And She Had a Talk with Herself..!

The Woman's Voice received this article with a letter signed "Jihan Aony." It is, as the reader will see, a splendid literary piece. If "Jihan Aony" is truly a "Mrs." or a "Miss," then The Woman's Voice will have discovered for its readers a literary "possibility" of the first order — and how sorely women's literature at the present time stands in need of her like!

I came to know her after I had heard a great deal about her, and after I had been told of her such things as are said only of certain personalities whom the memory seldom forgets or shakes off with ease. I learned of her, among other things, that she is the directress of a government school for girls; that she has held this post for a long time, and held it as only an expert can; and that she is, besides, gracious and well-spoken, elegant and accomplished.

For some reason — perhaps the unanimity of people in admiring her and her administration in particular, as they have never been unanimous before; or perhaps to satisfy the passion that possesses me and will not let me be until it compels me to analyze personalities of this sort — I found myself gathering news of her whenever an occasion offered; and I only grew the more set upon making her acquaintance, the more desirous of striving toward it.

But the days run on and the years follow one upon another, and in their running and their succession there are calamities that no mortal — however fortunate — can be spared from facing. And so the idea grows hot, and fancy upon fancy takes its place in the memory, and keeps toying with it until it comes forth into the world of being, alive and triumphant. And what is life itself but (fancies that go and others that come), in the phrase of one of our writers? Until, when year has followed year and life has been spent without our finding rest, this life slips quietly away, and we know not whether to heap blame upon it or to praise it for its noble handiwork!!

And chance willed that I should make her acquaintance anew. What meets you, as she comes into view, is a figure rising toward tallness with something of the majesty of proportion; and when your eyes take in her face, you are amazed at how youth surges in its delicate features, and how life smiles forever in the two small eyes, expressive of all that moves in her eager soul and in her mind, schooled by the years in ideas, theories, and ideals. And if you sit with her as talker and listener, she pours out for you her own opinions — which have no kinship with the worn-out old, and no tie to the reckless new — with the fullness of one who knows, who studies a subject to the last drop and leaves nothing of it, great or small. All this in a gentle tone, yet one stamped with the power of persuasion; and in her reasoning she relies, for the most part, on the promptings of the heart and of religion. She is wise without obstinacy, philosophical without rigidity, orderly without harshness; she lays her orders upon those around her and those who work with her in a winning way that holds many an art of magic. When she asks, it is as though entreaty lay hidden behind her asking; and when she commands, she makes you feel that she and you alike are under orders from a higher power — the power of conscience, or of a particular devotion to the work entrusted to you both. And all this is accompanied by a sweet cadence that sways between softness and strength, as vigor sways in every limb of her body that knows no rest. She talks, and ordains, and analyzes, while her hands are busy with her two knitting needles, which she rarely lays down except for her fine pen and her huge registers, and while her feet beat the floor with the beat of an amateur musician.

I had supposed, as I stretched out my hand to shake hers for the first time, that I should be shaking the hand of an aged workingwoman to whom long labor had left nothing of womanliness but its name; and behold, I stood before womanliness complete — from the voice, to the way of sitting, to the glance, to the talk and the choosing of it. If she enlarges, for example, upon her admiration for the Turkish woman and the great works she performs at man's side, she adds to what she has said that she would have woman keep far from politics... because politics is like fire: if it finds nothing to devour, it devours itself; and woman, in her belief, is a delicate thing, which must refrain from plunging into such an arena. Love, for her, is self-evident: she looks upon it through a rose-colored glass embroidered with fidelity, purity, and nobility, and she can believe nothing else of it; and whatever departs from this picture is no part of love at all...

Her view of the rising generation, which she has so long tended and still tends with her watchfulness, holds something of pessimism. She feels the greatness of the mission laid upon her shoulders — but what can she do against corrupt training in the home? Where is the true mother who lulls her children to the melodies of patriotism, of truthfulness, and of love? Where is the mother who does not help her child to deceive his father — pretending, for instance, that he did not break the vessel which the maid stands accused of breaking?! Where is the ideal mother who knows what is hers and what is owed by her, and so lays upon her children respect for themselves, respect for others, reverence for duty, and love of order?

As for her view of people — or, more exactly, of those nearest to her among them — it too holds something of pessimism. She is great of heart, great of soul; and one whose qualities are such finds it hard to keep pace with certain people in the ill nature to which they were born, and becomes a target for their aspersions — which, even when they miss the mark, undoubtedly do their evil work upon such souls, molded as they are to the love of goodness, of beauty, and of peace. Loneliness, and then her surroundings, compel her to keep company; so she plunges in, most sincere, most trusting — until, when she has singled out a friend, and shown him the depths of her perplexed soul, and given him of that very soul more than he can carry or appraise, she takes back her trust upon the instant — and has a talk with herself...