Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Kamil sighs. “Too bad.” As he turns toward the door, he pauses. The saucer lies overturned on the floor near a white slick of milk. He bends his knees to look under the chair. The kitten is gone.

“What happened to your cat?” he asks.

Michel turns suddenly and looks at the saucer. At that moment, before Michel can compose his face and offer a bland reply, Kamil sees in it a mixture of guilt and fear.

Dearest Maitlin,

I am unsure how much news reaches you in Essex. As if the murder of Mary Dixon were not enough, there has been a wave of arrests. Sultan Abdulhamid has taken it into his head that the group calling itself the Young Ottomans is plotting against him, with the help of foreign powers, and has decided to stamp it out. They have been publishing literary magazines in which they write about ideas like liberty and democracy that, understandably, cause some anxiety at the palace. For the most part, they are French-educated Ottomans from good families. Not a few are translators in the Foreign Ministry at the Sublime Porte, where they have access to foreign publications. This makes them even more dangerous, of course, as they are situated within the administration itself. I find their company most stimulating and have invited several to soirees at the Residence. The conversations on those evenings are so lively and interesting that even Father relaxes, even though, given the disfavor in which many of these young men are held by the sultan, our invitations might be taken amiss. Nevertheless, for Father’s sake, I would gladly brave palace disapproval. It is one of the few activities that he seems truly to enjoy.

It seems to me that the sultan has less to fear from these bright young men, most of whom simply wish to keep the sultan to his promise to revive the constitution and reopen the short-lived parliament he shut down seven years ago, than from those who have twice attempted a coup intending to replace him with his elder brother Murad. Murad is first in line of succession, but was replaced after only a few months as sultan due to a nervous condition. The radicals think Murad is now cured and more receptive to a constitutional government-or perhaps simply more tractable. In any case, Sultan Abdulhamid has decreed a hunt on all equally, loyal and disloyal. He shifts members of his staff continually and reportedly trusts no one. Several of our regular dinner guests were recently sent into exile. I find it frightening to think of the consequences.

To make matters worse, the city is full of refugees. Now that some of the Ottoman provinces in the Balkans have become autonomous, terrible reports have reached our ears of Muslims killed by Christian neighbors in revenge for the sultan’s brutal repression of their earlier rebellions. They are all fleeing to Istanbul, the center of the Muslim world, where they believe themselves to be safe. The streets are a Babel of languages and colorful regional dress, even more so than usual.

There have been more riots in the streets of Stamboul-not to worry, my dear, not in Pera-about the banned parliament, although food shortages and high prices contribute to the instability. We are safely fortified here amid the other foreign residences. I suppose it is not surprising that the sultan has tightened his grip on the reins, although it is hard to imagine what might topple a sultanate that has reigned for half a millennium. Pax Brittanica surely would benefit the people here, as it has done the peoples of India and Asia. Father tells me that this is a possibility. I dearly hope so, for the sake of peace. At any rate, the sultan is no enemy of Europe. I’ve heard he is a devotee of theater and opera and of detective stories and police thrillers, if you can imagine. I’m told his chief of wardrobe sits behind a screen and reads to him every night, sometimes an entire book, as he is an insomniac. He is particularly fond of detective mysteries and has new books immediately translated and read to him. He also engages in wood carving and cabinetmaking, rather unusual hobbies for a regent. I can’t help but think that a man who loves to read and who crafts his own furniture will bring progress and discipline to his empire. Mother thought him quite charming, but he rarely receives visitors anymore simply for the pleasure of it, so I shan’t have a chance of making up my own mind.

As for my own entertainment, you needn’t worry, dear sister. There is much to do here. Thursday evening, I am going to the theater with Madam Rossini and her family to see a new French play, and a few weeks hence the Italians are holding their annual saint’s day fair in the garden of their Residence. There is a charity ball soon at one of the new hotels. Tonight, in fact, we’re having a ball here at the Residence. There’s no shortage of entertainment in Stamboul. You needn’t worry that I have withered on the vine. And I have Father. His work keeps him occupied, but I share in this, to his great satisfaction, I believe. I must run now and consult with the chefs and the musicians.

Be well and give my love to all our family. Perhaps I can convince you yet to come on a visit. You will be well surprised at our comforts and the color and excitement of living in the Orient.

Affectionately,

Sybil

Inever did learn to ride the water like Violet. Our pond was a different kind of classroom than the sea. Eventually I learned to move freely in this different medium. Tired of the confines of the pond, Violet wanted to swim in the Bosphorus. I told her about the boys who had not reemerged. She wanted to ask Halil about the currents, but I was anxious about questioning him. I had the sense that he knew about our swims at the pond and disapproved, but his loyalty to me, I think, kept him from reporting our indiscretions to my mother. After all, Violet, as my servant, was responsible for looking after me. But I doubt he would have kept a dip in the Bosphorus from my mother, since, apart from the danger, it was likely we would be seen and bring disgrace on the family.

Violet stamped her foot. “Well, I’ll go to the village, then, and ask the fishermen. You’re afraid,” she taunted me.

I was scandalized. A young woman did not venture outside the home except to go, accompanied, along a circumspect route to the home of a relative or female friend. She wore a feradje and covered her face. Under no circumstances would she speak with a male stranger. That had been my life up till then, and I had no reason to believe anyone else’s life was any different.

I accompanied my mother on her visits to Istanbuli women of our standing during their weekly at-home days. During the hot months, the women, children, and their entourages moved from the city to their summer houses along the forested northern banks of the Bosphorus, where it was cooler. This proximity made visiting easier and my mother seemed to regain her spirit during those short months. But for me, summer meant perching on cushioned divans in cool, tiled harem sitting rooms and shady courtyards, sipping black tea from gold-rimmed glasses and listening politely to the women discuss the coming and going of relations and debate the qualities of prospective grooms and brides for their children. They dissected upcoming marriages, the amount of bride wealth paid by the grooms’ families, and the dowries the brides would bring with them. Colorful silk thread slipped through the delicate fingers of the younger girls as they negotiated the tight choreography of embroidering their trousseaux. In those years, I paid little attention to the conversations, but instead lay on the divan, elbow propped on my cushion, examining the details of other people’s rooms, letting the timbre of their voices draw across me like a musical instrument in reverse.