The Dark Moment

by Ann Bridge

  Mehmet, who seemed to alternate between being almost deaf to commands at some points, and preternaturally sharp of ear at others, now took a hand in the conversation, as usual without turning his head.

  “At the Ecevit Han their Excellencies will find the perfection of comfort, have no fear. Ismail Agha, who owns it, is renowned—never had the keeper of a han such a name among travellers. What food!— chicken broth, chicken; pilau, salads.”

  “Well, that sounds excellent,” said Féridé. “What about the place where we lunch, Mehmet?”

  But Mehmet had turned deaf again, and made no reply. They lurched on down into the valley, passing groups of cadets who waved their walking-sticks at them in salute as they passed—Féridé waved back.

  “In Istanbul one would certainly not do this,” she said, “but here the circumstances are so peculiar, I do not think it matters, do you?”

  “I suppose not. Certainly it is all very peculiar,” said Nilüfer, with a small sigh.

  “Courage, chérie—we shall manage. Are you cold?”

  “I am, rather; but it does not matter.”

  They reached the valley bottom, crossed the river, and drove on up the southern bank through a narrow gorge into which no sun penetrated; but at this low level the snow was melting, and the road was full of a dirty slush which splashed up from their wheels onto that file, which never ceased, of ammunition-carriers—they turned, some of them, and laughed good-naturedly, shaking their skirts and waving at the occupants of the carriage. “How nice they are!” Féridé said, waving back, when this happened.

  “Yes—but do please not ask me to emulate them!” Nilüfer said, with an unwonted flash of spirit. “I was not brought up to lead their life, and what is natural and easy to them would be, to me, quite impossible!”

  Féridé laughed, and took her hand under the blanket.

  “Dearest, I know it—and you are quite right. You must forgive my enthusiasm; Ahmet has always teased me about it.”

  “I know—but he admires it in you all the same! I often wish I had your courage and enterprise; but up to now, they have not seemed so important,” said Nilüfer wistfully, her brief outburst of resistance dying down. “I am sure they come to you from Réfiyé Hanim—and also perhaps partly from seeing so much of little Fanny, with her independent English ways.”

  Féridé was astonished—her sister-in-law had never spoken like this before, of such things.

  “Nilüfer darling, I had no thought of criticising you!” she said. “All this is rather troublesome and difficult, and really I know no more than you how to act in these new circumstances. Only—” she paused, and waved again to another four or five women whom they had splashed with muddy snow-water, whose only reaction was to wave gaily at the splashers—“this is so—so inspiring. I think we must leave our old ideas behind, now,” the girl said seriously, “and live as best we can in quite a new world, at least till we get to Ankara, where Ahmet and Orhan will tell us what to do.”

  The road presently climbed out of the gorge and onto a shoulder of the hill—into the sun again, to their great relief—and soon entered Cuha Dogrugu, which was quite a sizeable place, houses with plastered walls, and a general air of prosperity. As they drove in, Féridé leant forward and tugged at the driver’s coat.

  “Mehmet, where is the han?”

  “Just up the street, Effendim.”

  “Well, when we get there, go in and ask if there is a private room where we can be served with lunch. And when all is arranged, come out and tell us.”

  Mehmet grunted in what Féridé hoped was an affirmative manner —but when they drew up before the door of the han, among a crowd of officers and cadets gathered outside it smoking and talking in the sun stood Hassan.

  “God be thanked!” Nilüfer said, as he hastened over to them.

  “So, here you are! I came on ahead—I have a room kept for you, upstairs, and lunch is ready; not good, but passable.”

  They went in through a downstairs room crowded with men eating, and up some wooden stairs into a small chilly bedroom with a table in it, where they were presently served with the “passable” lunch. They would not usually have called it so, but they were cold and hungry, and glad of anything at all. Mehmet came to summon them almost before they were finished, saying that they had another four hours’ drive before them, and must hurry if they were to be in before nightfall, as the road was “bad—very bad.” Hassan had gone on as soon as they arrived, promising to secure them a room at the Ecevit Han. “You have brought your bedding?” he asked.

  Of course they hadn’t—their bedding, as Féridé pointed out with an irrepressible giggle, consisted of the blanket he had bought them that morning at Inebolu.

  “Oh well—I will see to it. Ismail Agha will arrange something, I am sure. Do not concern yourselves.”

  The Ecevit Han has become a legend in Turkey. It was the single place, on that long, rough, uncomfortable road from the Black Sea to Ankara where comfort, indeed by comparison with other hans something like luxury prevailed; there were travellers who had waited a week or more for a carriage amid the chilly rigours of the hotel at Inebolu who spent several days recuperating in Ismail Agha’s care before resuming their journey. It lies just at the southern edge of the village of Ecevit, on a sunny grassy slope set with immense cherry trees, looking down over a valley bottom full of poplars and pollarded willows, which latter also line the road; the pines, austere and mountainous, have withdrawn to a certain distance from this sweet and gentle spot, and darken the hillsides above. The han is a long low wooden building, silvered to the usual tone of greyish beige, with a row of ten windows upstairs looking onto the village street, and another ten looking out over the be-poplared valley and the river; underneath is the vast stable, where the beasts were stalled among the stout wooden uprights supporting the floor above. Alas, now it stands desolate; Ismail Agha is dead, and motorists require no halting-place between Kastamonu and Inebolu, as travellers with horses did—but in some of the rooms inscriptions in its praise are still legible in the old Turkish characters on the plastered walls, signed with famous names.

  Here Féridé and Nilüfer arrived as dusk was falling. Ecevit lies on the south slope of the coastal range, and there the snow had already melted in sun and southern winds—sweet smells of moist earth and growing things came to their nostrils as they approached across the shadowy slopes, a bird’s song hung as it were poised above the song of the river coming up from below; the ten windows shone in a golden line. “How good it smells!” Féridé said. The road had indeed been very bad; they had had to get out several times while Mehmet, helped by some cadets, had hauled the carriage out of pot-holes; their feet were wet, they were chilled through, and exceedingly tired; but somehow the beauty of the place laid hold on them. Mehmet, when Féridé spoke, actually turned half-round in his seat—“Wait till the Hanim Effendi smells the odours that come from the kitchen!” he said, and whipped up his tired horses.

  The sound of wheels brought Ismail Agha to the door, a comfortable middle-aged man with a cheerful face under his fez—Hassan followed close on his heels. “There you are! All is prepared. Come in, come up.” They were unwrapped, helped out, led in (through delicious smells of cooking that fully justified Mehmet’s prediction) up a flight of wooden stairs, along an immensely broad corridor walled with wood, and into their room. This was small but well-arranged; a raised sleeping-bench on one side, invitingly heaped with pillows and gay wadded cotton quilts, a table set for a meal, another with a mirror nailed to the whitewashed wall above it, holding a basin and ewer; two chairs; a lamp burned on a bracket, a cylindrical stove against the outer wall. It was all very simple, but homely, spotlessly clean, and piping hot. Ismail Agha’s manners as mine host were perfect—he hoped Their Excellencies would be comfortable, how soon would they like their evening meal?—here was their luggage, here was his wife at their service. He and Hassan withdrew, the latter asking permission to return when they had eaten, and they
were left to Madame Ismail’s care. The tired girls were enchanted with all this. Féridé flung open the window and leant from it, hearing more of that bird-song above the deeper note of river-song, smelling the spring-like earthy smells, so delicious after the scentlessness of snow; Nilüfer meanwhile, escorted by the innkeeper’s wife, was shown that astounding feature of the Ecevit Han, an indoor lavatory halfway up the stairs, and the upstairs kitchen from which meals were served to the private rooms. When they returned from this tour Féridé closed the window, and reluctantly coming back to the present from the spring-like thoughts of Orhan which bird-music in the twilight had roused in her, she asked Madame Ismail about the ammunition-carriers. “Do they sleep here?”

  “Some of them, Hanim Effendi, yes.”

  “Where?”

  “We have partitioned off a place in the stable, below,”—the woman pointed a thumb at the immense planks of beechwood, twenty inches broad, which floored the room. “They fetch their food from the kitchen downstairs, and eat it there, and sleep.”

  “And the drivers? Our driver?”

  “They eat below, and there are sleeping-quarters for them a little way down the road. All is arranged”—she said with a benevolent smile.

  The food, like the smells, was what Mehmet had foretold: there was chicken soup, pilau, boiled chicken, a vegetable—and all delicious. It was the first nice food that the two young women had met since they left the yali, nearly a week before, and they ate ravenously.

  “Do you know,” Nilüfer said, leaning back in her chair as they finished, “I really think we might do well to remain two days here, to rest ourselves—and the horses.”

  Féridé, after a moment’s thought, demurred gently.

  “It would be very nice,” she said—“But do you not think we should push on? Our boat was three days late, remember; I think Ahmet and Orhan will be anxious, they will be wondering what has become of us.”

  They were still discussing this when a tap at the door announced Hassan, who came limping in, and with “You permit that I sit?” perched himself on one of the sleeping-benches.

  “You have eaten well?” he asked.

  “Splendidly!”

  “This is a wonderful place,” the young man said. “I wish all hans were like it. One could live here for weeks!”

  “We were just considering whether we should not stay here a second night,” Féridé said.

  “What are the other hans like?” Nilüfer asked, before he could reply to Féridé.

  “Mostly very indifferent—some bad” he said. “I came partly to speak of this. Tomorrow night—if you start tomorrow—you will sleep at Kastamonu, the chief town of the vilayet, where the han is quite tolerable, I am told; but while you are there you ought really to buy some bedding, for it is not normally supplied in hans, and you cannot be without. If I may suggest, it would be wiser to pass two nights in Kastamonu, and spend a day there in purchasing what you need for the rest of the journey; there is a good bazaar.”

  “What do we need?” Féridé asked.

  “Oh, quilts, and light mattresses, and pillows—what you see here.” He tapped what he was sitting on. “If you like, I could help you; I can delay for one day. But I ought not to be too long on the road; I am expected—by your husband!” he said to Nilüfer, smiling—“I shall be under his orders, I believe.”

  Féridé realised that Hassan wished to escort them all the way, though he kept up this polite appearance of its all being accidental, and a pleasure—and took her decision promptly, as usual.

  “That is very kind, and will be the greatest help—will it not, chérie? We are not very expert shoppers! We will go on tomorrow. At what time should we start?”

  “Moderately early—say at 9? It is about seven hours’ drive to Kastamonu, but the road is better.”

  “Are there mountains?” Nilüfer asked, a little anxiously.

  “No, no mountains!” Hassan said smiling—“an open road. Very well, I will arrange this with your Mehmet. Shall I order breakfast to be sent to you? At what time?”

  “Really, I do not know how we should do without Hassan Bey,” Féridé said when he had gone, “I hope you do not mind going on, dearest, but we cannot delay him too much, and it would be most uncomfortable to travel quite alone.”

  Nilüfer said, in a small voice, that she expected that Féridé was right—and they went to bed..

  Their road next day was delightful—no snow, no chasms below, no savage rocks above; it rose gently over a shoulder of hill through pine-woods, and then emerged into open rolling country where the peasants were already at work in the fields. In one place, near a bridge over a river, the soil gave place to a vast outcrop of smooth grey-white rock, curiously lined—Hassan, who today rode near them, pointed out the striations, and explained that they were caused by ice in the glacial epoch. Not long after, they drove into the village of Seydiler Köy, where they lunched in a very simple han indeed, with a stove at one end of the room, racks for plates and glasses in an angle above a tiny sink, and trestle tables and benches—a small corner was capable of being curtained off for women travellers.

  While their food was being prepared Féridé insisted on going out to look about her. Seydiler, as Mehmet had told them, was the terminus for the living chain of carriers, and for some time before they reached it they had noticed these on their return journey, now walking in groups, and gibing good-temperedly at the new arrivals still bent under their loads. The long street, here and there overhung by trees, was congested with this traffic; huge piles of war material were heaped up on both sides, leaving a narrow lane down the centre; more was coming in all the time, and being piled up as it left those burdened backs, while at the further end a group of cagnés, the small roughly-built Anatolian farm-carts, with solid wooden wheels, were being loaded up and moving slowly off, drawn by pairs of stolid oxen. Here and there along the street, wedged in between cases of ammunition and heaps of shells stood groups of the patient beasts waiting to be yoked, and meanwhile munching the stalks and leaves of maize or rather wiry-looking and indeterminate hay. An officer or two stood about, supervising the loading—one of them greeted Hassan, who was escorting Féridé. “Ah, so you’ve come! Was it all right, getting away?” As Hassan replied Féridé moved off out of earshot, with the usual Turkish feminine idea—quite a sound one, really—that men talking together do not want women about.

  “Who is that?” the young officer then asked.”

  “Orhan Bey’s wife. She and Nilüfer Hanim, the wife of Ahmet Bey, are coming up to Ankara to join their husbands.”

  The young man whistled. “To Ankara! Well, I wish them joy of it! Have they any idea of what they are in for?”

  “Little, I should think. What are conditions really like, up there?”

  “Oh, appalling. The cold!—you never knew anything like it. And no light, no water, no heating. It is a shocking place. I should think they will die!”

  “Féridé Hanim I judge to be equal to anything,” said Hassan slowly —“I am less sure of the other.”

  “Who travels with them? I saw both Orhan and Ahmet at Headquarters, only five or six days ago.”

  “I do,” said Hassan, with rather a wry smile. “They expected a husband to meet and escort them, but he did not materialise.”

  “I should think not! My friend, you cannot imagine what difficulties are overwhelming us. May Allah’s curse be on Vahdeddin and his friends!—it is practically a civil war that they have engineered.” He went off into details, and Hassan listened with drawn brows—it was profoundly discouraging news.

  “The people here seem all right,” he said at length.

  “Oh yes, splendid! Marvellous types! But you will see, in Ankara it is not so easy.”

  After the usual hour’s halt for lunch they set off again towards Kastamonu. The country was still rolling and open, the road, for a Turkish road, tolerable; the spring sun was warm—even Nilüfer was cheered. Beside them now, instead of the chain-gangs, long fi
les of cagnés crept along in convoys of thirty or forty, their wooden wheels creaking hideously on the un-oiled axles—but the teamsters were still nearly all women, who whipped, pulled, or prodded the lethargic oxen —here and there children ran in front or behind, and many loads of shells had a baby perched a-top. “Really,” Hassan called out from his horse, “they are formidable, are they not?”

  But what charmed Nilüfer was the flatter country. “So lovely, no mountains or precipices!” she said. However, the road presently climbed up through a shallow gorge of reddish earth pock-marked with dark bushes to a ridge; from the summit they looked out across a wide shallow trough of valley, spreading away for miles—and far beyond this, in the remote distance, blazing red and almost incandescent in the sunset light, a great range of mountains stood up, like the battlements of Heaven.

  “How glorious! What is it?” Féridé exclaimed.

  “Effendim, that is the Ilghaz Dagh,” Mehmet replied.

  “But we don’t have to go through it?” Nilüfer asked, nervously.

  “Effendim, we go over it,” Mehmet replied, with gloomy relish. “The road is bad, very bad, terrible—and the hans are worse!”

  “Can we not go round?” asked Féridé, who also thought this prospect sounded most unpleasant. She wished Hassan were there; she suspected Mehmet of taking a wicked pleasure in playing on their fears. But Hassan had cantered on ahead to arrange a room for them for the night.

  “Effendim, that means going by Tosia, and there the road is far worse, indeed impassable at this season; besides being more than a day’s drive out of our way.”

  So they drove rather gloomily down into Kastamonu, deriving more fear than pleasure from the sight of that great range ahead, from which the sunset splendours gradually died as they went, till they saw the lights shining along the embankments on either side of the Kara-Su, the Black River, and gleaming faintly from windows on the slopes above; and climbing a little through narrow streets drove at last through a great pointed-arched portico in a long brick façade into an immense courtyard, with two storeys of vaulted brick loggias surrounding it on all four sides, and a strange little wooden edifice in the centre—the principal han of the city.