by Ann Bridge
In the days of the Ottoman Empire a Turkish wedding was normally both a splendid and a protracted affair. The actual marriage, performed by the Imam, took place on the first day, attended by close relatives only; on the following day there was a tremendous reception, or rather two tremendous receptions, one for men and the other for the women. In the course of the proceedings the local people from round about were allowed at some point to come in—the gatekeeper admitted and welcomed them at the appropriate time, they were fed on a splendid scale, and then proceeded to admire the presents and see the bride in all the splendour of her (always French) wedding-dress, and of her new quarters—in particular they loved to inspect the bridal bedroom.
But what with war conditions, Orhan’s very short leave, and the Pasha’s scruples, it had been decided to cram all the ceremonies into a single day, so as to give the young people as long a spell of peace afterwards as possible. The honeymoon was not really a Turkish institution; newly-married couples retired on their wedding night to the house and rooms in which they hoped and expected to live and bring up their families—a very calm and dignified idea. (Can we say that hurrying off to the unaffectionate anonymity of strange hotels, at such a moment, is really a great improvement?)
Orhan duly arrived on the 25th of September. He stayed with his family, who had a yali near Scutari, but came over next day to pay his respects and to settle the final arrangements. He saw the Pasha first, and then was taken up to Réfiyé Hanim. Dil Feripé was hanging about, and when he left the salon she detained him in the big upper hall outside.
“Just one moment—please to come in here,” she said mysteriously, and opening a door ushered him into a small pretty sitting-room; as he turned to ask her what she wanted, he saw the door silently closing behind her. There was no one in the room. A little puzzled, Orhan glanced about him curiously. He was taller than Ahmet, and slighter still—a willow-wand of a young man, with the ash-blond hair, light blue eyes, prominent cheek-bones and jutting hawk-like nose of many Anatolians; there was both vision and resolution in his face, fresh and youthful as it still was, and he had a curiously engaging open expression, as he stood looking round that small empty room. His visits to the haremlik at the Pasha’s, since the war, had been as frequent as the exigencies of military service allowed; but that was not very frequent, and they had been strictly confined to the salon. Why had the old dadi pushed him in here, he wondered.
From behind a door, ajar at the far side of the room, which he had not noticed at first, came a soft laugh. “Orhan, is it you?” said a low voice.
He sprang to the half-open door.
“Féridé, is it you?”
“Shsh! Yes.” Peering through the opening he saw in the rather dim light a slender figure in a light silk frock, with a very elegant çarşaf of the same material covering her head and coming down to the elbows; a pale chiffon peçe hid the face, but above it two brilliant grey eyes gleamed under dark concentrated brows. It was all he could see, that and a slender hand with long narrow fingers, very white, which held the door.
“What is the news?” she asked at once, eagerly.
“Bad!” he said, plunged back from his happy eagerness into gloom by the question. “We keep on retreating—all the fight seems to have gone out of the Bulgars. And in the South it is worse; they say there has been a big attack down there—some say an actual break-through.”
“Oh Orhan!—Ahmet!”
“Ahmet will be all right—he’s on the staff. But this Allenby is a devil of a general, and has splendid troops; and there is a fiend—or a genius–called Lawrence who has stirred up all the Arabs, like a Mullah proclaiming a Holy War! And you know these unspeakable Germans direct everything, and over-ride our people, in their wooden-headed way.” He sighed, an angry sigh.
“But will they not listen to him? He is down there now.”
“No, indeed they will not! He always said it was absurd to attempt to recapture Baghdad; I hear he wrote direct to the Grand Vizier and the Minister of War about it, but they paid no heed. He resigned over that, you know.”
“No!”
“Yes. Of course they had to put him back. But it all sounds very bad at this moment.”
“It is terrible,” Féridé said. “What will happen?”
“Ah, who knows? Ahmet writes wretchedly—we are all discouraged.” He stopped, and recollected himself. “My two eyes, now it is only two days!”
“Yes.” A single, satisfying word, softly and warmly spoken.
“And are you glad?”
“Yes, I am very glad.”
The outer door opened and Dil Feripé’s old head, çarşafed and peçe’d, was thrust in.
“Féridé, you must go to the Hanim Effendi. Come with me, if you please, Orhan Bey.”
“Wait!” Féridé’s voice was imperious. “When does Ahmet come?”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
And so the interview terminated. It was not a typical one; but the circumstances were exceptional, and in fact Féridé was rather exceptional too. It was not every Turkish bride, even in 1918, who would have spent so much of an interview with her lover, illicitly contrived by a dadi, in discussing military affairs.
. . . . . .
The wedding ceremonies began on the morning of September the 28th with the Nikia, the marriage contract. Beside the Pasha and Orhan’s father there was the Imam, picturesque in a long black robe and spotless white turban; two witnesses for the bridegroom, Orhan, and one for the bride. She herself was not actually in the room—her representative went through into a smaller room where she waited with her attendants; asked her consent, obtained it, and returned and affixed his signature to the contract on her behalf; Orhan’s representatives did the like for him. The Mihir, the document by which the bridegroom undertook to pay a certain lump sum in the event of a divorce taking place, had been signed when Orhan came over a couple of days previously—so the actual wedding-day was not clouded by this gloomy though practical proceeding.
The legal formalities being over, there was a light luncheon, eaten rather hastily, for the family part of the ceremonial was still to come. For this all the nearest relations, men and women alike, assembled in the “sofa,” the big stone-floored room with the fountain—where in the past Dr. Pierce had so often taken coffee and discussed poetry with the Pasha. The women stood a little apart, all in rich and very fashionable dresses, but with that curious adjunct of the short çarşaf in the same material, covering their heads and coming down to their elbows, and the pale silken peçes masking their faces except for the eyes—somehow these made them look like a static ballet of a fashion-parade, turned into ghosts. The men, wearing the fez, stood in another group, in which uniforms predominated. The bridegroom was not present at this stage of the proceedings—nor most strangely, was Ahmet, who should have been there for the Nikia in the morning too; there were a few subdued whisperings among the group of women, but no one could explain his absence. Now came the ceremony of the Koltuk, symbolic of the bride’s chastity: very calm, very dignified, rather sombre. An elderly Aunt took Féridé by the hand and led her up to her Father; she kissed him dutifully. He then took a rich scarf, and made the gesture of knotting it about her waist; the oriental, rather barbaric thing looked strange enough on her shimmering modern lamé dress—after a tiny pause another woman removed it and took it away. Very formally, according to age, Féridé then went round the group of male relations, lightly embracing each in turn; then crossed to the group of women relatives, and kissed them warmly. This was the farewell to the family, and most of the women were in tears; only Réfiyé Hanim—who cared more than any of them—remained magnificently controlled.
After the ceremony of farewell came the bestowal of gifts, for which this was the traditionally appropriate moment. From a leather and white satin case Murad Zadé Asaf Pasha, first, drew out a superb string of pearls, which Nilüfer clasped round Féridé’s neck—rather disarranging her çarşaf in so doing. Réfiyé Hanim gave an exquisite c
ollarette of diamonds. Then it became a shower: diamond, emerald, and sapphire brooches were pinned all over the bosom of the lamé dress, bracelets and rings pushed on or fastened over the white kid gloves; more necklaces were piled round that slender neck. Smiling, laughing, kissing, Féridé accepted and thanked for this wealth of presents.
Now there was a little confusion. The correct procedure at this juncture was for the men to retire into the selamlik to receive the guests who had not been asked to the Koltuk, while a man of the family brought in the bridegroom, who would then escort his bride into her own quarters, where she in her turn would presently receive her guests. The proper person to do this was of course Ahmet—but where was Ahmet? On this day of all days? The Pasha, a rigid formalist, led the men off to his study through one of the twin doors under the two staircases; Réfiyé Hanim summoned Fuad, the young cousin, who was in full uniform, to her, and despatched him through the other door to fetch Orhan, who throughout the ceremony of the Koltuk and the present-giving had been waiting in an empty room, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and walking up and down in understandable agitation. The cousin led him through into the “sofa,” where Féridé was presented to him—officially, for the first time. He saluted her gravely, then gave her his arm, and led her up the right-hand staircase, her train shimmering behind her as they went. On and on, through one room after another, till at last they reached their own apartments, full of flowers and presents—full already, moreover, of women guests, who had not attended the family function downstairs, and who so far had only been received by the servants and Mahmud Agha, who had greeted them one and all with much emotion; they now greeted the young couple with little cries of “Bonheur!” and “Lifelong Happiness!” Greeting in return, it was now Féridé who knew where to stop—on the big settee in what would in future be her own boudoir, next to their bedroom. Here someone, knowing the rules, closed the door after them, and for about five minutes they were left in peace—Féridé still veiled in her peçe, but together, and alone. Rather overcome, Orhan took her hand; she pressed it in return. But at first they were silent, a little embarrassed, and just sat, holding hands.
“What a lovely room,” Orhan said then, looking at the delicately panelled ceiling, on which were paintings of an almost Persian freshness and fineness.
“Yes—it was done for my great-grandmother. But Orhan, where is Ahmet? What can have happened to him?”
“I cannot imagine. He was to have come up on last night’s train.”
“Could he be wounded?”
“Oh no, I do not think so.” Orhan was embarrassed—he knew that the Turkish army in Palestine was in full retreat, and he was anxious himself. “Do not torment yourself, my bride,” he said. “Something must have delayed him.”
There was a tap on the door, and Nilüfer slipped in—a married woman of two years’ standing, she knew the correct formalities.
“Orhan, my brother, the time is up. You should go to the selamlik to greet your guests.”
He rose, and bowing, asked his wife’s permission to leave her; then he went out—the two young women could hear through the half-open door the little gale of gay feminine greetings that saluted him as he passed through the outer room.
“My bijou, before they come in, let me take off some of these things,” said Nilüfer, beginning to unpin one or two of the brooches that loaded the breast of Féridé’s dress.
“Oh yes, do—I look like the counter in a jeweller’s shop!” Féridé muttered, laughing, standing up and glancing at herself in a French gilt mirror. “Ah, and these rings are so tight over my gloves! And the bracelets so heavy.” She began to pull them off herself, and put them on a small table which had been placed ready for the purpose. But when Nilüfer began to unfasten some of the necklaces—“Not that of Pederim! [my father] and not that of Niné!” said Féridé quickly.
“No, no,” Nilüfer said soothingly—“but look, sweet-meat, do sit a moment; you are so tall, I can’t reach! That’s better. And don’t throw those bracelets down like that—arrange them properly,” she murmured in a low tone; “people will want to look at them.”
Indeed, before the process was complete, the throng of gaily-dressed ladies came surging in from next door, of course unveiled, since this was now a women’s gathering; kissing, congratulating, admiring—admiring Féridé’s dress, her pretty suite of rooms, her tableful of jewellery. Dil Feripé came too, and let out her familiar pea-hen screech of disapproval at sight of the table—there was no cloth on it! She went pattering off in haste, and returned with a piece of Broussa cut velvet, on which she re-arranged all the glittering gifts in accordance with her own taste, scolding Nilüfer the while for not having sent for the cloth, and Féridé for having taken off too many of the brooches. This did not in the least discompose the guests, who had dadi’s of their own; they stood about and shifted through the three rooms, talking and laughing— Féridé however kept her correct place, on or near the big settee; Dil Feripé saw to that.
Then one of the “aunts” came in to say that the populace had arrived. And in accordance with that pretty and gracious tradition, in they came, mostly in black from head to foot, long black çarşafs moulding their heads to black spheres, and covering everything but their eyes; among the bright dresses they looked like a flock of crows in an aviary full of birds of Paradise. Work-worn hands reached out from under the voluminous dark draperies to take the bride’s hand, kiss it, and lay it to their cheeks—and then to point at and finger, very discreetly, the beautiful things all about. Most of all they wanted to see the bridal chamber and the bridal bed; they stood in there in crowds, admiring that vast velvet and gold coverlet on the bed itself, and the prayer-mat spread ready in the corner, while a couple of kalfas stood by, pointing out their beauties, themselves full of vicarious pride and happiness. Another marriage; hope for another family of children—this was the source of their very sane and human joy and satisfaction, and the black-clad women of the district shared it with them.
The populace presently took their departure, still exclaiming over the splendours they had seen, still wishing the bride long life. Those great things in human existence, custom and good manners—which, strictly observed, make life so smooth and pleasant—prescribed the duration of their stay, and they knew the rules and adhered to them. The black crows, happy and chattering, again mingled for a moment or two with the birds of Paradise, as they passed out and down the stairs to be regaled with roast mutton. “May they have many children, and strong!” said the goodwives of the neighbourhood as they took their leave.
Upstairs, more conversation—during these happy moments, the war seemed forgotten. Except for Ahmet. There was a great deal of whispering and speculation about Ahmet’s absence; the ladies who had been present at the Koltuk ceremony mentioned it to their friends upstairs, and set the tide of wonder flowing. Meanwhile maids clad in silk walked in, carrying huge silver trays laden with sherbet in silver cups, followed by others bearing trays—also silver—of ices. (One might have been at the court of King Solomon.) The “aunts” fussed about, Dil Feripé whispering to Nilüfer and Féridé that the sherbets should have come much sooner.
At last, in a sort of pause before supper, Nilüfer shepherded the guests out of the boudoir and left the bride to enjoy a few moments’ peace and quiet. Dil Feripé and a maid helped her to re-arrange her hair and face, as she sat for the first time before her new dressing-table, covered with her new silver and crystal toilet set, her new blond tortoise-shell brushes and combs and powder-boxes. Then she went out into her boudoir, threw back the shutters, and sitting on the divan under the open window, breathing the evening air, she watched the calm beauty of the light over shore and water and the low hills of Chamlidja beyond. She was married!—and life spread out before her, to be lived in these lovely rooms that were now hers, with her husband, in intimacy and love, and yet within daily, hourly reach of her Father and Réfiyé Hanim. What could be more perfect? The seventeen-year-old bride sighed with happi
ness—and then sighed again, differently. “My little Fanny, my Canaria! I wish she were here today. I wonder where she is, and what she is doing,” said Féridé.
The supper which followed the reception was not, for the women at any rate, a formal meal at all; in fact it was all rather elegantly haphazard. Not only in the great dim dining-room and Réfiyé Hanim’s salon, but through all the rooms of the haremlik and in Féridé’s suite, servants in bright silken dresses came bearing big circular trays which they set down on the innumerable small tables scattered about, and the women sat round them in small groups to eat. But however informal the serving, a Turkish wedding-feast in those days was always a notable thing. There were certain dishes, principally sweet ones, such as the Turks love, which always appeared at weddings—special jellies and creams, thick with honey, ices, and towards the end “zerdé,” a concoction of rice, sugar, and saffron, which traditionally was never served save at marriages.
Down in the selamlik, however, the men ate more formally; an immense dining-table, presided over by the Pasha, was set out in a large room, with smaller tables round it for the younger and less important guests; and there rows and circles of red fezzes bent over the groaning and abundant boards. Into the midst of this festivity there came limping a young officer. Apologising, he approached the Pasha—“A message from the Ministry of War,” he murmured, very low. The Pasha excused himself, rose, and stepped aside; the young man handed him a paper, which he read—they spoke for a moment or two; Orhan, also with apologies, left his place and joined them. The young officer, bowing and saluting, then left; Orhan returned to his place, his face grave. The Pasha, standing in his, addressed the company, who had fallen silent at this unexpected intrusion.
