Such, then, is the "anxious existence" which you attribute to me. Find
me a husband who can act in the same way.
Still, as might have been foreseen, great changes have taken place in
the internal arrangements of my household, where it became necessary
that the Turkish elements should be partially replaced by others more
adapted to the exigencies of western civilization.
A memorable event has occurred.
Hadidjé, Nazli, and Zouhra went the other day to the opera. It is
needless to say that I was there. I must admit that their nervousness
was so extreme at making this bold experiment that, watching them from
my own stall as they came in, I thought for a moment that they were
going to run away again.
Already in their walks they were getting into training, and in regard to
their veils exhibited a certain amount of coquetry; but now it became
necessary to disregard the law of Mahomet entirely. They had never seen
the inside of a theatre before, so you can imagine that when they found
themselves in the box, with their unveiled faces exposed to the gaze of
a multitude of infidel eyes, all the bold resolutions which they had
made for this decisive effort were put to the rout. Strange as such
Mohammedan bashfulness may seem to us, they felt, as they afterwards
told me, that appearing there unveiled, was "just like exhibiting
themselves naked."
However, as soon as this first impression was overcome, thanks chiefly
to the exhortations of Mohammed, who was almost at his wits' ends to
manage them, they succeeded in putting on sufficient assurance to
dissemble their very sincere dread, so that at a distance it looked
merely like excessive shyness. The lifting of the curtain for the first
act of "Don Juan" fortunately changed the current of their emotions.
During the entr'acte their box became the object of attraction to the
subscribers and the frequenters of first night's performances. Their
indolent, oriental type of beauty, notwithstanding the partial disguise
effected by their present costumes, could not fail to produce a
sensation.
Who, it was asked, was this old gentleman with his three daughters of
such surprising beauty? In the Jockey Club's box, where I went to hear
the gossip, everyone was talking about them, as of some important
political event; Mohammed was an American millionaire, according to
some, a Russian prince, or a Rajah just arrived from India, according to
others. When I smiled in a significant manner (as I began to do, on
purpose), they immediately surmised that I fancied I knew more about the
matter than the rest of them, thereupon they surrounded me, and pressed
me with questions.