This is a purely imaginary tale. Any endeavour to find real names for Djenan, Zeyneb, Melek, or Andre would be waste of time, for they never existed.
The only real thing in it is the high level of culture now prevailing in the harems of Turkey, and the suffering which comes of it.
This suffering, more striking perhaps to my eyes as a foreigner, is already an anxiety to my dear friends the Turks, and they would fain diminish it.
I, of course, do not pretend to have discovered the remedy which profound thinkers, there on the spot, are still seeking. But I, like them, feel sure that there is one, and that it will be found; for the wonderful Prophet of Islam, who was above all else compact of light and charity, cannot have desired that the rules he dictated of old should become in the lapse of time a cause of suffering.