Room of a photographer’s store

In the future I used to be within the higher room of a photographer’s store when two Turkish girls got here in and eliminated their veils, standing with their backs to the English infidel. One was clearly a lot youthful than the opposite, and appeared to have an exquisite determine. I used to be gazing at it, maybe quite steadily, when, evidently conscious of my look, she turned slowly and intentionally spherical. For 2 or three minutes she confronted me, seeking to proper and left of me, above me, even on the ground close to my ft, together with her massive and delightful blue-gray eyes. She was beautiful. Younger, maybe eighteen, she was barely painted, and her eyebrows and lengthy curling lashes have been blackened. Her options have been good, her complexion was easy and good, and her expression was actually lovable. It appeared to say to me quietly:

It’s silly ever to hide such a face

“Sure, you’re proper. It’s silly ever to hide such a face as this with a veil when actually there’s not an excessive amount of magnificence on this planet. Mais que voulez- vous? Les Turcs!” And the little hanum absolutely moved her skinny shoulders contemptuously. However her aged companion pulled at her gown, and slowly she moved away. As the 2 girls left the room, the photographer, a Greek, sorted them, smiling. Then he turned to me, unfold out his skinny fingers, and mentioned, with a shrug, “Encore des desen- chantees!”

I considered the disenchanted in the future as I sat among the many letter-writers within the massive and roughly paved court docket of the “Pigeon’s Mosque,” or Mosque of Ba jazet II. For hours I had been wandering on foot by way of the higher quarters of previous Stamboul, and I couldn’t launch my thoughts from the boring stress of its affect. All these wood homes, silent, ap-parently deserted, shuttered—streets and streets of them, myriads of them! From time to time above the carved wooden of a lattice I had seen a striped curtain, low cost, dusty, hanging, I guessed, above an inexpensive and dusty divan. The doorways of the homes have been massive and stable, like jail doorways. Earlier than one, as I slowly handed by, I had seen an previous Turk in an extended quilted coat of inexperienced, with an enormous key in his hand, about to enter. He glanced to proper and left, then thrust the important thing into the door. I had felt inclined to cease and say to him:

“That home has been deserted for years. Each one has migrated way back from this quarter of Stamboul. When you keep right here, you may be fairly alone.” However the previous Turk knew very properly that each one the homes have been full of individuals, of imprisoned girls. What a destiny to be one of many prisoners!

 

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