Chapter IX: Women Writers of Turkey

There are not many, it is true, but there are Turkish writers and Turkish women writers. For so long, however, it has been the habit to condemn wholesale everything Turkish that most European nations have come to the inconsequent conclusion that there is no Turkish literature.

Say to the average European that you have started to study the Turkish language, and he will ask, “Unless you are to live in the country of what use is it? They have no literature.” How many times has that remark not been made to me! Yet there are some very fine masterpieces, and it is to an English Professor, Professor Browne, of Cambridge, that we owe a five-volume study of the history of Ottoman poetry, an intensely interesting and fascinating book, which has followed me into the houses of my Turkish friends.

It seems extraordinary to make such sweeping assertions without giving chapter and verse. “Had the Turks had an Omar Khayyam, long ago Europe would have known it,” says the Western critic; “Most certainly, had the Turk had the supreme good fortune to be translated by a Fitzgerald,” one might reply.

But it is not for one without an accurate knowledge of Turkish to compare the relative values of the Turkish and Persian poets. The Turks for a long period of their literary history bowed before the Persian culture, and once having accepted their methods, without, perhaps, any really particular reason for doing so, they remained loyal and faithful to the Persian culture, as they remained loyal and faithful to Islam. I wonder, however, since I have been studying some of the masterpieces of this language with my Turkish friend, whether often the disciple did not become greater than the master--great enough, at least, to require no longer the master’s example. And then, as Browne and Gibbs have written, “it was when the Ottoman Muse had flung off her golden apparel, which for centuries the Persians had embroidered with gold and precious stones, as a present for her, and put on the Turkish chalvar (pantaloons) and enturi (tunic), that she assumed an air of youth, which suited her perfectly, and all the poets of the time admired her.”

When last I visited Turkey five years ago I felt the time was very near when the Turkish woman of culture would have to find some art by which to express herself. Beauty’s characteristic is a desire for self-manifestation. The eternal blue of the sky and sea, the glorious sunsets, the silence, the solitude of an existence lived amongst people of another century; the strong draught of idealistic pantheism there is in the religion of Mahomet--all give birth to beautiful thoughts; the difficulty is to find a form of expression.

The Turkish woman is modest, as I have said in other chapters, and her modesty leads her into a lack of self-confidence which has been detrimental to her cause. Unlike the women of Western Europe, she has not inherited the tired brain of tired ancestors; she has now awakened after centuries of rest, with a brain fresh and ready for work, and it is astonishing to see the ease with which she can learn.

And so it is in literature. Many of my friends can write verse, but they have not yet written prose, and the five Turkish women who can now lay claim to a place in the world of letters all began by writing verse.

Of the work of these five writers it is really unfair of me to speak, seeing I can judge their work only by translation, and that not at all well done. My object rather is to draw attention to the fact that they exist, and to induce those Turkish women, as, for example, Zeyneb Hanoum, who have a thorough knowledge of French, to save their compatriots’ literary honour in the eyes of Europe by giving us good translations of their work.

Halidé-Hanoum’s “Handan,” which has been so widely circulated in her own land, is an interesting study of the Turkish woman’s mind and life told in a series of letters. But how could this writer let her work make its bow to the Western world in its inaccurate, and often indelicate French translation? I have read no other work of this writer, and I believe “Handan” is not Halidé-Hanoum’s best work. But the writer herself! what an interesting person! A slight, tiny little person, with masses of auburn hair and large, expressive Oriental eyes, she has opinions on most subjects, and discusses the problems of the day in a manner which charms one not so much on account of what she says, but because it is so different from what one expected. Strange it does seem that these women who have been bound and fettered for centuries, when once they begin to think, acknowledge in the world of thought no boundaries and restrictions. Again we and they are at the antipodes. We Englishwomen, who have a liberty of action the world envies, think, as a rule, in conventional grooves. With how many of my feminist countrywomen could I have discussed the subjects I have discussed with my Turkish friends?

It would not be without interest, perhaps, to notice how many Turkish women are to-day reading Ellen Key. Ellen Key in a Turkish harem naturally sounds a little alarming! But this herald of feminism to come cannot do as much harm as she might in an English home, for I very much doubt whether they--except, of course, women like Halidé-Hanoum--understand what she means. It is true the titles “Love and Marriage,” “The Century of a Child,” are especially attractive to those women to whom the sentimental side of Western life appeals as being an unexplored territory, and I feel sure many have ordered the works of Ellen Key on the strength of their titles, and then cast them aside, to be read some other time.

“To the pure, all is pure,” we say. The Turkish women generally, to my mind, are more pure-minded, perhaps, than the women of any other nation. This will certainly come as a surprise to many, who, with their erroneous ideas as to what a harem really is, still consider the women as beautiful, idle, intriguing creatures, and “passion” as the only drama that is played within its mysterious walls. How is it, then, that Turkish women have acquired this purity? I am not speaking of the ignorant women, who are innocent rather than pure, but the women who read and think. The explanation, I believe, is to be found in the fact that from the age when they begin to think the Turks are taught that nature must be respected.

As soon as children begin to ask what we call “embarrassing questions,” they are told the truth. Mothers do not speak in whispers about subjects which are “perfectly natural”; from a very early age children know exactly what “maternity” means. All nature, then, being taken as a matter of course, the _arrière-pensée_ does not even come into existence; hence purity. When first I arrived in Turkey, however, I must confess I was surprised to hear the conversations which took place before the children. Now I see its advantages. Natural curiosity, unsatisfied, becomes morbid curiosity; morbid curiosity becomes degeneracy.

I heard the following conversation between a mother and her six-year-old son: “Mother,” asked the little boy, “would it be very wicked of me if I didn’t want to marry?” “Yes,” replied the mother, “it is the duty of all men to marry.” “Why is it the duty of all men to marry?” next he asked. “So that mothers may have dear little boys like you,” she replied.

Of the work of Fâtima Alié Hanoum I have read only one book, “Oudi” (The Lute Player), in a French translation, which has kept none of the Eastern grace and charm of this writer’s work, for her compatriots, men and women, universally pay homage to her fine talent, her subtle perception, her clear and poetical style, and her endless historical knowledge. Fâtima Alié Hanoum is no longer a young woman. She has a kind face, which shows at once her good heart; she is small, pale, thin, and exceedingly active, and her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as she discusses with you the subjects which interest her most. Fâtima Alié is a feminist. She is strongly in favour of women leading an active, useful life, and working at a profession if necessary, but she is decidedly opposed to the adoption of European fashions in literary style, as well as in clothing and furniture.

To her the picturesque stuffs of Broussa are worth more than all the wares in shops of Paris put together, and to her neat compromise between a dressing-gown and a dress which covers her uncorseted form and to her easy, if not elegant, slippers, she will remain faithful to the end of her days. But feminist though she is, she strongly opposes any attempt to modify the veil, not because the veil has to her a religious meaning, but to her it is one of the traditions of her race, and therefore sacred. No woman in Turkey has made a more thorough study of the Koran than she, and I am grateful to her for the pleasant moments spent in her “real Turkish” house whilst she has explained to me the position of women in Islam. The daughter of Djevdat Pasha, the celebrated Turkish Patriot, Fâtima Alié Hanoum has inherited documents which will make her work particularly valuable to those who are interested in the history of the Ottoman Empire. She is shortly to publish a history of the last four reigns, and she is particularly qualified to do this, since she worked for so many years as her late father’s secretary.

It is interesting, but nevertheless sad, to find in studying the history of the women of Islam that they, as we of the West, have lost so much of the power they once possessed. Let us imagine for an instant those olive-skinned, perfumed women of Arabia in their gaudy raiment (much in the fashion we are wearing to-day), half-gipsy, half-empress, even though they were in rags, listening to the preaching of Mahomet in the desert. Was it not to them particularly that he was preaching?

During the war they took their place beside their husbands, to whom they were faithful and devoted, and their deeds of daring would make our hair stand on end, we, the super-sensitive creatures of this century of half-tones and half-emotions! In time of peace these women were faithful and sweet creatures, kind to the stranger who sought the hospitality of their tent, the stranger who, unknown the night before, received from them enough to satisfy his hunger and to continue his journey. And the fact that they were women did not prevent their taking part in the great outer life around them. Mahomet’s own daughter, known as the “Lady of Paradise,” was one of the finest orators of the East.

During Charlemagne’s reign, too, when Haroun-al-Rachid was Khalif of Baghdad, a woman, Zeyneb, was appointed professor of the University of Baghdad, and five hundred young men daily listened to her lectures on philosophy. Her reputation was so great that she was known throughout the East. Then there was Leyla, the famous poetess, and Hind, the famous wit, who was asked to define the worst of women (her answer has stood the test of time and become proverbial). “The worst of women is she,” she said, “who when begged to speak holds her tongue, and when begged to hold her tongue speaks.”

There was about the fifteenth century, too, a poetess, Mihri, to whom we owe the following lines: “One day the loved one who was near me questioned me about my love. I gave him my soul, and he never spoke of it again.” There was the poetess Fituat, also, whose work is full of sorrow and feeling, and who made for herself so great a reputation as a woman of letters. To understand her work, I am told, is like “taking part in the death of the whole world and the awakening of another.” What an original criticism! And if you question the people of Asia Minor even to-day they will tell you history cannot find a greater attachment given to a woman of letters.

And so on through the ages. I could quote names of women who have done great work, women who have taken their place beside men. How is it they lost their power, and gradually sank down to the state of the poor nonentities whom Lady Mary Montagu visited? “Islam alone is responsible,” says the Western critic. But this is false. Mahomet’s mistake, perhaps, as a legislator, was that he gave too many rights to the mothers, and not enough to women who were not mothers. Perhaps, I repeat. At any rate, all that has most oppressed and crushed the Turkish woman comes, not from Islam, but from, I was going to say, Christianity; I prefer the word Byzantium. The latticed windows, the wrong meaning of the veil, the harem, the eunuchs, the fez, the very Crescent itself, are all survivals of that Byzantium which has stifled, for a while, the life and soul of this people of the desert.

There are three more women of whom I must speak as modern Turkish women writers: Leyla Hanoum, an old lady now, whose verses were several times recited to me. I cannot judge her as a writer, except to repeat that the Turks themselves admire her work, and that when told they have no literature they indignantly ask, “And Leyla Hanoum?”

There is also the poetess Niguar Hanoum, Niguar, whose acquaintance I made at Monte Carlo after the proclamation of the Constitution. A woman of great charm and intelligence and an exceedingly hard worker, it is she herself who will translate her own beautiful lyrics into French and German.

Another woman whose talent has been very much appreciated in her own land is Eminé Semié, a sister of Fâtima Alié Hanoum. Her novels have not been translated. Her political articles have been of no little assistance to Young Turkey. I met this famous authoress first in Paris; it was during the recent war. Not one luxury would she allow herself, not even a cab in the pouring rain, and all her beautiful jewels she sold in order to send the money to the Red Crescent Society. She had worn herself almost to skin and bone as a Red Crescent nurse, and had been sent to Paris to recuperate. Her impressions of the gay capital were all so charming and original.

But I cannot close this chapter on the women writers of Turkey without speaking of “Kadinlar-Dunyassi” (“The Feminine World”), a weekly illustrated paper devoted to women’s interests, whose pages are open to any woman writer who cares to contribute. It was started, first of all, as a daily illustrated paper--rather an ambitious idea, but as such it was a failure, and was therefore quickly converted into an illustrated weekly.

The proprietor and editress of the paper, Oulvyé Mevlane Hanoum, had had no experience whatsoever either of editing or of the business side of running a paper; therefore, the result of her effort is doubly interesting. She understood that if a serious society for the advancement of women was to be founded they must have an organ in which to explain their views. She saw the need, and she supplied it.

The publication of this paper is a very happy omen for all those who take an interest in the woman question. It shows what Turkish women can do when they have confidence in themselves and a determination to succeed--unfortunately two qualities they rarely possess. I do not mean to say they are lazy, but they lack concentration certainly, and are too proud to risk a failure. But all this will change. Only by measuring ourselves against the great can we understand how they, too, have tried and failed over and over again, then we take courage.

What matters it whether the articles of “Kadinlar-Dunyassi” are not equal to those published in the daily papers! If every Turkish word were badly spelt and every phrase badly constructed, and every article poor, I should still rejoice at the publication of “Kadinlar-Dunyassi,” because it is a co-operative effort--co-operative effort alone can save Turkey.

And now where are those women who are seeking to express themselves to turn for assistance? To the West naturally, and to France. It was Shinasi Effendi who ended the Persian allegiance--Shinasi Effendi who took his countrymen to the West, and is rightly considered the founder of the modern school of Ottoman literature. The hazard which turned him towards the West is interesting, as showing on how slender a thread a great change may depend. Shinasi was born about 1826, in the Top-Hané division of Constantinople. After attending the parish school he entered the Imperial Arsenal, and when there made the acquaintance of the Comte de Châteauneuf, who afterwards became a Turk, embraced Islam, and became known as Rechid Bey. This Frenchman was the grandfather of my friends Zeyneb[7] and Melek[8] Hanoums, the heroines of Pierre Loti’s “Désenchantées.”

From Châteauneuf, who admired the intelligence of the youth, Shinasi received the French lessons which created in him the strong desire to become more and more intimately acquainted with the culture of the West, and he never rested till his great desire was accomplished and he finally went to Paris. An interesting study might be written of the career of this extraordinary man, whose translation of the French classics, especially of Voltaire and Rousseau, changed the whole destiny of his country’s literature and history. Just as the French expressed themselves in French, so the Turks, after Shinasi, learnt not to express themselves in Persian construction, but to say what they wanted to say in a Turkish construction.

After Shinasi came Ziva Pasha, the great Kemal, who was exiled after the publication of “Vatran” (“The Fatherland”), and who in his writings paid so high a tribute to England: and finally, the greatest of modern Turkish poets and writers--Abdul-Hak-Hamid, for some time at the Turkish Embassy in London. The publication of his “Makber” (“Tomb”) completely revolutionized Turkish literature. Shinasi had shown the way: Abdul-Hak-Hamid took it, and his verses are already Turkish classics, recited in all the schools.

And now for the political side of Shinasi’s work. It is necessary for me to point out that a careful study of Rousseau gave birth to the Young Turk party, which overthrew the most terrible absolutism the world has known, to my mind more terrible even than the absolutism of Nero.

The absence of what we in the West call “social life” naturally makes the Turks great readers, and the sale of French books in Turkey is enormous. Books, good, bad, and indifferent, are read, and there are some who blame the “French novel” for all the shortcomings of the Turkish youth of to-day.

Unfortunately, the number of persons who read English is limited. I say unfortunately, because the spirit of our literature is much better suited to the Turkish character. It is astonishing to notice how many qualities of the Englishman the “real” Turk possesses, and particularly his _sangfroid_ in moments of difficulty and danger. In appearance, too, many of them are so like my own countrymen (and particularly a naval officer whom I met the other day), that one wonders often whether they are not Englishmen in the Turkish service.

Although a translation is, after all, only the wrong side of an embroidery, I have, wherever I can, urged my friends, since they cannot read our masterpieces in English, to read them in the French translation.

The Turks may not quite agree with me, but it has seemed to me everywhere I went that our literature comes as a surprise to them. We have the reputation of being a solid, matter-of-fact, honest nation, with a mighty fleet. England still puts her hall-mark of “all-rightness” on everything she touches, but somehow literature and art are not expected of us. The Turks will tell you they have read our masterpieces, they know our literature ... but I saw none in any of the libraries of the colleges I visited. Voltaire, Rousseau, V. Hugo, Vigny, Anatole France, Pierre Loti, and now a “promise” of Wells and Kipling.

I must add, however, in defence of the Turks, that this neglect of our literature is very largely our own fault. What have we done to spread the knowledge of our language in the near East? And what has France done? Les Dames de Sion, the Lazarists, and the innumerable other orders who, when driven from France, sought the hospitality of the kindly Turk, what have they not done to further the knowledge of their language, not only in Constantinople, but throughout the East? And we?

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Zeyneb.--Co-authoress of “The Turkish Woman’s European Impressions.”

[8] Melek.--Co-authoress of “Adbul Hamid’s Daughter.”