Heritage - Part 1/2

I think there is nothing more tormenting in the world than hating one's own soul!

When we "feel the meanness and meanness" of a friend whose roles and lies we have been deceived for years, we leave immediately.

It is the same with love… When we discover a stain on the body that we worship as an idol, we suddenly become cold and even hostile to it.

But to ourselves… What can we do? None!

The ideal of “goodness, righteousness, beauty”, which the moral understanding ignites in our souls, gradually darkens.

When the torch goes out from these three flaming captives, we fall into a dark desert. We become animals.

However, what a sad life animal is!

A life without foundation, without purpose, without love, without sanctity!

There is no good, no right, no beautiful…

Today, the divine torch in my soul went out.

I'm a vagrant, confused animal!

A sad, sad, pessimistic animal!

A poor man who has lost the value of humanity!

My fall into this darkness was not by my will, it was involuntary...

I can almost say "Without my knowledge...".

Fifteen days ago. The night I slept in my uncle's mansion…

How was it?

How did I suddenly become dehumanized?

How did I roll from this paradise to which I will no longer return forever?

How, how?..

My uncle had put me in his place since the day his son Nihat died in World War I. Last year, my aunt died of grief. Now this unfortunate man lives with his servants in his palace-like mansion. I go to see him from time to time.

The most virtuous and virtuous of the people I have known in my life is my uncle.

He did not eat the great wealth inherited from his father in the worlds of debauchery like his brother, he served the state and spent his life in district governorships and governorships of distant provinces.

The library he built at the end of the garden, among the black pines, is like a secret sanctuary.

More than half of his day is spent here. It dusts the books and caresses the volumes.

The lead-lined cup dome of the library resembled an obscure pulpit.

The green-painted iron covers of the windows were open. I moved to the door.

The lock under the old-style knocker had a yellow brass key inserted.

I tapped it gently with my finger, he didn't hear; I shot a little faster, the servant thought: - What is it, Mehmet?

- Not Mehmet, uncle, it's me...

— … He opened the door. With his white beard and thick stony gold glasses that made his blue and tired eyes look bigger, he looked like a saint who had risen from his tomb. I kissed your hand.

— Let me see, he said; Let me show you a jewel.

- Here you go. I took off my shoes. Just like entering a mosque...

I wore one of the red slippers. Behind my uncle was a room suit made of camel hair.

We sat at the crystal table. He handed me the open book.

Again:

— Jewellery, jewellery. “A unique gem,” he said. This jewel looked like a grocery notebook that had fallen into the mud. I looked fake excited.

"It's really delicious," I said.

- They brought it yesterday. How much do you like it?

- For two liras. He stared straight at me:

"You're crazy, son," he said. I wanted to correct the situation:

— The volume is very old… How did you get it for five liras?

"What five liras," he cried. Dafiu'l-gumûm, Mad Brother's magnificent corpus. There is no other copy in Istanbul. Maybe he has no equal in the whole world! The likely article is Ghazali's own writing...

— How much did you get?

— For one hundred and eighty lira.

"Very good," I said. Selected Stories by Ömer Seyfettin 33 The article was in scrambled form. It was as if a vicious rat had gnawed at its skin, its edges. The glitter of her embroidery had faded. While I was looking at this piece of rubbish, my uncle took out the jewels he had just found and said:

"You didn't see this, you didn't see this either," he was laying one by one on the table. Some divans, histories, translations, etc...

From all of them came a moldy graveyard dampness. My uncle devoted his whole life to his library, especially since he was left alone. He likes me to be busy with poetry and art, my works, my poetry, every now and then:

— I am proud of you, he says; but he does not bring new writings, new books into his library. I lifted my eyes, tired of books, to the tiled walls. Unreadable signs were hung, the price of which must have been as high as these books, no doubt. The crystal chandelier in the middle of the dome, with its gold-inlaid chain, was too magnificent to match the modest tranquility of the library. After my uncle finished the qasida he recited:

"Do you know, they want to buy my library," he said.

- Who?

- You don't know. From orientalists.

— How much do they give?

— First, they said ten thousand liras. Then when I said I wouldn't sell it, they increased it to fifteen thousand, twenty thousand.

- What are you saying?

- They will even give you twenty-five thousand.

"Oh uncle, don't stop, sell it," I said. He lifted his eyes from the book he was reading and turned to me. There was such a scolding, such a grievance in him…

— Selling my library? What do I do then?