* * * * *

Here is a question, the answer to which would be interesting to me:  Whether or not for twenty years—­or say rather twenty centuries, twenty eternal aeons—­I have been stark mad, a raving maniac; and whether or not I am now suddenly sane, sitting here writing in my right mind, my whole mood and tone changed, or rapidly changing?  And whether such change can be due to the presence of only one other being in the world with me?

* * * * *

This singular being!  Where she has lived—­and how—­is a problem to which not the faintest solution is conceivable.  She had, I say, never seen clothes:  for when I began to dress her, her perplexity was unbounded; also, during her twenty years, she has never seen almonds, figs, nuts, liqueurs, chocolate, conserves, vegetables, sugar, oil, honey, sweetmeats, orange-sherbet, mastic, salt, raki, tobacco, and many such things:  for she showed perplexity at all these, hesitation to eat them:  but she has known and tasted white wine:  I could see that.  Here, then, is a mystery.

* * * * *

I have not gone to Imbros, but remained here some days longer observing her.

I have allowed her to sit in a corner at meal-time, not far from where I eat, and I have given her food.

She is wonderfully clever!  I continually find that, after an incredibly short time, she has most completely adapted herself to this or that.  Already she wears her outfit as coquettishly as though born to clothes.  Without at all seeming observant—­for, on the contrary, she gives an impression of great flightiness—­she watches me, I am convinced, with pretty exact observation.  She knows precisely when I am speaking roughly, bidding her go, bidding her come, tired of her, tolerant of her, scorning her, cursing her.  If I wish her to the devil, she quickly divines it by my face, and will disappear.  Yesterday I noticed something queer about her, and soon discovered that she had been staining her lids with black kohol, like the hanums, so that, having found a box, she must have guessed its use from the pictures.  Wonderfully clever!—­imitative as a mirror.  Two mornings ago I found an old mother-of-pearl kittur, and sitting under the arcade, touched the strings, playing a simple air; I could just see her behind one of the arch-pillars on the opposite side, and she was listening with apparent eagerness, and, I fancied, panting.  Well, returning from a walk beyond the Phanar walls in the afternoon, I heard the same air coming out from the house, for she was repeating it pretty faultlessly by ear.

Also, during the forenoon of the previous day, I came upon her—­for footsteps make no sound in this house—­in the pacha’s visitors’-hall:  and what was she doing?—­copying the poses of three dancing-girls frescoed there!  So that she would seem to have a character as light as a butterfly’s, and is afraid of nothing.