by Ann Bridge
“They will be leaving soon, also,” she added. “Captain Grant, I am so very sorry.” There was nothing more to say.
He picked up his hat. “I think I’d better be going,” he said. He paused by the picture of Réfiyé Hanim. “Do you mind telling me who that is?” he asked suddenly.
“My Grandmother, who died this year,” she answered in surprise.
“It’s extraordinarily like you,” he said, still looking at it. “I should like to have known her.” He turned and held out his hand. “Goodbye.”
“I forgot to tell you that you are dining tonight with my husband and Dr. Pierce and Mr. Fisher at the restaurant,” she said hurriedly. “You will forgive what looks like a lack of hospitality, but I thought it would be easier for everyone.” He nodded. She thought of everything, this Féridé. “My husband will be here at any moment,” she went on—“unless you would rather go now?”
“Yes, I think I’d better.”
“Then I will find Fanny—she will wish to bid you adieu.” She held out her hand, saying again—“I am so very sorry.”
“I know you are,” he said, as he wrung her hand. “Goodbye.”
Whatever Fanny might have thought, in fact Féridé and Alec Grant had found quite a lot to say to one another.
. . . . . .
As Féridé passed through the hall on her way upstairs she encountered Dr. Pierce. She told a servant to send Fatma to tell Fani Hanim that she was wanted in the salon at once; and then with a hand on his arm shepherded Dr. Pierce into Orhan’s study.
“Someone to see Fanny?” the Doctor asked.
“Yes—Captain Grant.”
“Alec? Good God, what is he doing out here?”
Féridé sat down in the chair in front of the writing-table and fell into slightly hysterical laughter; the Doctor waited with his usual calm patience.
“Forgive me,” she said at last—“It has all been so awful that it is almost comical! I believe that this miserable Fisher must have written and told Captain Grant that the Ghazi was—paying attention to Fanny; he was here, you know—by the worst mischance—when her tesbih arrived from Kemal Pasha.”
“Oh, did he send her a tesbih?” the Doctor asked with mild interest. “I didn’t know. Was it a good one?”
“Yes, exquisite!” Féridé began to laugh again—she adored Dr. Pierce and his attitude to the events of life. But this time she checked herself quickly.
“It is very sad, really,” she said—“Fanny has broken off her engagement.”
“Oh, has she? Do you know why? I suppose she’s upset at Alec’s coming rushing out like this,” the Doctor said. “Really, I don’t altogether wonder. He’s a rather insular person, Alec.” Again Féridé was tempted to laugh, but restrained herself.
“Perhaps that is it. Anyhow he is in the salon, waiting to say goodbye to her.” This was being unexpectedly easy, she thought—Dr. Pierce was taking it all so very calmly. But the Doctor, as an exceptional measure, was at last quietly turning his attention away from literature and folk-lore to his niece and her affairs.
“Féridé Hanim, my dear, do you think Fanny has fallen in love with Kemal Pasha?” he asked presently.
“Dear Dr. Pierce, I am afraid that she has, to some extent.”
“Oh well, that is all folly,” the Doctor said benignly. “He’s a man of great charm, you know—one understands it well enough. But it won’t do. If that’s the way it is we’d better go home as soon as we can. We’ve paid you a tremendous visitation, anyhow, my dear.”
“Dearest Dr. Pierce, we have enjoyed every hour of every day of your visit!” Féridé exclaimed warmly. “But I fear you are right—for her, it would be better to leave.”
She spoke apologetically, as she felt, but no explanations were necessary with the Doctor; he took in all the implications of the situation, once it really came within the focus of his attention.
“Better all round,” he said. “One can’t have talk going on, especially about a foreigner. All wrong—particularly just now.” Actually the expression he used for “talk” was dedikodu, the untranslatable Turkish word for something a shade more regrettable than gossip, which Féridé had employed when she spoke to Orhan about the cigarette-case. “I expect this Master Fisher may be able to hurry up our getting sleepers on the Orient Express—the Embassy people usually can.”
“Yes, this at least he might do!” Féridé said tartly. The Doctor laughed.
“He’s not a bad boy,” he said. “He’s a bit young.”
“Oh, by the way, you are all dining together tonight—you and Orhan, and he, and this poor Grant. I thought it would be simpler than a dinner here,” Féridé said.
“Oh yes, much better. Where?”
“Carpic’s—it is the only place.”
“Ah yes. Well, I’d better go and wash before lunch.” But he didn’t go—he lingered, looking thoughtfully at a framed piece of Izzet’s calligraphy on the wall, which the Pasha had given to Orhan. Close by it was another, the gold paint in which the characters were inscribed very clear and bright, and the Doctor turned to this.
“That’s Kemal Pasha’s, isn’t it? Beautifully done. Funny he should want to abolish the old script, when he’s such a master at it himself. He’s an astonishing man. Hmm. Poor Alec!” He was musing aloud. “Féridé, my dear, I hope all this hasn’t been too much of a worry to you” he said, turning round on her suddenly.
“Oh no—only these last few days—and that I am so sorry about Fanny.”
“Ah yes. Poor Fanny. Well, people have to go through these things, I suppose.” He looked shrewdly at her. Tm not sure that she’d have been very happy with young Grant,” he said. “He’s really very insular.”
At that moment they heard the sounds of Captain Grant’s departure in the passage outside. “He’s sure not to have tipped your man,” the Doctor said, listening. “I don’t think he’s the sort of fellow who ever learns the right thing to do anywhere.” Féridé smiled.
“Perhaps. But he is really very nice—he is so sincere. And good,” she added. She thought, but could not say, that if only Fanny had more of her lover’s simple goodness and rectitude she would not be making this mess of her life.
“Well, I really must go,” said Dr. Pierce. “You keep a man idling beside you, my dear! Your Mother, they said, used to be just the same.”
When he had gone Féridé sat on where she was. She felt extraordinarily tired, and there was nothing more to do. She heard Fanny go upstairs, her usually light footfall slow on the treads. A few moments later she heard her husband come in, and called very softly—“Orhan.”
He came into the study.
“You are here, my Life? Quel drame! Is it still going on? Where are they all?”
“No, it is over. Captain Grant has gone—I imagine he is staying with Fisher; Fanny is upstairs, and the Doctor is getting ready for lunch.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I was too lazy to go back to the salon,” she said, smiling up at him.
“Too tired is what you mean,” he said, stooping to kiss her. “My poor treasure, what an affair! Does the Doctor know?”
“Yes, I told him. It is final, Orhan.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he thought she would never have been happy with Captain Grant,” said Féridé, beginning to laugh a very little.
“Why is this amusing?” he asked, stroking her head.
“It is not—it is sad. It is just the way he spoke of it, and of the whole affair. He loves Fanny, and is sorry for her, but he takes everything so calmly, because he looks always at the facts.”
“He is a man quite of the first order,” Orhan said. “But what happens now?”
“Oh, they leave. They must—the Doctor sees that clearly. They go as soon as sleepers can be arranged.”
“Tiens! Well, I shall miss him. But now listen, Light of my Eyes; I have a piece of news for you—that is why I am late.”
“What, then?”<
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“I am offered the post of Counsellor in Paris.”
“In Paris?”
“Yes. The suggestion comes from the Minister of Foreign Affairs, but Ismet Pasha also approves of the idea.”
“And what does he say?”
Orhan looked a little rueful.
“At first he was indignant, and shouted—the Minister made the proposal in a conversation with him, of course; he could not have done otherwise.”
“Well, and then?”
“Enfin, after asking the Minister why he wanted to cut off his right hand,” Orhan said, grinning rather happily, “he calmed down and told me that he did not wish to stand in the way of my career, and that I should decide.”
“So did you accept?”
“Not immediately, no. I asked for time for consideration. That pleased the Ghazi, I could see. But,” the young man said, with one of his rather rare bursts of simplicity and humility, “I wished for your opinion.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours. Ah, if Niné were alive, we would consult her—she had such great wisdom. But I think she has left you some of it,” he said, smiling at his wife. Féridé was silent—she was thinking of Captain Grant standing in front of Réfiyé Hanim’s photograph. How strange that the stranger had felt that great old lady’s power, merely from her lifeless picture.
Orhan could not interpret her silence—and when he was at a loss he invariably turned to words to fill the vacuum.
“Think of it!” he said—“Paris! The theatres, the music, the society—la ville lumière! And we could buy you such dresses, such hats!” Still she was silent—words were no open sesame to his wife’s mind, as Orhan really knew by now. “I wish to do the thing that you would like,” he said at last quite humbly, kissing her hand.
Her brows were drawn down. “I will reflect on it,” she said.
Alec Grant left next day, and Fanny and Dr. Pierce as soon as they had succeeded in getting sleepers—with the ready assistance of Mr. Fisher, who was in rather a chastened frame of mind, this was arranged in three or four days. On the last afternoon—the train to Istanbul left in the evening—Fanny, tired with packing, went down into the salon where Féridé sat sewing by the open doors onto the balcony.
“Have you finished?” Féridé asked, as the girl sank wearily into a chair beside her. “What a disagreeable task packing is!”
“Yes, it is—loathsome,” Fanny said. “Especially when one’s going away from what one cares about.” She leant her head back against the chair—then, changing her mind, leaned forward to look out. The leaves that framed the balcony were now a deep yellow, speckled with black, and the light that came into the room was no longer green and dim but warm and golden: pouring through the golden leaves, thrown up from the yellowing vineyards that sloped gently away below the house; further down the hill poplars and the scrub of acacias which filled the upper end of the valley were brilliant as daffodils in the afternoon sunshine. Autumn is the one season of the year when Ankara bursts into undeniable beauty, with this explosion of yellow and gold on every side. As if drawn by a magnet Fanny got up from her chair and went out onto the balcony, the better to see it all. Along the track to her right, dusty and white between the thick yellow pattern of the vine-leaves, Mustafa Kemal, followed by his dog, had come walking into her life. She gave a tiny sigh. “Lovely lovely place,” she murmured to herself. Then she turned back to her friend.
“Féridé, do you think I shall ever see you again?”
“Yes, certainly,” Féridé said, with calm decision.
“How? Where?”
“The world is large,” Féridé said smiling. “But actually, there is a possibility that might bring me very near to you.”
“Is there? Oh, what?”
“It is still not settled, so you will not speak of it, but Orhan may be going to Paris.”
“Good Heavens! How exciting. When shall you know for certain?”
“When we have decided—the offer has been made, and Kemal Pasha will not oppose it if Orhan desires to go. I rather wished to talk to you about it,” Féridé said; “I should like to hear what you think.”
“What I think? But Féridé, what earthly use could my views be on Orhan’s career?” Fanny said, her hand still on the rail of the balcony. “He wouldn’t give half a piastre for them!”
“I am not sure even of that; but in any case, I am being consulted,” said Féridé gaily, “and I wish to hear them very much.”
“Darling, all right—only I can’t imagine why.” Fanny came in again and sat down, thinking how often she and Féridé had talked through the door onto the narrow balcony, and how often she had come in when a conversation began to get interesting. This was the last time. “Go on,” she said: “I’m longing to hear all about it.”
“The question is this,” Féridé said, soberly now; “at least for me especially it is the question—Where can we be of most use to our country? I do not worry about Orhan’s career; that is secure in any case, I think,” she said calmly, and Fanny nodded emphatic assent. “I believe he would make a good diplomat; I know he is of great value to the Ghazi here. But I guess also that our Government is anxious at present to send diplomats abroad whose wives can représenter properly—not women who either refuse to appear at all, or who turn up at State functions, where everyone else is en grande toilette, wearing a long feradjé and with their heads swathed, so that they look like Imams!” Féridé said, with such vehemence that Fanny laughed.
“Dji-djim, I am sure you are right,” she said. “If they looked like the deputies’ wives at the ball they would certainly create a very odd impression in London or Paris!”
“Exactly. But our women here at home need encouragement and teaching—they require to be given a lead,” Féridé pursued with great earnestness. “I am sure the Ghazi is right in what he desires for our nation, but these things do not happen by themselves!—someone has to work at them. You saw what it was like, at the ball, for yourself: how the foreigners looked at those women who stood aside to let their husbands pass first through the doorway.” She spoke a little hesitantly when she referred to the ball, remembering with embarrassment the last time that they had spoken of it—Fanny remembered too, and the colour came into her face. “But if we do not learn to behave like the women of the western nations here at home,” Féridé hurried on, “where shall we be in the modern world? The women of family can pick it up for themselves—really, they know it already—but not the rest.”
“Yes, I see,” Fanny said. “Really it comes to this, that what you do in this, in either job, is practically as important as Orhan’s work.”
“No, not so important; but not without importance. That is why I want your opinion. You have been here, now; you know the situation, and what is aimed at—and you have seen our women today and how far they are still from the goal. Also,” Féridé said, with a dry little smile, “you know better than any of us what the goal is really like when one gets there, because you are at it!—you are a European.”
Fanny blushed again, at that, but all she said was “Yes, I see,” once more. She was thinking of what Féridé had become—poised and skilful, firm and wise; quite obviously a source of strength and inspiration to her husband, for all his own brilliance, and a counterpoise to his volatile temperament. And besides all this, she was now fitted to be a leader of women anywhere. She remembered what Alec had found time to say, even in those wretched moments of farewell—“She’s a wonderful woman, your Mme Orhan; I’d no idea she was like that. Now that I’ve met her, I see that you were right about her all along.” So astonishing, from him!
“Let me think,” she said now, and sat twiddling the stalk of a vine-leaf in her fingers. Féridé waited quietly.
“No,” Fanny said at last, decidedly. “I shouldn’t go, I should stay here. I believe you can do far more at home, pulling these poor half-fledged creatures along, and showing them how to live the European life. You’ve got a tremendous influence over them;
I can see that. I think you could do a magnificent job here, good as you’d be abroad, and heavenly as it would be to have you in Paris.”
Féridé looked at her, glowing.
“Do you say so? I am so very glad. That was my own thought, too. But if I can, if I succeed, I shall really owe it so much to you,” she said, looking earnestly at Fanny.
“Why on earth?”
“But do you not see? Think what it has meant to me, through all those years of my childhood, when a person’s attitude to life is shaping itself, to have had your companionship, to learn your outlook—the outlook of an English girl! At that age one takes in ideas as a sponge sucks in water, without knowing that one does it. Marthe used to say that you made me wild, but it was only the wildness of freedom, of an independence such as our girls do not have. We are spoiled, choyées, yes —but we have not been independent, hitherto.”
“I don’t think I was so very wild,” Fanny protested; she was rather startled by this outburst.
“No, you were not; you were very well-mannered—Marthe was saying so only this spring, and Baba also. But it was the independence— you went your own way, whatever anyone said.”
“I’m afraid I still do.” Fanny threw a half-guilty look at her friend.
“Enfin, yes, my Two Eyes! But I am thinking of the past. Do you remember when Dr. Pierce went to Trebizond, and intended to leave you alone in that terrible pension?”
“Yes, rather—and I should have been quite all right,” said Fanny: “Mme Kaftanoglou wasn’t a bad old thing.”
“But do you not see?—that it was conceivable that you should remain alone there, a girl of fourteen! I realise now that Niné was really appalled by that, though she said nothing. And I remember how astonished Baba was when Dr. Pierce told him that you were helping to make the translations for his folk-lore book—he spoke of it to Niné and me. You were learned!” Féridé said, her grey eyes very wide. “Learned at fourteen! Our girls are not so.”
“Well, yes, it was a bit unusual, my knowing Turkish,” Fanny agreed. “But that was just Uncle, and coming here all the time.”