by Ann Bridge
“I shall tell him, when I think fit,” said Réfiyé Hanim—and somehow there was majesty in the way she said it. “Now, my child, this is settled; so go with calmness and make your preparations. I assume that this sensible husband of yours has told you what things you need to take?”
“Yes—warm things, and simple; and for himself, tea and a pair of trousers!” said Féridé, laughing again. She was careful not to mention the limit of two suitcases each; that would have worried the old lady nearly as much as it did Nilüfer.
“That is well. Ah, he has a head, your Orhan! Well, send Osman to me nearer the time, and I will give him his orders. He is quite trustworthy,” said the old lady.
As Féridé was about to leave the salon, the Pasha walked in. After greeting them both—“I have just had a visitor,” he said.
“Of interest, my son?” Réfiyé Hanim asked.
“Certainly to Féridé.”
“Baba, who? Oh, tell me,” Féridé said, clasping her hands.
“Not your husband, my daughter—not anyone’s husband, yet; moreover, no one you have ever met.”
“Then why should I be interested? My Father, you are just teasing me,” the girl protested.
“No, I am not,” said the Pasha, seating himself and sticking out his long thin legs, characteristically, towards the brazier. “Ané, you permit?” and he lit a cigarette. “My visitor,” he said deliberately, “was a young English officer.”
“But my son, how extraordinary! Why should an English officer visit you?”
“And why should such a person interest me?” asked Féridé, looking haughty.
“He was most strangely dressed, moreover,” the Pasha went on—his expression showed that he was enjoying himself. “He wore a little short skirt, very full, like an Albanian, all in squares of various colours, rather dark; and bare knees, and a very peculiar little purse or wallet hanging down over this skirt of his in front.”
“Baba-djim, vous blaguez! Officers cannot dress so,” Féridé said, incredulous.
“Scottish officers do, it seems,” said the Pasha coolly.
“But why the interest to me? What do I care for Scottish costume?” Féridé asked.
“Because this young man is, so he says, the inamorato of Fanny Pierce,” the Pasha replied.
Féridé jumped up. “Baba, is this true? Oh, where is he? Could I not look at him through a door?”
“No. He is gone. And who are you, my daughter, to peer through doors at enemy officers?”
“Fanny is not my enemy!—she is my dear, dear friend. And so her fiancé is a friend also.”
“He is not her fiancé.”
“But you said—”
“I said he was her inamorato,” said the Pasha firmly. “He made this quite clear, in the strange way these English have: he desires to marry her, but as yet they are not affianced.” (What Captain Grant, whose French was not superlative, had said, smiling, was—“Nous sortons en promenade,” by which he had hoped to convey that indefinable English situation called “walking-out”; it conveyed little, of course, to Asaf Pasha.)
“Ah.” Féridé sat down again, with a long sigh. “What is he like, my Father?”
“Very large—and very red.”
“How do you mean, red?”
“All is red—his hair, his face, his hands, his huge wrists, and those naked knees of his,” said the Pasha, with something very like a grin.
“Oh Baba! Is he ugly?”
“No, not at all—apart from this tendency to vermilion, he is rather handsome.”
“And what is his name?”
The Pasha pulled a card out of his pocket, and handed it to Féridé. “Captain Alexander Grant, The Gordon Highlanders,” was printed on it; and above was written in French and in a very neat, crabbed hand—“Mdlle Fanny Pierce greatly desires news of Féridé Hanim. I come on her behalf.”
“Ah, she has not forgotten! And did you give him of my news, for Fanny?” Féridé asked eagerly.
“Seeing that he came from our little Canary, I did, enemy as he was,” said the Pasha. “He said he should write her a long letter, and tell her all.”
“And did you ask him of her? How is she?”
“Yes—knowing how devouring your curiosity would be, my child, I did ask many questions. She lives now with her Uncle at Oxford, and directs his household, but she continues her studies in Turkish, and now in Persian also.”
“Fanny—she will be a blue-stocking! Did he say if she is pretty now?”
“My daughter, I could not ask him this!—and in any case he is certain to think so.”
“But how curious this is—that he comes openly on her part, and yet they are not betrothed,” said Réfiyé Hanim.
“Oh, in such matters, the customs of the English, of all nations, are past fathoming,” said the Pasha.
“I wish I could write to her! Do you think he would send a letter for me?” Féridé asked.
“That is against the regulations, he said,” replied her father. Féridé’s face fell. “But he said also that he would do it, for you and for her,” the old man added.
“Baba, you cruel tease! But we have not his address.”
“Yes, I have it. Write your letter, my child, and give it to me. If this young man is willing to break the rules of his own country, I have no objection to his doing so—peu m’importe,” said the Pasha. “But write in French, in order that it can be censored, this Grant said.”
So, in the middle of all her preparations Féridé sat down and wrote a long letter to Fanny Pierce, describing the war, Ahmet’s and Orhan’s part in it, and, generally speaking, as much as one can put of six years of one’s life into even a long letter, which this was. It was not wholly discreet—Captain Grant, who censored it himself, smiled at many parts of it, under his little clipped red moustache. But of her imminent departure for Anatolia Féridé said no word.
Chapter Nine
A few days later Osman, helped by a ragged and wild-looking porter and closely followed by Féridé and Nilüfer, carried their luggage on board the steamer. As they struggled towards the gangway Féridé remembered vividly the only other time she had ever worked her way through such a throng on the quayside—when she had dragged poor Dil Feripe’ down to take a last farewell of Fanny. When they got on board they sat on their luggage while Osman went to see about the cabin. The steamer was not very large, and not very clean; the deck was crowded, mostly with very shabby seedy-looking men, peasants or artisans, to judge by their appearance. Nilüfer and Féridé both wore very old coarse çarşafs, procured for them by Dil Feripé, which entirely covered their fur coats. Presently Osman returned and led them to their cabin, where he dumped down their cases on two bunks, one above the other.
The two young women looked about them, appalled. It was a cabin for four, but very small; two stout Armenian women already occupied it “Mais c’est affreux!” Nilüfer whispered to Féridé, who was looking for somewhere to put down the picnic-basket.
“This is really the place, is it, Osman?” Féridé asked.
“Yes, Hanim Effendi, it is—I asked twice.”
“Well, it is only for twenty-four hours,” Féridé said to Nilüfer. She made Osman push as many of the suitcases as possible in under the bunks, and then went out into the passage to take farewell of him.
“Hanim Effendi, if you desire it, I will stay on board and accompany you—to my mind it would be better,” said the faithful servant. ‘I do not like to leave you alone, in such circumstances, and among such people”—he looked about him with disapproval, in the crowded passage.
“Hush! Speak lower, Osman. It is not for long, and we have our food; we can remain here,” the girl replied.
“In your cabin are these two unveiled infidels—shameless creatures! It is hardly fitting that the Hanim Effendi should pass even an hour in the company of such, in my opinion,” said Osman, with a sort of respectful forthrightness—he had known his young mistress from her earliest childhood. Fér
idé laughed.
“Do not fret—all will be well,” she said. A bell rang, or rather vibrated, all through the ship; in the distance a voice shouted. “There!— you must go. Goodbye, Osman.”
“May Allah protect you on the way,” Osman said, and made his way up on deck.
Féridé went back into the cabin, where Nilüfer sat on the edge of the lower bunk, in tears. “We are leaving—come up, my dearest, and let us watch,” she said.
Up they went, and found a place at the rail, whence they watched the ship manoeuvring her way out into open water. It was a bright sunny day; the wonderful skyline of Istanbul, with the soaring domes of its mosques, the sharp needles of its minarets, the steep fall to the water of those slopes of dark wooden houses, their windows like white sightless eyes, lay brilliant in the pale sunshine. The steamer moved slowly over towards the lighthouse which is called Leander s Tower, preparatory to starting up the Bosphorus; when she reached the fairway, and started full steam ahead, a shot was fired across her bows. The engines stopped, and the ship came slowly to a halt; a launch from one of the Allied men-of-war bounced across the bright water towards her.
“Oh, what is it?” Nilüfer asked. Everyone about them was asking the same question.
For many hours that question remained unanswered. With a deep clanking of chains the anchors were let down, and there she stayed; across the water, beyond Scutari, Nilüfer could see the grey shape of her Father’s own yali, and the sight again brought her too-ready tears. Féridé, more resilient, kept on making enquiries, and eventually learned that the Allied authorities were detaining the ship because they suspected the presence of arms on board; indeed some foreign officers were seen scrambling up the side; presently they departed again.
The passengers hoped that the ship would now be allowed to proceed, but not at all. They stayed there three days and three nights— within sight of home, and yet unable to reach it. Féridé was acutely anxious herself, and was aware of an intense anxiety pervading the massed passengers on the ship. She began to doubt, presently, if all these shabby men dressed as peasants and workmen were really what they seemed; she saw several of them run up and down the steps from deck to deck with a brisk lightness very unlike the heavy deliberate movements of peasants or labourers. On the second day, while poor Nilüfer remained in the cabin, Féridé, who had come up on deck for a little air, noticed a man who walked with a slight limp; as he turned in her direction, in spite of his shabby clothes she thought she recognised him as Orhan’s friend Hassan Bey, the young man in the Ministry of War who had brought the telegram from Ahmet on her wedding-day—she had seen him once at a concert. Cautiously, she moved in his direction: it might not be correct behavior, but she was determined to speak to him and find out if he knew anything of what was going on. After all, this journey of hers and Nilüfer’s was not exactly conventional! When she reached his side—“Is it not Hassan?” she said, very low; she was careful to omit the “Bey.”
He started, and turned towards her—yes, it was certainly he.
“Who is it?” he asked, as low as she.
“The wife of Orhan,” she whispered.
“No! What are you doing here?” he asked, very low. The press of people was so thick about them on the crowded deck that it was difficult not to be overheard.
“I go to join him.”
“Do you indeed? How splendid—I honour you! Then we travel together. How do you go, by Samsun or Inebolu?”
“Inebolu. He, or Ahmet, comes to meet us there.”
“Us? Who is with you?”
“Nilüfer, Ahmet’s wife.”
“No! I should not have thought her equal to this.”
“Oh, on se tirera d’affaire,” Féridé said, thoughtlessly breaking into French.
“Shsh! Do not speak that tongue! There may be agents anywhere.”
“I am sorry; you are right. But tell me, when do we go on, do you know?”
“No one knows! Have you any food?” Hassan asked.
“Oh, so little! We brought enough for twenty-four hours, and luckily the servants put in a lot, for that time—but we have eaten it nearly all!” said Féridé truthfully. “And you?”
“I brought none, idiot that I was! I thought there would be food on board, and anyhow, for one day and a night, it was unimportant.”
“But have you eaten?”
“Not a mouthful, since the day before yesterday.”
“But this is frightful! Come down, and I will give you some chocolate, at least.”
He followed her downstairs. In the cabin, where the two Armenian women lay moaning in their bunks, she brewed some tea on the floor-there was nowhere else to stand the spirit-lamp—and handed him out a cup, a slab of chocolate, and a piece of bread into the passage.
“Ah, that is wonderful!” he said when he had finished.
“Let me know if you hear anything,” Féridé said.
“I will”—he glanced at the number over the cabin door before he limped away.
On the afternoon of the third day another steamer, slightly larger than the one they were on, steamed up alongside and cast anchor beside them; more Allied officers were seen coming on board. Féridé, hearing noises, was making her way up on deck to see what was going on, when on the stairs she encountered Hassan, a suitcase in his hand, coming down.
“What is happening now?” she asked.
“Hush! Come to your cabin, if you please, quickly.”
They went together. At the door he said, in a hurried whisper—“If you would lend me one of your suitcases, and keep mine with you? Could you do this?”
“Yes—but why?”
“I am told that we are to be transferred to the other ship, and it is said that they may search our luggage—the men’s, that is; probably you will not be questioned.”
“Well?” Féridé was still puzzled.
“But this has my uniform in it!”
“Ah.” She understood now. “Very well—wait.” She went into the cabin and pulled out her second suitcase from under the bunk, passed it through the door, took in Hassans, and stuffed it in in place of the other.
The transfer occupied the whole afternoon, and went on until well into the evening. Allied officers checked the passengers off one ship, and onto the other; Féridé saw a few pieces of luggage being examined, but she and Nilüfer were not troubled with any search. Their quarters on the second boat were even worse than the first—they were in a cabin for six, and they were hungrier than ever; the cabin was very stuffy, too. Neither of the girls attempted to undress, they lay down as they were; they had not washed properly since they left the yali. They ate their last bit of bread, but Féridé insisted on keeping what little chocolate they had left. “We may need it,” she said. “Ah, do you remember those bonbons that we munched together, the night of my wedding? We could do with a box of them now.” Nilüfer only sniffed despondently in reply.
But Féridé could not sleep; hunger and anxiety kept her awake. After some hours she could bear her hard bed and the snores of her companions no longer—very softly she swung herself down out of her bunk (she had given Nilüfer the lower one), put on her fur coat and her çarşaf, and stealing out once more went up on deck—to be confronted by a most extraordinary spectacle. The ship on which they had originally embarked was still, for some unexplained reason, anchored alongside, though the gangways had been removed; in the murky half-darkness of a cloudy night with little moon she could see that its coalports and rubbish ports, down near the water-line, were open—a faint reddish light of lamps within glowed from them. And out of these illuminated openings bundles, tied with ropes, were continually pushed forth, and hauled up with astonishing speed onto the deck of their new vessel; the ropes were loosed and tossed back, some Rembrandtesque figure within the open ports managed to catch them, when they were attached to yet other bundles, and hauled up again. She moved quietly towards the nearest group of men who were hauling up these mysterious objects, which were obviously heavy, and
yet were being put down on the deck in strange silence; when she was near enough she saw why—mattresses had been laid on the planking. And now she could see what the bundles consisted of: the long narrow ones were rifles lashed together, and the square wooden boxes could only be ammunition. Now and again something oval and slender came up in a sack, was tipped out, and the sack flung back on the end of the rope—shells! And all the while men, breathing hard, came and went, seizing on these various things and carrying them away below decks.
A faint greyness was beginning to show in the sky, away up the Bosphorus. Presently from below a voice called up, very softly—“That is the last.” Out from the illuminated ports men came, twisted themselves into the ropes, and were hauled up as the rifles had been. An officer looked over from the bridge above—“Is everyone on board?” “Yes, all,” came the cautious answer.
“Then we go—Allah be my witness that I shall be thankful to get out of this!”
Bells rang, the winches groaned, the chains clanked; in the strengthening light up came the anchors, as the engines began to turn over. Slowly, slowly, the ship moved away from her companion, away from the winking light on Leander’s Tower, away from the diamond chain of lamps along the Galata Bridge, and the street lights in the town—the lights of Istanbul! Ah, when would she see them again, the girl wondered. Now that they were fairly in motion it grew chilly, and she drew her coat more tightly about her, as she leaned on the rail. Others were coming to do the same, wiping their brows and pulling on their jackets after their arduous night’s work; she saw Hassan limp across to a space near her and lean, gazing up and back at the beloved city. His thoughts were the same as hers, she felt sure. She went over to him—he turned as she approached. “Is it Féridé Hanim?” he asked.
“Yes. Was all well?”
“Very well. They opened my case—your case—and accused me of stealing the things! But they did not care about thefts of women’s clothing, and let me go!”