl a match had been arranged for her, and her betrothed had brought the correct, the customary gift; he had been killed in an accident a day or so before the marriage, and she had remained single. But she still had the belt and the two bracelets, her own wedding gift, the nearest she had ever come to marriage; these she now brought forth from their hiding-place, and presented them, rather mysteriously, to Féridé. The girl, busy and hurried, undid the wrappings hastily—when she saw what was in them she flung her arms round the dadi’s neck, tears in her eyes.
“Oh Dadi, how good you are to me! Oh, worthless that I am, to have tormented you so, all these years!”
Dil Feripé, by now herself in tears, muttered—“Oh, light of my eyes! —my little sweet-meat, my jewel!—these you should have! Orhan Bey would, I am confident, have made you this gift rightly, but for this terrible war. Oh, may Allah be merciful! But since he could not, you shall not lack the gift that a bride should have. My poor Hassan!—he bought them at Broussa. He was a man of Broussa; there we should have lived, had he not died! They say it is a beautiful place, with many mulberry-trees, and much beautiful silk.” And the poor old woman, overcome by these memories of a past full of youth and hope, wept unrestrainedly.