A Mind at Peace

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  As night fell, Mümtaz found a nip of winter yet in the air. With an unsettling sense of cold, he recoiled into himself.

  “In winter the Bosphorus has a separate beauty,” he said. “An eerie loneliness.”

  “But you can’t quite endure it.”

  “No, I can’t. In order to withstand it, one either has to be thoroughly rooted in life or has to live extravagantly. I mean, one has to have had a sufficient degree of experience. As for me – ”

  He cut himself off; he was about to say, “I’m still like a child.” What was there in his life besides a menagerie of dreams? Tomorrow, won’t you, too, become a dream?

  “You know what one of my favorite things is? Since I was a little girl, closed, darkened windows facing the Bosphorus upon whose panes the light plays ... lights moving with the ferry and changing from window to window sometimes form arcs of fire ... but don’t bother looking now, since you haven’t noticed. Look for them from a good vantage, a little farther on.”

  Mümtaz was surprised that he hadn’t noticed a detail so simple. “The nighttime map of the Bosphorus is a bit like these lights for me. Like what you said ... One lives here as if in a dream, sometimes becoming part of a fable ...”

  The sentimentality into which they’d fallen threatened to embarrass Mümtaz. The grand sultanate of the night began after Üsküdar. Large blocks of houses, their boundaries marked by street lamps burning bright, were separated by black abysses that made them more foreboding, mysterious, and fabulous than they actually were. This harmony was broken by the lights in public squares before ferry landings that alluded to a life of greater comfort. With almost each of its windows illuminated, a vintage Bosphorus residence passed before them like a behemoth that had long been submerged, having relinquished its mass and density.

  “There are quite a few people in there,” he said.

  In fact, each window framed a few heads. They were huddled together, watching the ferry. The sound of a horn.

  “The horns haven’t yet reached their summertime pitch ...”

  They shared their observations with one another. They were like two small children. Each observed what passed separately, and spoke only occasionally. Nuran pointed to an unshuttered and blackened window: “See,” she said, “how it becomes woven like moiré cloth ... then the arcs ... there goes another one, like a falling star ... a little farther on, close to our house, fishermen’s lanterns mingle into these reflections. But the most beautiful of all are these arcs: a calculus of light.”

  Later they straightened themselves as if from a tome over which they both had been poring and stared at each other. Both were smiling.

  “I’ll walk with you as far as your house,” he said.

  “On the condition that you turn back at the head of the street ... unless you want to give my mother a heart attack.”

  Mümtaz grew inwardly annoyed. Her mother ... Allah, how many obstacles must I overcome? he thought.

  As if reading Mümtaz’s mind, she said, “There’s nothing much to be done about it; we have to accept our lives as they are. One cannot just do as one wishes ... D’you know that even at my age I have to give an account of my whereabouts? Had Mother known that I was on my way home, she would have been mad with worry by now. She would have conjured seventy-five different catastrophes for this beloved daughter of hers.” Then she abruptly changed the subject. “Do you only like traditional music?”

  “No, all of it ... of course as much as I understand ... My memory for music is limited and I never studied it. You’re also fond of it, aren’t you?”

  “Exceptionally so ... In our family traditional music is something of an heirloom,” she said. “We belong to the Mevlevî tradition on my father’s side and to the Bektashi on my mother’s side. Early in the nineteenth century, they say Sultan Mahmut II even exiled my mother’s grandfather to Manastır in Macedonia for his involvement in the Sufi order. When I was a girl, every night there were musical gatherings and lots of entertainment.”

  “I’m aware,” he said. “I once saw an old photograph of you dressed in Mevlevî robes. It’d been taken without your father’s knowledge.”

  He took care to avoid uttering İclâl’s name. An indication of his timidity. Not to mention that he didn’t want to constantly mention another woman’s name.

  “Of course, İclâl was also ...,” she said. For the grace of God, there was nothing sacred to that girl. Those who knew her lived in houses of glass.

  Mümtaz: “But she wasn’t the one who showed me the photograph. And, moreover, I myself guessed it was you in the picture.”

  Nuran never imagined that this memory would transport her clear back to those days. She pictured her father holding a ney and sitting on the divan in the large upstairs foyer. “Come, sit down,” he gestured, as if inviting her to his side.

  Her entire girlhood had passed in a birdcage of melodies made by that flute. The world, which manifested for others through a thousand sensations, manifested for her purely through sound and music. Nuran had embarked on life through a realm of pure imagination like the reflections in the orb of pale glass called “New World” that hung beneath the chandelier in that same foyer. “When that photograph was taken, my father was still alive. Only we weren’t living along the Bosphorus then. We were staying in Libadiye. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Çamlıca district?”

  But Mümtaz couldn’t take his thoughts off the photograph. “That’s a striking picture. You resemble depictions in old miniatures. Granted, the outfit isn’t the same, but you somehow recall a youth proffering a goblet of wine to Ali Şîr Nevaî.” He added, laughing, “Where’d you learn to sit like that?”

  “Like I said, a legacy from my ancestors. It’s part of my being. I was born with it.”

  Shortly thereafter the third significant event of the day occurred. They disembarked together at Kandilli. As if this was how it regularly happened, they strode together across the wooden planks of the landing. Mümtaz handed the official at the exit both of their tickets at once, and the man took them without a hitch. They continued together across the square. They began to walk up the hill. As they walked, they embraced one another’s presence. Nuran’s shoe caught on a stone; Mümtaz took her by the arm. They turned left into an alleyway. Next they climbed another small incline. At the mouth of a narrow path he and Nuran parted. “This is our garden ... The house is on the opposite side. It’s best if you turn back,” she said.

  A street lamp above them illuminated a large chinar as though from within. Beneath this fragrant radiance showering them leaf by leaf, and beside the splashing of a fountain and the peeping of frogs, they took leave of one another. Mümtaz regreted not asking her whether they would soon be able to meet. Within him lurked the dread of never again laying eyes on her. Beneath the burden of such misgivings, he returned the way they had come, slightly remorseful, though enriched countless times over by Nuran’s allure, his heart yawning open to companionship of an indeterminate order.

  V

  Days later Nuran watched İclâl enter the house, giddy and amused. She’d run into Mümtaz at the ferry landing, where they’d sat and had demitasses of coffee together. Afterward Mümtaz accompanied her halfway to the house.

  While stepping into the house, she was still laughing at the cock-and-bull story Mümtaz had made up.

  Mümtaz, figuring that he was certain to run into one of the two of them there, had practically encamped before Kandilli for five days. Of course, had he wanted to, he could have directly requested a favor of İclâl; or by way of İhsan, they could have arranged to visit Tevfik. However, as he didn’t want to bare his emotions to a third party, he preferred to slyly lay siege to the Kandilli shore. It wasn’t quite sailing season. But taking a caïque out on the Bosphorus didn’t depend on any season. That time-honored means of Bosphorus transport was the solution to any problem at any hour and was sport and entertainment for all. Though a New Yorker born without a Ford or other automobile might seem natur
al, a child of the Bosphorus born without a rowboat of some sort still seemed an anomaly. For this reason no one was surprised to see Mümtaz in his rowboat drifting around the Kandilli landing. As soon as he woke, he’d jump into the boat, by turns hoist a sail or use the motor to travel to the landing, where he’d try to fish, read a book at the coffeehouse, converse with the elderly gardeners and the neighborhood old-timers, and when he grew bored and couldn’t find anything to do on the water, he’d head up the hill, and with the understanding that he would keep his distance from Nuran’s house, he’d roam among wildflowers and plants, rambling in the austere winds of the Bosphorus spring.

  On the fifth day he reaped the rewards of his vigilance. İclâl was on the ferry. In the joy of this happenstance, he restrained himself from jumping into the air only with great difficulty. He caught up with her at the landing. İclâl hadn’t imagined she’d ever run into him there. Mümtaz claimed that he’d arranged to meet a friend who hadn’t yet arrived.

  Nuran hadn’t assumed that Mümtaz would attempt such intricate gallantry. When she heard İclâl’s story, she laughed as well.

  “Why didn’t you bring him along?”

  “Honestly, I did think of it, but I didn’t dare without asking you first.”

  “I’ve already met him.”

  “On the ferry to the island ... Apparently you were with Adile. She sends her regards ... She said that if it suits us, we should pay her a visit in the afternoon and that she’d entertain us.”

  When they came down to the landing, they found Mümtaz paddling lazily to and fro. He greeted them with a chuckle. “I’d hoped you’d come,” he said.

  Nuran found his face thinner than before and suntanned. When the women boarded the boat, he went to the stern.

  “What’s this, aren’t we going to sail?”

  İclâl and Nuran preferred sailing, its thrill, and the slight headiness caused by the waves: the rolling undulations of the Bosphorus shoreline, the off-point moves that recalled dancing with a capable lead, gliding through the sunlight and the sea. But Mümtaz insisted it wasn’t the right time for sailing. It was still much too early in the season for them to savor this delight. Not to mention that their clothing might be ruined. They hadn’t dressed for such an outing.

  İclâl, in her navy blue ensemble, was fit for an afternoon tea party. Nuran had lent İclâl a gray overcoat. She wore a red-striped beige outfit, and the lapel of her jacket revealed a yellow sweater lending the exposed portion of her neck a softer and more velvety appearance. Evidently she’d arranged her hair at the last minute with a few randomly placed barrettes.

  Her appearance, rather more striking through this hasty primping, revealed the ambivalence that had persisted until the very last. Mümtaz felt his veins ignite with the desire to sink his face into the nocturne of her hair. Throughout his whole being radiated the fatigue of one who hadn’t slept in a dog’s age.

  İclâl admired the caïque. “I’m no expert, but it’s nice,” she said.

  Nuran completed İclâl’s comment as if she were more closely familiar with seagoing: “It’s a nice boat; it would stand up well in most situations, fishing, touring, or sailing. And it’s quite new.”

  From the end of the rowboat, Mehmet the oarsman answered, holding the boat by one hand on the quay, “I could go all the way to İzmit with this.” The presence and demeanor of the young women pleased him. This was the first time he’d seen Mümtaz, whom he called aǧabey, with friends of such variety and he was happy for him. But when they stepped into the boat, he started as if a load of glassware had been entrusted to him. His woman was of a different ilk. To his taste, he preferred women like the girlfriend of the coffeehouse apprentice at Boyacıköy. One could rely on them at life’s every turn. These women here were probably frail; but he had nothing to say against their appearance.

  “Do you like to go fishing?”

  “Before my father passed away, we’d go out ... to be honest, before I got married.”

  At this midafternoon hour, the wind had seemingly retreated to certain strategic vantage points. First they headed down toward the district of Beylerbeyi. Then they returned by the same route. They passed the villages of Anadoluhisarı and Kanlıca. At Akıntıburnu the wind and the waves embraced them as if they’d actually emerged out into the open sea.

  Only an arm’s length away onshore were parks, a path where children tried to fly kites, fruit boughs in bloom, and fishermen apprenticing in patience with their poles and lines. Beneath them the sea gushed in vast layers of current, spiriting them through the sounds and scents of bewildering invitations.

  Mümtaz was conveying the treasure of his life. For this reason he hesitated. “I’m both Caesar as well as his oarsman. So, this is the outer limit of our excursion.”

  He’d said this while staring into Nuran’s eyes. But Nuran was preoccupied only with the surrounding views and somewhat with herself. Over the past five days she’d come to an array of decisions; on one hand, she found her house and life tedious and grew impatient for the young man’s invitation; on the other hand, staring at her daughter’s bedstead resting beside her own, she believed that no external force could disturb her own repose. But there it was; after an argument with herself that lasted three hours, she’d gone out. Was she being spineless? Or was it the exercise of one’s inborn rights? She didn’t know. She only knew that she’d plopped like an anchor into the boat with the weight of her entire existence. On the way back they stopped at Emirgân Park. The season of the café had begun. There were habitués of all ages and walks of life. They partook of the approaching evening and spring with the understanding that they’d simply leave early if the temperature dropped suddenly.

  Springtime was intense and tremulous, like a tertian fever during convalescence. Over the extent of the outing, they’d sensed this tremor. Everything melded together in the consternation and excitement of fresh, pliant leaves and bright colors, of the discovery of self and shadow in blazing white radiance. From the hilltops where they’d congregated, the heliotrope, the crimson, the burgundy, the pink, and the verdure assaulted one’s casing of skin.

  Here, however, at this open-air café, spring was only a small contraction, a yearning for life. They huddled together with hot teas in tulip-shaped glasses, among the crowd, and with that bizarre sensation brought about by observing from the vantage of another shore and in completely new light the places they’d just passed.

  “Okay, then, please do tell us why you’ve besieged the shores of Kandilli?”

  Mümtaz bowed his head to hide the blush of his cheeks. “I don’t know if you could call it a siege. Access by land is completely open. I only took the ferry landing under my command.” He laughed, making a gesture that seemed to say, “That’s all I could do. What else should I have done?” Yet his expression declared, “I’ve suffered through this week.” A hint in his laugh revealed that his entire face was prepared to accept this torment, which could only be discerned in the rims of his eyes and his lips.

  “Why don’t you tell us about the matter of the palace in Kandilli, Mümtaz?”

  Mümtaz racked his brain for the information he’d imparted to İclâl that morning. “A vision ... up in smoke. We began looking for the context of a line of verse. To be honest, now, it was all rather fanciful.” But he had to say something more. “There was a date given for the restoration of the palace. Of course, neither palace nor its foundation exists today. Not to mention the old gardens. But the line of verse exists:Yet again Kandilli of yore showers sparks along the shore

  “It’s a trick that this line has played on me.” Next he talked of the Kanlıca inlet and the Bosphorus villages of Kandilli, Çengelköy, and Vaniköy. He had an odd erudition. Rather than knowledge per se, he was interested in bygone lives. “Indivduals are of paramount importance. What’s the rest of it to me? In the furnace of time, an individual’s life burns away as quickly as a leaf of paper, perhaps. Maybe life is actually a comic game, as some philosophers maint
ain; in complete desperation a slew of hesitations and trivial, hopeless defensive stances, even phantasies, under the guise of decisions. Be that as it may, the life of an individual who has actually lived is still of great consequence. Because no matter how comic it might be, we cannot completely reject life. Even through our mental anxieties, we still seek out values in life, whether ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ We make allowances for love and desire. We distinguish between living creatively and losing ourselves in petty squabbles and wastefulness.”

  “Okay, what about action?” Nuran made a gesture with her hand. “I mean in the sense of accomplishment. Challenging oneself on paths of greatness.”

  Mümtaz was overcome with self-doubt: “There’s no path great or small. We only have our pace and stride. Sultan Mehmet II conquered Istanbul when he was twenty-one. Descartes presented his philosophy when he was twenty-four. Istanbul was conquered just once. As is customary, a lecture is written only once. But there are millions of twenty-one- and twenty-fouryear-olds in the world. Should they perish because they aren’t a Mehmet the Conqueror or a Descartes? It’s enough that they live their lives to the utmost. I mean, the magnitude of what you call a path of greatness resides within.”

  Nuran stared intently at the young man. “But action, you’re not discussing action.”

  “I did so discuss it ... Everyone’s obligated to act. Everyone has his fate. I don’t know, I like to live this fate by appropriating aspects of it and its inner world. That is to say, I like art. Maybe art presents us with the most benign faces of death, those that we can acknowledge most easily. Certainly one’s life can sometimes be as beautiful as a work of art. When I encounter that ...”

  “For example?”

  “Take the poet Shaykh Galip in the eighteenth century ... He died very young, during his most prolific age. He underwent training and etiquette that constituted a cache of wisdom all its own. From the start, this education forestalled a number of mishaps and detrimental influences. He neither developed through a dawn nor an afternoon. Like a serene evening, he’d already been constituted beforehand by movement, by the play of light, by fealty to what we admire; for example, İsmail Dede Efendi around the same time. He composed close to a thousand pieces of music. Look at his life: like any ordinary life. But it was all his own.”