Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

İhsan’s old schoolmate, a civil servant in his mid-fifties, staid and experienced, had been a member of parliament for three years now. “The entire catastrophe has to do with one’s repeated encounters with others, such that one’s ultimately unrecognizable to even his own self. .”

“Ideas suffer the same fate: after repeated encounters with society, they become unrecognizable. New concepts are bold, but they’re susceptible to the disaster of not meeting a countervaling force capable of resisting them. What might serve to restrain an idea? Nothing. But put it into practice and see what form it takes. It’ll change from moment to moment, no longer resembling its original shape at all. Here rests the history of great revolutions. There are few epics as grandiose and sublime as the French Revolution. Within a span of twenty or thirty years, mankind had discovered all the principles that might guide it for another two thousand years. However, in the beginning, who would have guessed that the end result would have been bourgeois rule?

“Nothing simply accepts another entity the way it is: Agency resides within us. Outside us there are nothing but tools and means.”

“Despite this, for the sake of an idea we witness revolts, revolutions, cruelties, massacres. .”

İhsan collected the hems of his robe de chambre. He was truly one beloved of oration. He glanced at Mümtaz as if to say, “Do pardon me!” before continuing. “Yes, it happens. But the outcome always changes. The arrow continually veers from its trajectory. As for our current times, it’s total horror. All our values and virtues are for sale at the bazaar. The carts have been upturned. On one hand there are engineers of revolution, the most grisly, most destructive legacy of the nineteenth century. Rest assured, as we speak there are ‘visionaries’ in Spain or Mexico preparing revolutions in random corners of the world based on nothing more than a city map, as if remotely planning any old public works project that intends to bring electricity to its citizens. . Insurgents are identifying localities prone to provocation or susceptible to gangrene and instigating or inciting them.”

The middle-aged parliamentarian interrupted, “İhsan, you appear to be of a rather modern cast. It seems to me that you’re not so fond of your generation, are you?”

“I am not. Or rather, let my put it this way: I’m no advocate of revolution. But am I modern, truly? To be modern, I must be a man of the times in which I live. Meanwhile, I yearn for different things! To be modern, I should accept perpetual transformation along with the revolution. Whereas I’m one who admires consistency in certain ideas and contexts.”

“But all revolutions aren’t this way. Take ours, for example. .”

“Our revolution is of another variety. In its natural form, revolution occurs when the masses or society transcends the state apparatus. With us, the masses and society, that is, the collective in question, is obligated to catch up to the state. Even including, more often than not, intellectuals and statesmen. . Walking down a path blazed by an idea! At least since 1839 and the Tanzimat it’s been this way. . That’s why our lives are so tiring. Not to mention that there’s an enormous legacy of socialization looming over us. Customs and moralities impeding all our efforts and virtually condemning us. . We’re quick to relent: the prevailing characteristic of the Muslim East. The East relents. And not just in the face of hardship, it relents in the face of time, natural time. . But how did we get onto this topic?” He shook his head. “That unfortunate, lamented gentle man…”

Mümtaz quickly recognized the change in İhsan’s tone. “What’s happened? Who?”

“An old friend. You remember my schoolmate Hüseyin? He passed away last night. The funeral and obsequies are today. .”

A deep well yawned open before Mümtaz. His own elation, İhsan’s ideas, Sabiha’s multi-hued, crisp laughter rising from below like fireworks, and a few steps beyond them all: mortal remains being cleansed and shrouded for interment.

Rainfall, having begun the previous night, now turned to snow. Nuran adored the Bosphorus under snow. During the summer she’d spun a phantasy about the winters they would spend in Emirgân, and didn’t leave it at that but had Mümtaz buy two ceramic tile woodstoves that she’d happened upon at the Bedesten. On another occasion she’d insisted on a portable gas heater: “This should be available in case of any eventualities!” After having delivered their papers to İhsan and having informed Tevfik by letter of the new developments, she inquired, “Mümtaz, we have a week before us, can’t we head off to Emirgân? But we’ll freeze from the cold, won’t we?”

And Nuran shivered before the stove.

“Why should we freeze? We’ve got all that wood and those twigs. Or have you already forgotten about the stoves you had me buy?”

“Not at all, we’re rich in stoves, but. . who’s going to light them? I mean, that large tiled one? The one we purchased in the Bedesten. I wouldn’t be able to figure it out for the life of me.” Here in the study, they’d set up a stove salvaged from a former pasha’s estate.

Mümtaz, ponderously: “As soon as we’ve decided to marry, without even waiting to see it through, the first thing we do is change our plans!”

“Don’t forget about Sümbül. .”

“Sümbül will be staying at İhsan’s tonight!”

“We’ll drop a letter and she’ll come tomorrow. She’s been pining madly for Emirgân.”

“Fine, but what about tonight?”

“I’ll light the damn stove. . C’mon, let’s go.” He, too, yearned for the Bosphorus. Though it didn’t please him in the least that Suad had learned the whereabouts of his apartment.

Nuran, half teasing, insisted, “You’ll always rise to the occasion, won’t you, Mümtaz? You’ll see to the things that I’m unable to, won’t you?”

“We’re not even married and you’re designating chores. .”

Nuran responded solemnly, “For the sake of our comfort and future peace. .”

Mümtaz didn’t want to let a careless aside slip his lips. He hadn’t been able to get used to this apartment building. He’d suffered so much within these walls.

“Let’s go! We’ll just take what food’s available here. Tomorrow, when Sümbül comes, everything will return to normal.”

“You light the stove. Food is no problem. I like to improvise in the kitchen. It’s a skill that runs in the family.”

By the time they descended to the ferry landing, nightfall loomed. Within the span of a few hours, snow had accumulated along the Bosphorus, which was shrouded in mist.

Nuran, gleeful as a child, hadn’t been in Emirgân since the evening of Emin Dede’s performance. “I wonder what state the garden’s in?” The first day that she’d come to the house, Mümtaz had introduced yet-blooming fruit trees to her as “your handmaidens. .” Thereafter it became an in-joke, and together with Mümtaz she’d given them traditional Ottoman servant names. Presently, recalling each by name, she wondered how they were faring.

It astonished Mümtaz that Nuran hadn’t forgotten these sobriquets amid the countless episodes that had so distressed him this winter. Even worse, he didn’t conceal his surprise. Nuran said, “How peculiar, you actually think I’ve been estranged from you! Next you’ll thank me for not inquiring after your name!” And she continued listing the trees vociferously. “I wonder what state head maidservant Razıdil is in? She’ll have a bit of a chill, won’t she, now? Poor little dear, Razıdil, she’s the solitaire of the garden.”

That week constituted the last of Mümtaz’s halcyon days. From the gloom of winter, they’d reemerged into sublime days of summer. During this week he tasted of the full zest of that initial seasonal fruit called satisfaction, of all things that filled human existence with poetry and enchantment, forging nothing less than a pièce de résistance out of life. Both of them had succumbed to ennui over recent months. For this reason their pleasure resembled a fever of recuperation. As if they’d returned to health and vitality after long illnesses, they clung to each other’s presence.