What a curious thing it was I found so much difficulty in answering Zeyneb’s letters. To send anything banal to my new friend I felt certain was to run the risk of ending the correspondence.

She knew I was in sympathy with her; she knew I could understand, as well as any one, how awful her life must have been, but to have told her so would have offended her. Most of the reasons for her escape, every argument that could justify her action, she had given me, except one; and it was probably that “one” reason that had most influenced her.

In due time probably she would tell me all, but if she did not, nothing I could do or say would make her, for Turkish women will not be cross-examined. One of them, when asked one day in a Western drawing-room “how many wives has your father?” answered, without hesitation, “as many as your husband, Madame.”

Zeyneb had once told me that I succeeded in guessing so much the truth of what could not be put into words. She had on one occasion said “we never see our husbands until we are married,” and a little later “sometimes the being whose existence we have to share inspires us with a horror that can never be overcome.” Putting these two statements together, I was able to draw my own conclusions as to the “one” reason.... Poor little Zeyneb!

It seemed to me from the end of her letter, that Zeyneb would have been grateful had I said that I approved of her action in leaving her own country. To have told her the contrary would not have helped matters in the least, and sooner or later she was sure to find out her mistake for herself.

And who that noticed her enthusiasm for all she saw would have dreamt of the tragedy that was in her life? The innocent delight she had when riding on the top of a bus, and her jubilation at discovering an Egyptian Princess indulging in the same form of amusement!

Zeyneb told me that economy was a word for which there was no equivalent in the Turkish language, so how could she be expected to practise an art which did not exist in her country? It was from her I had learnt the habit of answering her letters by telegram, and the result had been satisfactory. “Eagerly waiting for another letter,” I wired her. The following letter arrived:

Fontainebleau, Oct. 1906.

A few days after our arrival began in earnest a new experience for us. The “demands” for interviews from journalists—every post brought a letter. Many reporters, it is true, called without even asking permission; wanted to know our impressions of West Europe after eight days; the reasons why we had left Turkey; and other questions still more ignorant and extraordinary about harem life.

When, however, we had conquered the absurd Oriental habit of being polite, we changed our address, and called ourselves by Servian names.

What an extraordinary lack of intelligence, it seemed, to suppose that in a few phrases could be related the history of the Turkish woman’s evolution; and the psychology of a state of mind which forces such and such a decision explained. How would it have been possible to give the one thousand and one private reasons connected with our action! And what would be the use of explaining all this to persons one hoped never to see again—persons by whom you are treated as a spectacle, a living spectacle, whose adventures will be retailed in a certain lady’s boudoir to make her “five o’clock” less dull?

“What made you think of running away from Turkey?” asked one of these press detectives. He might as well have been saying to me, “You had on a blue dress the last time I saw you, why are you not wearing it to-day?”

“Weren’t you sorry to leave your parents?” asked another. Did he suppose because we were Turks that we had hearts of stone. How could anyone, a complete stranger too, dare to ask such a question? And yet, angry as I was, this indiscretion brought tears to my eyes, as it always does when I think of that good-bye.

“Good night, little girl,” said my father, on the eve of our departure. “Don’t be so long in coming to dine with us again. Promise that you will come one day next week.”

I almost staggered. “I’ll try,” I answered. Every minute I felt that I must fling myself in his arms and tell him what I intended to do, but when I thought of our years and years of suffering, my mind was made up, and I kept back my tears.

Do you see now, dear Englishwoman, why we appreciated your discreet interest in us, and how we looked forward to a friendship with you who have understood so well, that there can be tears behind eyes that smile, that a daughter’s heart is not necessarily hard because she breaks away from the family circle, nor is one’s love for the Fatherland any the less great because one has left it forever? All this we feel you have understood, and again and again we thank you.—Your affectionate

Zeyneb.

Fontainebleau, Oct. 1906.

You ask me to give you my first impression of France (wrote Zeyneb), but it is not so much an impression of France, as the impression of being free, that I am going to write. What I would like to describe to you is the sensation of intense joy I felt as I stood for the first time before a window wide open that had neither lattice-work nor iron bars.

It was at Nice. We had just arrived from our terrible journey. We had gone from hotel to hotel, but no one would give us shelter even for a few hours. Was that Christian charity, to refuse a room because I was thought to be dying? I cannot understand this sentiment. A friend explained that a death in an hotel would keep other people away. Why should the Christians be so frightened of death?

I was too ill at the moment to take in our awful situation, and quite indifferent to the prospect of dying on the street. Useless it was, however, our going to any more hotels; it was waste of time and waste of breath, and I had none of either to spare. No one advised us, and no one seemed to care to help us, until, by the merest chance, my sister remembered our friends in Belgrade had given us a doctor’s address. We determined to find him if we possibly could. In half an hour’s time we found our doctor, who sent us at once to a sanatorium. There they could not say, “You are too ill to come in,” seeing illness was a qualification for admittance. But I shall not linger on those first moments in Europe: they were sad beyond words.

It must have been early when I awoke the next morning, to find the sun forcing its way through the white curtains, and flooding the whole room with gold. Ill as I was, the scene was so beautiful that I got out of bed and opened wide the window, and what was my surprise to find that there was no lattice-work between me and the blue sky, and the orange trees, and the hills of Nice covered with cypress and olives? The sanatorium garden was just one mass of flowers, and their sweet perfume filled the room. With my eyes I drank in the scene before me, the hills, and the sea, and the sky that never seemed to end.

A short while after, my sister came in. She also from her window had been watching at the same time as I. But no explanation was necessary. For the first time in our lives we could look freely into space—no veil, no iron bars. It was worth the price we had paid, just to have the joy of being before that open window. I sign myself in Turkish terms of affection.—Your carnation and your mouse,

Zeyneb.