Memories Of Halide Edib

Anon

Description

Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. Hesperides Press are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528760348
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

MEMOIRS OF HALID EDIB
MEMOIRS OF HALID EDIB
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
F IRST E DITION 1926
PRINTED IN U.S.A.
CONTENTS
PART I
BETWEEN THE OLD AND THE NEW TURKEY, 1885-1908
I T HIS I S THE S TORY OF A L ITTLE G IRL
II W HEN THE S TORY B ECOMES M INE
III O UR V ARIOUS H OMES IN S CUTARI
IV T HE W ISTERIA-COVERED H OUSE A GAIN
V C OLLEGE FOR THE S ECOND T IME
VI M ARRIED L IFE AND THE W ORLD
PART II
NEW TURKEY IN THE MAKING
VII T HE P ERIOD OF P OLITICAL R EFORM : T HE T ANZIMAT , 1839-76
VIII T HE Y OUNG T URKS
IX T HE C ONSTITUTIONAL R EVOLUTION OF 1908
X T OWARD R EACTION : T HE A RMENIAN Q UESTION
XI R EFUGEE FOR THE F IRST T IME
XII S OME P UBLIC AND P ERSONAL E VENTS, 1909-12
XIII P HASES AND C AUSES OF N ATIONALISM AND P AN -T URANISM IN T URKEY
XIV T HE B ALKAN W AR
XV M Y E DUCATIONAL A CTIVITIES, 1913-14
XVI T HE W ORLD W AR, 1914-16
XVII H OW I W ENT TO S YRIA
XVIII E DUCATIONAL W ORK IN S YRIA
E PILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
HALID EDIB, PORTRAIT OF
FAMILIAR OLD SCENES
THE CEMETERY WHERE I PLAYED AS A CHILD
MOSQUE OF SULEYMANIE
THE MAIN ROAD IN ISTAMBOUL
THE YARD OF THE EYOUB MOSQUE WHERE I FED THE PIGEONS AT EVERY YEARLY VISIT
ENTRANCE TO EYOUB MOSQUE
A SELAMLIK IN ABDUL HAMID S TIME
SULTAN TEP
ISTAMBOUL
THE HILL OPPOSITE OUR HOUSE IN SULTAN TEP
A TOUCH OF THE PAST
JENI-JEMI MOSQUE, AND THE DRESS OF THE TURKISH WOMAN OF NINETEEN HUNDRED
LANDING-PLACE IN SCUTARI
A VERY OLD STREET IN SCUTARI
IN ISTAMBOUL
THE MOSQUE OF FATIH
TURKISH WOMEN IN NINETEEN EIGHTEEN
ON THE WATERSIDE
WHEN THE MOSQUES WERE FULL THE FAITHFUL PRAYED OUTSIDE
CARPENTERING CLASS IN AINTOURA
MONTESSORI CLASS IN AINTOURA
A GROUP OF GIRLS IN AINTOURA
THE ARMENIAN CHILDREN WERE GOOD MUSICIANS
SHOEMAKING CLASS IN AINTOURA
PART ONE
BETWEEN THE OLD AND THE NEW TURKEY, 1885-1908
MEMOIRS OF HALID EDIB
CHAPTER I
THIS IS THE STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL
SEVERAL instances of sudden consciousness of herself flash into her memory as she muses on her first self-acquaintance. There is the background: the big house in Beshiktash, on a hill overlooking the blue Marmora at a distance, and near at hand the hills of Yildiz with the majestic white buildings surrounded by the rich dark green of pines and willows which are pointed out to her as the residence of his Majesty Abdul Hamid.
She is not, however, interested in what the distance held, for the old wisteria-covered house, peeping through the purple flowers, with its many windows flashing in the evening blaze, is dominating her. The garden is on terraces, and there are tall acacias, a low fruit orchard with its spring freshness and glory, and a long primitive vine-trellis casting an enchanting green light and shade on the narrow pathway beneath it. This is the place where she moves and plays. There is a little fountain too, with a pair of lions spouting water from their mouths in the evening hours-making the only music in the twilight there. In the early morning, pigeons, ever so many pigeons, walk round her, and she quietly watches granny feeding them with crumbs. The wonderful smell, the wonderful color-scheme, and the wonderful feeling of stepping into the world for the first time in that garden.
There is another flash, which faintly lights up another house, not granny s any longer, but her father s own house near-by. . . . An intense uneasiness and an obscure feeling, perhaps of undefined fear. The woman whom she calls mother is lying in semi-darkness beside her, in a large bed, clad in her white gown. There are those two long, silky plaits, which seem to coil with the life of some mysterious coiling animals, and that small, pale face with its unusually long, curly black lashes resting on the sickly pallor of the drawn cheeks. This mother is a thing of mystery and uneasiness to the little girl. She is afraid of her, she is drawn to her, and yet that thing called affection has not taken shape in her heart; there is only a painful sense of dependence on this mother who is quietly fading out from the background of her life. The only act of that mother which the little girl remembers is when she finds herself sitting on the rather specially comfortable lap and the pale face with its silky lashes is lighted by the tender luster of the dark eyes while the woman dexterously plays with the little girl s tiny hands and takes each finger and cuts the nails-rather low-for it hurts. But no howling is possible as long as that low voice, with, as it seems, some warm color caught from the eyes, murmurs, There is a little bird perched here (this is said to the palm); this one caught it (this is to the thumb); this one killed it; this ate it; and this little one came home from school and cried, Where is the bird? Where is the bird? Oh, the soft tickle of that touch and the hidden caress in that voice!
Another incident, but this time it is one of unrelieved misery. That soft mother dressed in white, with those wonderful eyes, has a dreadful habit of playing on a queer musical instrument. The little girl hated it passionately. She had not yet learned to bear ugly sounds and sights. A little girl from a poor neighbor s had come in and begged to hear the musical box, and the mother, indulgently, sweetly, no doubt, had begun turning the handle, producing the distorted music, whereupon the little one began to howl and kick and scream with all her might. She was really agonized by the horrible noise, and she had not yet realized that one is often alone in one s likes and dislikes, and one has just to learn to tolerate other people s false notes. But the little woman in white slapped her on her cheeks, locked the door so that she could not escape, and turned the handle of the hated thing on and on. How long it lasted before sheer exhaustion sent the little girl to sleep, she has no idea.
The next thing that appears in her memory is a sedan-chair with yellow curtains, carried by two men. The fading woman, dressed as always in white, is sitting inside, and they are taking her to a house in Yildiz. The little girl walks by the side of the horrible thing, her hand held by her father s tall groom. As they are going along she pulls open the yellow curtains and peeps in and sees there such a wan face with two such strange dark lights under their silky fringes that to this day she can see it clearly, painfully still. To this day too the little girl hates yellow. It gives her a sickly pain in her stomach.
The new house in Yildiz was large, but only three servants and that fading woman inhabited it-the father appearing only of an evening and riding away on his horse the first thing in the morning.
The light is once more turned down, and now there is no mother. The little girl stupidly wanders about, understands nothing, knows nothing, feels lonely and abandoned. Every evening the father sits by a small round table. One single candle flickers, and his tears fall on the candle-tray, while the servants walk about on tiptoe and pull the little girl away by the hand.
Ali is the man-servant who takes care of her; he is her lala , that indispensable personage in every old Turkish household, for which no English, no European, equivalent can exist, for it arose from roots wholly foreign to them, wholly Oriental. The lala was the natural outcome of the marked separation between the indoor and outdoor life of that day and world. Indoors was the delicate, intimate rule of women; out of doors was the realm of men. They could play there their proper r le of protector, and one felt happy and secure in their presence. As child, and as child only, one could share to the full the freedom of the two worlds, and one s lala was one s natural companion into all the open-air places of experience. Then too he brings with him into memory that je ne sais quoi of the old-world service-devotion, attachment, pride, possession even-which the modern Turkish world has forgotten but which made so much of the warmth and color of the old household life. In the lala s strength one was secure; on his devotion one could rely-tyrannously-and from his innocent familiarity one could learn the truths and fables which only fall from the lips of primitive affection. But to return. The little girl s lala is Ali, a quiet big man with a great deal of affection if she could specify that strange feeling yet. He is kind and grave and buys her colored sweets in the street, a thing which is strictly forbidden by her father. The woman who cooks and serves the meals is called Rassim, a dark and ugly creature with a face entirely covered by marks of smallpox. Rassim is in love with Ali, and Ali s brother Mustafa is the other man-servant. After the mother disappears the little one is in the men s sitting-room most of the time, and this is the way they must have talked, although she only realized the meaning of their words much later:
R ASSIM : The old lady is lost to everything in her mourning. She cannot move or think, so now I can do what I like with the child.
A LI : Stop that talk. I will make thy mother cry, if thou touchest a single hair of her head.
R ASSIM : But she s telling tales about us all the time. Thou knowest how she goes and mimics everything thou or I do so that every one knows what we are doing.
A LI : What does she know? Poor little mite! Thou liest, Rassim.
R ASSIM : Vallahi [by Allah], I don t -she grinds her teeth at the little girl- if she lets out anything more about us two I will let the crabs loose on her.
A LI : What are the crabs for?
R ASSIM : They are