Chapter VIII: A Turkish Mother

I have been this afternoon with Fâtima buying “birth” presents. In a Moslem house it is difficult to find a more appropriate name for these presents, which correspond to our christening presents. These “birth” presents, however, were not only for a little new arrival in this world, but for the dear friend to whom this little life was to be entrusted.

This custom of honouring the mother as well as the child, insignificant though it may seem, is only one of the few ways in which homage is paid to the mother in the East. Here all maternity is respected. Not only the married mother, but the unmarried mother, is respected, so that the woman who is left with the “child of her shame” to do the best she can for it and herself does not exist yet in Turkey. It is true the Turks do not consider their women “responsible” for either their good or bad conduct, however much freedom Islam gives them. In this, as in most things, we and the Turks are at the Antipodes. According to the Moslem law, a woman has absolute control of her own fortune; she can exercise any profession she likes; but when it is a question of a misdeed--theft, for example--the husband is responsible. I do not defend the Turkish system--nor do I defend ours, and the Turkish women themselves now recognize they must be accounted responsible for their good and their bad deeds.

To understand the importance given to maternity, one must have lived for a while in the East. Mahomet placed maternity above everything else when he said “Paradise was at the mother’s feet.” In the highest circles and in the poor man’s house the mother rules. As cadines (wives) the Sultan’s legitimate wives do not count socially, yet if the son of one of them becomes Sultan, she then is the highest lady in the land--the Validé-Sultana, to whom all petitions from the women to the Imperial Master must be addressed. She is the head of the Ottoman Court, the only woman before whom the Sultan kneels.

And so in private life, the relations between mother and son are not the same as with us. There are always reverence and respect for her as well as love. She is not the “old mater,” nor would he allow her to wait on him. However great a scoundrel a man may be, however deep his hands may be steeped in blood, he will rise when his mother comes into the room, kiss her hand, then raise it to his forehead as a sign of great respect, and inquire for the health of Annajim (my dear mother), and give her the seat of honour.

In the homes of the people, in the two-roomed cabins in Asia Minor, and where they still eat out of one dish, helping themselves with their fingers, the son will only take his share when he is sure his mother has taken a substantial helping. The law of Islam obliges a man to keep his mother, and his wife accepts this as a matter of course.

A young Turkish woman who marries and has her own establishment, as with us, is the exception rather than the rule, and, personally, amongst all the women with whom I am acquainted, I know no one who does not live either with her husband’s or her own parents. Some parents make the stipulation before consenting to their daughter’s marriage that she shall still live with them, and I have met some parents who have refused good marriages for their daughters simply because they could not allow them to leave their home. The Turkish mother urges her son to marry as soon as possible. He marries before he can even keep himself. His family sees nothing extraordinary in the fact that they have not only to keep him, but his wife and family.

“And the mother-in-law?” one naturally asks. The relationship between a Turkish mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law is quite different from the relationship existing in the West. My hostess and her mother-in-law remind me not a little of Ruth and Naomi. The daughter-in-law treats her husband’s mother just as she would treat her own mother, _i.e._ she has the same position towards her mother-in-law that she had towards her own mother before marriage. It is the mother-in-law who is the head of the house, the mother-in-law who sits in the place of honour, the mother-in-law who is first greeted, the mother-in-law who gives permission to do such and such a thing, and who is called by her daughter-in-law Hanoum Effendi (honoured lady).

My friend cannot understand how difficult it would be for a daughter-in-law in England to live with her husband’s mother, nor can she understand the tactless Western woman who expects a mother-in-law, her superior in age and experience, to give over the household to her son’s wife. “My turn will come, alas! only too soon,” one lady said, “when I become a mother-in-law, then I expect my daughter-in-law to treat me as I have treated my husband’s mother--to love and respect me, and not to make of me a subject of ridicule.” I must say it is difficult to think of the sweet-faced woman who sits at the head of our table as a mother-in-law in the Western sense of the word. She effaces herself with exquisite tact; absents herself when she thinks her presence unnecessary--for example, at our harem tea parties; gives advice only when it is asked; and is always ready to show how grateful she is to have gained a daughter and not lost her son.

It is curious and astonishing to see this woman of another generation not understanding in the least her daughter-in-law’s civilization and culture and yet accepting it as perfectly all right. After the midday meal her prayer carpet is taken out of the cupboard and laid for her on the floor of her room, her shoes are removed, she performs her ablutions, veils her hair, and prays in the picturesque manner of the East. She obeys the teaching of Mahomet in the letter and not in the spirit, yet if it enters her head to wonder why her daughter-in-law performs none of the prescribed religious duties she never makes a remark.

When the young Bey’s brother officers dine with us she absents herself from the table, for although nothing would induce her to be present, she sees no reason for her daughter-in-law not presiding at the table. Is it, I wonder, a broad mind which understands without understanding, or is it a supreme trust in her son, that he will only allow his wife to do those things which are right, or is it fatalism, a resignation to put up with what you cannot change? At any rate, the smooth working of a ménage of women of totally different centuries, the possibility of their living together in perfect peace and affection, shows there must be sacrifice on both sides, and a tact and diplomacy, which we do not possess.

It might be argued, the Turkish bride is of the mother-in-law’s choosing. Generally yes, but not always. In a marriage _à la Turque_ the bridegroom takes on trust her whom his mother chooses for him. He is usually content with the choice, or, if he is not, he accepts her as his written fate and makes the best of the situation. But since the Turkish man has become accustomed to Western civilization he no longer will marry _à la Turque_, and since the customs of the country do not allow a man to see and speak with the woman he is to marry, many of them prefer to marry a European.

A Turk recently told me you could not expect thinking Turkish men to make a real Turkish marriage. He does not want a plaything--he wants a companion, and Europe affords him the possibility of at least knowing the woman he is to marry. To me it seems a dangerous and unsatisfactory way of solving the woman question. Turks who have acted otherwise have in general linked their existences with that of not the best class of European society, to put it rather mildly. In fact, so serious did it become that a short while ago the then Turkish Minister of Foreign Affairs issued an order forbidding Turkish diplomatists to marry without the consent of their Government. Truly a wise measure. All details are required by the Turkish Government of the young lady’s Embassy, and marriage without the Government’s consent means dismissal from the service.

When the Turkish woman has a foreign daughter-in-law, the ménage does not always run on smooth lines. The European is unable to adapt herself to her new surroundings, she does not take the trouble to understand the working of an entirely new civilization.... I have in these cases, however, always admired the forbearance and tact of the Turkish woman.

The modern Turkish woman demands the privilege of talking with her future husband before her fate is signed and sealed. She does not have the opportunity of knowing him as we Englishwomen know our future husbands, but she can at least know whether he will “get on her nerves,” in which case she refuses to marry him. Judging, however, as she still does, by instinct, she generally chooses at least a man whom she can respect and a man whose physical appearance pleases her. Many women, however, have owned to me that they accepted their husbands not with any feeling of gratitude or delight, but rather with one of profound thankfulness they were no worse.

Most emphatically I disapprove of marriages between men of the East and women of the West, not because I do not think Turkish men good husbands and fathers, not because I do not consider them honest, upright men, but because I always see in one of these unions, if not disaster for the young couple themselves, at least disenchantment for the children of these unions.

When discussing this subject seriously with a Turkish man who honoured me by asking my advice about his proposed marriage with a foreign lady, he confessed he preferred to marry a Mohammedan lady, but the “veil” placed too many obstacles in the way of his enjoying her companionship. “Why not marry a Turkish woman and give her her freedom?” “No,” he answered, “the women must go slowly; I shall be in my grave before they are free.”

If ever Turkish women wanted an argument in favour of a strong militant movement, they have it in the colossal egoism of men like these. Had she the courage to break her fetters, then he would honour her with his protection, but since she has not, the foreigner, often the Turkish woman’s social inferior, becomes his life companion. The law of Islam, at least a bad interpretation of the law of Islam, refuses to allow a Turkish woman to marry any but a Mohammedan, whereas a Moslem man may marry a Christian woman; the woman now understands the slight this is to her sex and intelligence.

Since Turkish women cannot retaliate, then, by marrying a man of the West, how are they to accept the challenge other than by fighting for freedom?

I have so often sighed here for the daring of some of my countrywomen, inconsistent as it may seem. What these women need is a strong woman at their head--a strong, responsible woman, with a definite programme, and able to gain the confidence of her sex. It is the circumstances which make the hero or heroine. “I am such an one as my age requireth,” says the Book of Judith. It was the Hamidian régime which made Enver Pasha--there will come, most surely, a woman leader, and that moment may not be far off.

With a feeling of thankfulness that her husband is no worse, the Turkish woman (there are exceptions, of course) naturally stakes everything on maternity. That there should be women in the West who actually refuse to have children is incomprehensible to my friends, and that there are women who for the sake of their figures give their children to strangers to nurse is almost as incomprehensible.

“What have we Eastern women in common with you women of the West--not even the heart,” said one day a Turkish woman to me as she caressed the little curly-headed girl who played at her knees. She added, “All my life’s happiness is in that little form; my greatest sorrow was when I found it was physically impossible to nurse her, and every time I hear her call her foster-mother ‘Anna’ (mother), a name no doubt she deserves, I have just a tiny pain at my heart.” And yet how good she is to this poor peasant woman. She had been deserted by her husband, her own child died a few days after its birth. “You understand,” she went on, “she will stay with me as long as ever she likes. She has been too good to my child for me ever to leave her without a home.”

Aïche-Hanoum, the mother-to-be, for whom we bought presents, has been the subject of conversation for weeks past. To her all kinds of delicacies are sent, the most comfortable place is reserved for her in the harem, there is always some one to tuck her up amongst the cushions. How tenderly she is spoken of, how tenderly she is spoken to ... in a short while Aïche will be called to fulfil the divine mission (according to the East) for which every woman was sent into the world. Then her outlook on life will be different. She will have a different position towards her friends; it is almost as if she had, as it were, risen in the social scale.

* * * * *

We went to visit Aïche, the very day the little new arrival was expected. “In all probability we shall stay all night,” said my friend before we started. “But shall we not be in the way?” I asked. “Of course not,” she replied. “How happy Aïche will be to feel we are there; we Turkish women always take part in one another’s joys and sorrows.”

With my British fear of being in the way where I was certainly of no use, I took my place with the other six friends of Aïche who had come to be present at this very important moment in her life’s history.

We were seated round the big mangol alternately drinking coffee (which we ourselves made on the red-hot charcoal), smoking and eating sweets. Two of the ladies had bound their heads up with handkerchiefs to prevent their having headaches, a precaution I did not imitate however much my friends advised me to do so. We did not speak. We just sat round the mangol waiting, waiting....

I occupied the most comfortable of the _mussaffir’s_ rooms (guests’ rooms) that night, for the other guests’ beds were made on mattresses on the floor, in the Eastern unceremonious fashion. I should have preferred to occupy one of these “emergency” beds--they are perfectly comfortable--for in the guests’ room when I finally sank to rest after the safe arrival of the little girl, I had the same uncomfortable feeling of the unnecessary trouble I was giving.

But the Eastern woman has not yet begun what we in the West know as “the servant trouble.” With the abolition of slavery, however, this is on its way. When all the slaves in Fâtima’s family are married, she must necessarily employ hired domestics; with education “hired domestics” become _exigeants_. They will object to making coffee and emergency beds at all times and at all hours, then “good-bye” to the charming unceremonious hospitality of the East.... I asked a Turkish lady who had lived for some months in London what she most appreciated in our capital. “What I know best,” she answered, “is Mrs. ----’s registry office for servants.”

The next afternoon a host of friends and acquaintances arrived to pay a visit to the mother and the little girl. In my country the doctor and the nurse would have forbidden these visits as the height of imprudence; here “it is a matter of habit.” It is true the visitors, in most cases, only passed in a procession before the mother and child, but even that seemed unnecessary fatigue for the mother, much as I was assured to the contrary.

The mother and daughter were picturesquely arranged. The mother, in her big bed, covered with a priceless embroidery, and the child, in a smaller bed, covered with a smaller quilt of the same priceless embroidery, peacefully sleeping, and a French Sister of Mercy, with her big white _cornet_, playing the part of nurse. It was a pretty picture--a picture which brought tears of emotion to the eyes of the visitors. It is an old and beautiful masterpiece--the mother and her child--all the world over, and a masterpiece at which every true woman looks again and again, and always with delight.

All the guests brought presents for the mother and child, according to their means. Some were of the greatest value--jewels, embroideries, stuffs--and Fâtima tells me her “birth” presents formed a very important part of her trousseau. But why, at a Turkish birth ceremony, is cinnamon syrup given to the guests? No one can tell me. To me this beverage is the only unpleasant feature of a most charming ceremony.

They called her “Melek” (Angel), the little girl. I made a sign of the Cross on her little forehead. Her mother was pleased. And as I made that sign I wondered why our Western mothers are not honoured as they are in the East. Christ paid as high a tribute to maternity as Mahomet. Who is responsible for the misinterpretation of His words? Is it civilization, or is it the Church?