territory successively annexed to the rising of the Ottoman Empire
was classed either as forming part of the “dar ul Islâm,” the house
of Islâm, or as belonging to the “dar ul harb,” or the house of war,
according as it was inhabited by Mohammedans or by Christians. In
the latter case the new subjects of the Sultàn were called “rayahs,”
and they were personally assessed to ransom their lives, which were
forfeited by defeat, and as an equivalent for military service from
which they were exempted, or rather, which they did not enjoy the
privilege of rendering. This capitation-tax received the name of
“haratsh,” and its payment entitled each Christian to keep his head on
his shoulders for the space of one year. (Skene: _An adol, or the Last
Home of the Faithful_.)
CHAPTER XIX.—“When the first of the sevens,” etc. It was predicted
in the beginning of the present century by a much-revered sheikh that
when the first of the sevens falls the ruin of Islâm will commence, and
when the second falls it will have been completed. We are now in the
year of the Hegira 1277; the year about to open will invert the first
of the two Arabic sevens read from right to left—V becoming Ʌ; that
is, 7 becoming 8, and in the year 1280 of the Hegira the second 7 will
also be inverted. This prophecy, supported as it is by the reality of
the troubles now arising in various quarters, has naturally exercised
a great influence on the fatalist tendencies of the Mussulmans and
increased their ill-will towards other sects. (Skene: _Rambles in
Syrian Deserts_.)
CHAPTER XXV.—“The garrison was divided into two companies” (Selìm
loquitur). Ahmed Pasha sent some troops under the command of two
colonels into the streets. They soon applied to him for instructions,
under the impossibility of keeping the peace without resorting to
violence. He ordered them in writing to fire upon the people. One
of the colonels in command of the _regulars_ obeyed his order and
dispersed the mob, proving thus that the evil might have been checked.
The other colonel, who had charge of the _irregulars_, was won over
by a Mussulman sheikh, who adjured him in the name of the Prophet and
their common religion to join them and clear the holy city of Damascus
of infidels. He went over to the insurgents with his troops. (Skene, as
above.) For further particulars of the massacre, _see_ Skene, already
quoted, Churchill: _Druzes and Maronites_, and _Ten Years in Mount
Lebanon_, and the newspapers of the latter half of 1860.
GLOSSARY OF ARAB EXPRESSIONS AND NAMES OF PLACES
_Abd_ = A servant, a slave, much used with an epithet of the Deity in
the formation of proper names, as Abdullah, the servant of God; Abdul
Cader, the servant of the Powerful, and so forth.
_Abu_ = Father of. A man assumes his son’s name with this prefix as an
honourable title, letting his own name be almost forgotten.
_Afrìt_ = A devil, a jinni (pl. afærìt).
_Ayûb_ = Job.
_Bara_ = Para. }
_Basha_ = Pasha.} The Arabs have no letter “P” and cannot
pronounce it.
_Bedelíeh askerieh_ = Tax in lieu of military service, levied on
unbelievers.
_Cabil_ = Cain.
_Caimmacàm_ = A local governor, inferior to the provincial governor
(Wâly or Mutesarrif) and appointed by him.
_Damashe-ush-Shâm_ (or simply Es-Shâm) = Damascus. Shâm in this name
is generally taken to mean “Left” in contrast with “Yemen” meaning
“Right.” But it has more likely to do with Shem (Ar. Shâm); Syria is
called Es-Shâm or Birr-ush-Shâm.
_Daûd_ = David.
_Dejìl_ = Antichrist.
_Dìn_ = Religion, faith—_e. g._, dìn Muhammed = El Islâm.
_Durzi_ = A Druze (pl. Drûz).
_Ebn_ = Son—_e. g._, ebn Ali = the son of Ali.
_Effendi_ = A title of respect given generally to Mahometans.
_El Ajem_ = Persia.
_Eljizar_ = Algiers or Algeria (often confused with Eljezireh =
Mesopotamia).
_El Khalìl_ = An epithet of the patriarch Abraham appropriate to his
city of Hebron.
_Emìr_ = Prince, an hereditary and purely Arab title of nobility,
having nothing to do with the Turkish gamut of dignities which, like
the Russian, are purely official. It is given, for instance, to all
the kindred of the Prophet, in addition to the epithet Sherìf (=
honourable, holy).
_Fellah_ = A husbandman, a peasant (pl. fellahìn).
_Fulân_ = An imaginary person (_cp._ Span. Don Fulano) as we say Mr.
So-and-so.
_Habil_ = Abel.
_Haleb_ = Aleppo, surnamed the White (Esh-Shahbah).
_In sh’Allah_ = (lit., if God will) I hope.
_Isa_ = Jesus (Mahometan).
_Iskendería_ = Alexandria.
_Istanbûl_ = Constantinople.
_Jebel Târic_ = Gibraltar.
_Jinni_ = A geni, a fallen angel dwelling on earth and sharing with
man the chance of salvation (pl. jin or jân).
_Kâfir_ = Infidel, heathen.
_Khawaja_ = A title of respect given exclusively to unbelievers.
_Kibleh_ = The point towards which the face is turned at prayers (for
Jews, Jerusalem, for Mahometans, Mecca).
_Lûndra_ = London.
_Marûni_ = A Maronite (pl. Mowarni).
_Masr_ = Egypt.
_Ma sh’ Allah_ = (What does God wish!) the commonest exclamation of
surprise.
_Mehkemeh_ = A court of law presided over by the Cadi.
_Miriam_ = Mary.
_Mufti_ = A religious judge in every city.
_Mûsa_ = Moses.
_Muslim_ = A Mahometan (pl. Muslimûn).
_Mutesarrif_ = A governor of a province, less than a Wâly in dignity,
but, like a Wâly, dependent directly on the Sultàn.
_Nabuli_ = Naples.
_Neby_ = Prophet.
_Nûh_ = Noah.
_Oäh_ = A cry equivalent to “Look out!”
_Rûm_ = Greece.
_Sheykh_ = An old man; hence (age implying precedence) a chief, the
headman of a tribe, a village, or indeed of any community.
_Suleyman_ = Solomon.
_Tarabulus_ = Tripoli (Tarabulus-Esh-Shâm, Tripoli of Syria; not
Tarabulus el Gharb, Tripoli in Barbary).
_The Chief of Mountains_ (Jebel-ush-Sheikh) = Mount Hermon.
_The City of Peace_ (Medinat us Salam) = Baghdad.
_The Mountain_ (El Jebel) = Lebanon.
_The Sunset-Land_ (El Maghrib, el Gharb) = The north coast of Africa
west or Egypt: The Barbary States.
_Wâly_ = The governor-general of a province, appointed directly by
the Sultàn (or at least from Constantinople) and for a period of
five years.
_Wilayet_ = The province governed by a Wâly.
_Yafez_ = Japheth.
_Y Allah!_ = (O God) the commonest of all exclamations, meaning
whatever you please, oftenest with a sense of “Make haste!” or
“Forward!”
_Yesua_ = Jesus (Christian).
PART II
THE BOOK OF HIS FATE
“_O ye men, it is not the great king, nor the multitude of men, neither
is it wine that excelleth; who is it then that ruleth them, or hath the
lordship over them? Are they not women?_”—1 ESDRAS.
[Illustration]
I
About the third hour of a summer’s day, Saïd the Merchant strolled
lazily in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm. A bare-legged servant, whose
brown heels peeped in and out of a pair of large red slippers, held a
sunshade obsequiously over his head. The parasol was white with a green
lining. It amounted to a badge of the highest consequence, and Saïd was
faint for pride of it.
More than ten years of ease and good living had greatly increased his
bulk. He had gained that appearance of mixed dignity and benevolence
which the habit of a full belly imparts to a man. Many there were who
louted low to him in the way; he acknowledged their presence by the
slightest scooping motion of his hand. But a notable of the city riding
by upon a grey horse, heralded by an outrunner with cries of “Oäh!”
scattering the crowd to right and left, Saïd was foremost of all to bow
his head and touch his lips and brow in token of reverence.
He entered the shelter of a roofed bazaar and the sunshade was
presently put down. The cool shadow, bringing relief from the blinding
glare outside, disposed all men to dawdle. Brisk movement, the hoarse
cry of impatience and the peevish oath gave way all at once to sighs,
murmurs of praise to Allah, and much wiping of faces. Saïd, however,
thanks to the parasol, was not much heated, and he sauntered on
leisurely as before. His ample form, richly clad, and his disdainful
bearing wrung a salutation even from strangers. Such of the bystanders
as knew his quality blessed him loudly by name. And he said in his
heart,—
“Can it be that I was once Saïd the Fisherman—a thing despised of all
men to spit upon? Now behold, I am Saïd the Merchant, in the height of
prosperity and honour, so that they bow low before me in the market,
and even men of family deem it no dishonour to kiss my hand. Surely
I am great and glorious, and my wealth is established upon a sure
foundation. Allah is great and bountiful, and I, His servant, am much
indebted to Him.”
The next minute he made a rapid sign with his hand and he muttered a
formula reputed potent, lest that jealous eye which is ever fixed upon
the heart of man should mark his boastfulness and lay a snare for him.
The bare-legged servant, very proud of a new tarbûsh he was wearing
for the first time, now walked a few steps in advance of his master
to clear the way. The shadow was inky upon the crowd. Motes danced
golden in a bar of light where a rift in the barn-like roof let in a
sunbeam. The divers hues of the multitude, and the rich array of stuffs
displayed in the doorways on either hand, were cool and restful as
reflections in water.
Striking into another bazaar which ran at right angles to that he had
hitherto threaded, Saïd turned in at a low doorway of humble seeming,
bidding the servant await him there. He traversed a narrow passage and,
crossing a filthy court in sunlight, mounted some worn stone steps. At
the top of the flight was a crazy door. He knocked, crying,—
“Open, O Selìm! It is I, the master! Make haste, lazy one! Know that I
am busy to-day and have little time to spare!”
The sound of the voice had not died away ere the door swung inward with
a great creaking, and Selìm appeared in the entrance. He pounced on
Saïd’s hand and kissed it.
“Welcome, O my master!” he exclaimed, as he made fast the door behind
his patron. “It was in this minute that I wished to speak with thee
concerning certain carpets of thine which have arrived with the caravan
of Ali Effendi and now lie at the great khan awaiting thy orders. Is
it thy wish that I go there after noon?… How is the health of thy son,
Suleyman? Mayst thou be blest in him!”
Saïd sat down cross-legged upon the raised platform of stone which
formed a kind of daïs at one end of the room. With a look of
concentration he began to roll a cigarette, leaving Selìm’s questions
unanswered for a minute. The delicate tracery of the lattice at his
back sifted and subdued the light while admitting what breeze there was.
It was pleasant to lounge there, in the place of honour of the large,
cool room, and let his eye range over the piles of rich carpets, roll
upon roll, which almost concealed the walls. It was pleasant, sitting
thus, to inhale the smoke of a cigarette, or, better still, of a
narghileh. The whole of his life passed before him at such times, like
a tale of the Thousand and One Nights. But for evidence of the piles
of carpets, and the presence of Selìm, moving to and fro among them,
he would sometimes have doubted the truth of it all, so marvellous
it seemed. It was pleasant to recall the old life with Hasneh in the
little house among the sandhills by the seashore, to curse again the
treachery of Abdullah, to review his wanderings and all the wondrous
chances of the great slaughter. Even the weeks of terror which followed
those days of bloodshed, when the Saving Faith seemed humbled for ever
and the power of the infidels was paramount in the land, were sweet in
the memory. He looked back to them as to a dream of delights, for they
had passed, dream-like, in the first, full rapture of possession after
long months of yearning. Engrossed by bliss, dazed with a delicious
languor of soul and body, he had heard talk of executions, of shooting
and hanging of true believers, only as one hears whose ears are stuffed
with wool. Sad tidings had reached him in the little pleasure-house he
had hired among the gardens at the foot of the great brown hills. One
day Hasneh had returned from her marketing, half dead for horror, with
the news that Ahmed Pasha had been led out and shot that morning. In
the space of a week or two, more than three hundred of the faithful
were hanged, so that the Sultàn’s envoy, who introduced and, as some
said, invented that shameful and unclean way of death, was named of all
men Father of a Rope. There were accounts of a French army in Mount
Lebanon, slaying every Druze they met, were it man, woman or child. It
was said they had sworn to wipe out the Drûz utterly from the face of
the earth, because they had dared to be victorious over the Maronites,
who were reckoned as French subjects for the nonce. But Saïd, though
cursing the French and all unbelievers by rote, had, in fact, felt but
little concern for the calamities of his neighbours. The death of Ahmed
Pasha had been of direct benefit to him, for it set Selìm free to be
his agent in those commercial enterprises on which he soon began to
employ his capital.
Ferideh, tamed at last, and submissive to his pleasure, Hasneh re-found
and willing to wait upon him hand and foot, his treasure bestowed in
a safe place; he had been feverishly happy throughout that time of
trouble and disgrace. The true Faith was sure to triumph in the end.
Meanwhile he had not neglected to pray to Allah five times a day, had
eaten no pork, and had been careful to avoid handling any unclean thing.
From the height of wealth and honour to which his native shrewdness,
under Allah, and a run of the rarest good luck had conspired to raise
him, he could con over his life with some of that enjoyment a traveller
knows in recounting hardships past. For a long while he sat musing
with a far-away look in his eyes—a look having no concern with the
pile of Meccan prayer-mats on which he seemed intent. The smoke of his
cigarette curled lazily upward in the tempered gloom. A little crowd
of flies hung buzzing over his head. At length, the silence growing
irksome, Selìm hazarded,—
“How is thy health, O Saïd?”
“Praise be to Allah! And thy health?” was the mechanical reply. Then,
starting from his brown study and brushing the flies from his face,—
“We have a fine store of carpets, O father of Mûsa—none like it in all
the city. For how much, thinkest thou, could we sell all that is now on
our hands?”
Selìm stroked his beard and his forehead puckered thoughtfully. After
some inward reckoning he named a large sum of money as a fair estimate.
Saïd’s face grew rapturous.
“Now listen, O Selìm,” he said, bending towards his henchman and
speaking in low, eager tones. “It is in my mind to buy the house of
Mahmud Effendi—thou knowest it?—which is towards the Jewish quarter.
He asks a vast sum for it—a fortune, by Allah! But it is known that he
needs money, that his creditors harass him for payment. Wait a little,
and he will be glad to accept much less. Nevertheless, it is a fine
house and a costly; the price of it will amount to more than I have in
my hand. I am minded to sell all these carpets and to part with this
upper room. In time to come it shall be said of Suleyman: his father is
a great Effendi, who dwells in a palace.
“Now, O my brother, I know thee for a wise man whose advice it is good
to take; and thou wast ever careful for my welfare. Counsel me, I pray
thee, and tell me what comes to thy mind on this matter.”
Selìm stared aghast at his employer. Dismay made his eye-balls dilate
and his jaw drop.
“To hear is to obey,” he faltered at length. “It is for thee to order
and dispose of what is thine. I am but thy servant to hear and bow my
head. Nevertheless, O Saïd, O my brother, O father of kindness, what is
it that thou purposest? To sell a thriving business like this, which
yields more and more profit with each year, were the dream of a madman!
And why dost thou so covet the house of Mahmud? I fear an evil spirit
prompts thee in this matter, seeking to engulf thy fortune. Hast thou
not already a fine house enough—one well becoming the lord of thy
wealth? Hast thou not a beautiful woman for wife, one who is mistress
of thy fancy, who has already borne a son to inherit thy honour? Hast
thou not also another wife who loves thee, and maidens to wait on
thy harìm? Hast thou not two men-servants and a doorkeeper, without
counting Selìm and all his father’s house, who are ever ready to do thy
behests? Sure, if ever man was happy, thou art happy; if ever Allah
favoured any man, He has favoured thee. The higher a person rises, the
closer do envy and ill-will and hatred beset him on every side. The
more conspicuous he becomes, the more he has need of money. Hear a
story, O my brother.
“Know that there was once a man who owned a she-camel, which fed him
with her milk and earned money for him by her labour. But the man was
not content. Going one day to the city he beheld in the shop of a
certain merchant a collar of gold. And he said in his soul, ‘O my soul,
if I had but that collar I should certainly be happiest of all the sons
of Adam.’ The thought of it robbed him of sleep by night, and in the
day-time it was ever present to his mind. At last he bethought him of
the camel, and he said in his heart, ‘A collar of gold for a camel is
a famous bargain. Every poor fellah has a camel belonging to him, but
only the greatest wear collars of gold.’
“On the morrow he arose and drove his beast to the city, and there sold
her, together with the pack-saddle and the halter, a bag of corn and a
vessel of oil which happened to be with him in the house. Then he went
straight to the merchant’s, and, having assured himself that the collar
was there, he inquired the price. At first the trader laughed and eyed
him askance, for the poorness of his clothes. But afterwards, finding
that he had money with him, he deigned to name a sum. It was more than
the man could pay; yet, being an astute fellow and good at a bargain,
he at length obtained the collar.
“With it clasped round his neck he strutted about the streets, deeming
himself an Emìr. It was not for a long while he became aware that men
were pointing after him and laughing in their beards. Then shame came
upon him, and he wished to hide the ornament; but he could not, it was
so big and his robe so scanty and ragged. He tried to unclasp it, but
he knew not the trick of it, the merchant having made it fast for him.
He sped to the shop, wishing to give it back and receive his money
again; but the merchant drove him away with curses and threatening
words. He dared not have recourse to any worker in metal lest the price
of his release should be more than he could afford, and, in default of
payment, the collar should be taken from him.
“By the time he had eaten and drunk and had paid his lodging for one
night, he had no money left. On the third day he was driven to beg
in the gate of the city. But those who passed in and out mocked him,
thinking he was a joker or one that begged for a wager or a vow. And
this became a proverb in the land: The beggar with the collar of gold
craves a mite of thee, O muleteer.
“Full of distress he prayed Allah, if it might be, to take away that
plague from him and give him back his camel. Soon he prayed more
earnestly that Allah would cut off his life. His prayer was heard; for
certain wicked men of the city had cast greedy eyes upon the collar.
They lay in wait for him in a lonely place, and there slew him. But
being powerless to unclasp the collar, they cut off his head and drew
it from the neck still fastened.
“Now, O my brother, the drift of my story is clear and needs no
explaining. I think it no wise thing to sell all thy stock-in-trade
that thou mayst buy a fine palace. Remember that he who bartered the
camel for the collar of gold had shame and misery and a ghastly death
into the bargain.”
During the tale Saïd’s face had become overcast. As Selìm ceased
speaking his displeasure broke out. Frowning, and with a peevish
gesture,—
“Thou speakest folly and thy words are far from the purpose!” he cried.
“What have I got to do with thy poor man and his camel? Behold, I am
rich, as thou well knowest. Even when I shall have paid the price of
the house there will yet be money left in my hand wherewith to trade
anew. Because I speak of selling this shop and these carpets, thou art
afraid of thy own meat and drink, lest thy livelihood be taken from
thee. Thou makest believe to rede me a friendly counsel, whereas thy
mind is wholly set upon thy private advantage. I had thought to make
thee a handsome present—enough to keep thee in comfort and honour all
thy days; but now, since thou choosest to cross me, I know not what I
shall do.”
Stung by the accusation of self-seeking, Selìm bounded to his feet.
“Now, Allah pardon thee, O Saïd,” he exclaimed in a low voice broken
by emotion. “Surely thou art possessed with a devil to think this evil
of me! In all the years that I have served thee in this place, hast
thou ever found me wanting in my duty? Have I not ever loved thee as
a dear brother, while serving thee faithfully as my lord? Hast thou
ever known me to seek my own advantage to thy prejudice in the price
of a single prayer-mat? Do I not bring up my children to bless thee as
their father’s benefactor?… These words which thou hast spoken wound my
inmost heart. Behold, am I not thy thing, to take up or to cast aside?
If I likened thee by chance to a poor fellah, who had but one camel,
Allah be my witness, it was because I knew no other story to meet thy
case. Fables ever deal in extremes; I meant thee no insult, as thou
knowest well. I did but give thee the best advice that I had out of the
little store of wisdom which is mine. O Saïd—O my dear! I have loved
thee with a great affection ever since the day thou didst hire me to
be thy servant, and didst give me that rich garment—the root of my
honour—which I still cherish in my house. That is long ago, when Mûsa,
my first-born, was yet at his mother’s breast. Now Mûsa is almost a man
to wear the turban, yet I love thee with the same love still. It will
grieve me to forsake this upper chamber, where I have sat cool through
the heat of many a day; while the bees and the flies and the wasps made
a drowsy moaning, and the voice of the water-carrier came to me out of
the street like a wild bird’s cry. It is natural, is it not? that I
should grieve somewhat at thought of leaving a place where I have spent
many years in peace of mind and body. And the little room adjoining,
where all my children save Mûsa have been born, is dear to me for the
cries of the young ones and the voice of the anxious mother crooning
soft to them. But thou gavest, and it is thine to take away. O Saïd, O
my brother, seek not to quarrel with me after all these years!”
The pathos of this appeal touched some answering chord in the
merchant’s heart, for the lines of his face softened and his eyes
filled with tears. At last, when Selìm had made an end of speaking,
and stood gazing at him with eyes full of entreaty, Saïd started up
and, going over to him, fell on his neck. Surely an evil spirit had
prompted him to doubt for a minute the good faith of his more than
brother. He asked forgiveness of the harsh words uttered in haste. But
he had set his heart on purchasing the house of Mahmud Effendi, and the
unlooked-for dissension had angered him.
Deeply moved by his patron’s tears, Selìm gave way completely; vowing
to be faithful to him in all things, whatever he should require. He
called Allah to witness that he had not meant to oppose Saïd’s will,
but only to help him with advice, that nothing might be done rashly or
without due consideration.
“What is the hour?” asked Saïd at length, with a startled glance at the
tracery of light and shadow thrown from the lattice upon wall and floor.
“It is between the fourth and the fifth, O my master,” Selìm
pronounced, after reference to the same dial. “With thy leave, I will
call for coffee, if, indeed, thou must depart so soon.” At his shout of
“Mûsa!” a sturdy boy, clad in a robe of striped cotton, close buttoned
at the neck, and having for head-dress an ancient and weather-beaten
fez, appeared from an inner room. The shrill tones of a woman scolding
and the piteous howl of an infant came through the same door with him,
out of the gloom on which he stood revealed.
“O Mûsa, bring coffee and that quickly, for our master has little
time!” said Selìm.
The two elders took counsel together how to dispose of shop and
merchandise to the best advantage. There were debts of long standing
to be collected, or, where the debtor was too great and powerful, to
be forgiven with as much circumstance as possible. Selìm undertook all
the more tiresome business of the settlement, leaving for his master
that lighter part which could be transacted over a glass of sherbet and
a narghileh. Saïd thanked him, as for a matter of course, and heartily
cursed the buzzing swarm of flies which infested the room. Then, when
he had swallowed a cupful of coffee, he arose and set out for the house
of Mahmud Effendi.
He thought of the joy Ferideh would have in that palace, and his heart
beat faster; for, after more than ten years of possession, he still
doted on the daughter of Yuhanna.
II
Mahmud Effendi sat in the audience-hall of his great house, in the
highest seat. Door and windows open on the court showed a vine-covered
trellis, a few orange-trees grouped about a marble basin, and the
opposite wall of the quadrangle in dazzling sunshine. Draughts of
lukewarm air brought the pleasant sound of leaves rustling and water
trickling to freshen the deep shade of the room, which would else have
been gloomy and oppressive.
Mahmud Effendi was a man of thirty summers, unhealthily white and
fat, with dark creases under his eyes. He wore a long morning robe of
striped silk, a high fez and a finely-embroidered turban; but a pair
of Frankish boots of patent leather were most obvious as he lolled in
the cushioned seat of honour. As a member of the Council of Notables,
and one who had spent a year at Istanbûl to complete his education,
he usually donned the Turkish frock-coat and dark trousers on state
occasions. It was told of him that he could sit on a chair stiffly,
like a Frank, for minutes together without a symptom of uneasiness,
could wield a knife and fork cunningly and speak with the tongue of
unbelief. But in the freedom of his own dwelling, with his kinsfolk and
servants obsequious about him, he was the true Arab grandee, scornful
and unmannerly.
On the morning in question the couches of the presence-chamber were
well filled. On the daïs reclined a number of the great man’s relatives
and cronies, grouped in order of their rank; while the body of the
hall was sprinkled with the men of the household and other dependants,
together with sundry persons who presented themselves every morning
with praiseworthy constancy, for no other purposes than to make their
names and faces familiar to one in authority.
The walls of the room were a mosaic-work of marble of different
colours, the words of the Fatiha, or opening chapter of the Coràn,
running all round under the ceiling by way of frieze. At all points the
name of Allah met the eye, cunningly obscured and twisted into puzzling
monograms; and further veiled by such epithets as the Merciful, the
Praiseworthy, the Powerful, and so forth. The pavement, too, was of
mosaic, where it could be seen for rugs. A wide stone bench or divan,
which ran along the foot of the walls, was cushioned upon the daïs,
bare elsewhere. Before the lord of the house, on a soft carpet from
Persia, stood a stool, or little table of dark-stained wood inlaid upon
the top and sides with arabesque patterns of mother-of-pearl. It bore
an inkstand, a reed pen, and a bulky scroll of parchment covered with
close writing in a clerkly hand.
Mahmud Effendi was restless and spoke little. No sooner was one
cigarette lighted for him by an attentive neighbour than he flung
it away, with an oath of impatience, and began to roll another.
Conversation in the room was carried on by low whispers, and eyes kept
straying anxiously to the door.
“This man—what is his name?—this Saïd is late!” exclaimed the great
one, fretfully, with a yawn. “Is it meet, I ask you, that my father’s
son should be kept waiting by the child of a dog?”
“It is true! He is late; curse his religion! May the fire, the mother
of hospitality, be quenched on his hearth, and his father’s grave be
perfectly defiled!” Glad of the chance to lift up their voices, all
present cursed the tardy one most heartily.
It was but yesterday that Nasr, the son of his mother’s sister, had
come to Mahmud with news that a certain merchant, reputed lord of
boundless wealth, was minded to buy the palace at any price. The
man, whose name was Saïd, would present himself, said the informant,
betimes on the morrow. Nasr spent most of his life in the taverns of
the city. He was a famous gossip and no mean liar. But in this case
Mahmud, in sore straits for money, had gladly believed his tidings
and had summoned all the heads of his kindred to support him at the
interview. Now, seeing that the morning was fast wearing away and no
one came, he began to have an inkling that his cousin had lied to him,
knowing his instant need to sell the house and wishing to please him
and gain honour for himself by bringing agreeable news. He bent ominous
brows on the unconscious Nasr, who sat fourth removed from him on the
seat of honour; and was on the point of upbraiding him fiercely with
the deceit, when a murmur of satisfaction, first raised by a group of
servants at the door, spread throughout the assembly. A man’s voice was
heard at the gate, crying,—
“Peace be upon this house, and the mercy of Allah, and His blessings!”
Mahmud Effendi straightened himself in his seat. The elders upon the
daïs composed their limbs and faces on decorous lines. The menials in
the body of the hall fell bowing into two rows, forming a lane for the
passage of the new-comer.
Having slipped off his shoes at the threshold, Saïd the merchant
entered the presence-chamber with a mien of the utmost deference. His
servant followed bearing the white parasol with the green lining, as
it had been a rod of office. Leaving his body-guard among the folk of
the household, Saïd advanced to the daïs. All the great ones who sat
there arose at his approach, and his humble salutation was returned
twentyfold. Mahmud Effendi came a little way to meet him, and, after
the brief and languid struggle enjoined by politeness, yielded his
hand to be kissed. Then he led the guest to a vacant seat on his
right, and called loudly for refreshments. With his own hand he made a
cigarette for Saïd, and insisted on lighting it for him with a match
borrowed from the uncle who sat on his left. Then he renewed inquiries
concerning the visitor’s health, scanning his face earnestly for any
sign of disorder; while all the rest of the company put the same or
like questions after him in chorus.
Quite overwhelmed by the honour paid to him, Saïd could only bow
repeatedly, murmuring blessings upon his host and all belonging to him.
But when two serving-men drew near barefooted, each carrying a large
and curiously-wrought brass tray laden with glasses of several kinds of
sherbet, Mahmud’s attention was called away for a minute and he found
time to regain composure.
He glanced craftily round upon that numerous gathering, whose presence
there, he shrewdly guessed, was planned to abash and outface him. But
the mental resolve to prove a match for them all found no expression in
face or attitude.
At length, when all the empty glasses were replaced on the trays and
the servants had retired with them, a silence ensued which Saïd deemed
favourable for the opening of his business. With a cringing twist of
his body, he begged the ear of Mahmud Effendi, who gave heed to him
with the gravest condescension.
It was noised abroad in the markets.—The common people are all
gossips, scandalmongers, by Allah! and publishers of every silly
rumour.—It was noised abroad that his Excellency was desirous of
selling that great palace, where he had the honour to behold his
Eminence in the extremity of welfare and good health. The report—which
was of course an idle one, unworthy the credence of a man of sense—had
at length reached the ears of his Honour’s devoted servant. Though
at once perceiving it to be a foolish fable, such as low people,
muleteers and others who frequent the bazaars, spread abroad for love
of mischief; yet it had so far carried weight with him that, being at
present in search of a fine house and having by the blessing of Allah
some little wealth at his disposal, he had allowed his mind to dwell
on the thought of this great palace, to desire it. He had therefore
ventured to wait upon his Grace, in order to make sure that the report
that he had heard was groundless, and, in case there should be a
measure of truth in it, to inquire what price his Worship was pleased
to demand. He was aware that it ill became him, a small man and of no
account in the city, thus to thrust himself forward in the presence of
his Highness and of his Highness’s illustrious kindred there assembled.
To aspire to possess that fine house was the last presumption in one
of his mean quality. As for the notion of supplanting, or in any sense
replacing, his Excellency, it was far from his mind. Can the fox claim
fellowship with the lion? And yet it is no sin if the fox come to dwell
in the lion’s den, after the noble beast has forsaken it, needing
change; provided he do so meekly, with a proper sense of his own
unworthiness, giving praise and thanks at all times to Allah for his
great good fortune.
He (Saïd) was a merchant, whose business, by the grace of Allah, had
thriven with him; and, whereas a great one of the city, having much
property but little ready money, would pay the price hardly and by
many instalments, he was prepared to bring the whole sum at once in
his hands and place it in the hands of his Excellency. A small sum
paid down in its entirety was worth more than the promise of great
riches. Wherefore—his voice became a coaxing whine and his smile waxed
eloquent of deprecation—wherefore he had dared hope that his Highness
would deign to abate something of the price in his favour; if he were
indeed minded to sell the house, which was most unlikely. Might Allah
preserve his Excellency’s life for ever, and increase the goods of his
Excellency to the crowning point of his prosperity.
Mahmud Effendi listened to all this long speech with courteous
attention, as did all who sat upon the daïs, taking their cue from him.
Having heard Saïd patiently to an end, he raised a hand to his beard
and stared round upon the faces of his kindred with the dazed look
of a man taken quite by surprise. After a pause long enough to fully
impress the visitor with a sense of his amazement, he spoke slowly and
falteringly, as one striving to muster his wits.
“Allah pardon! It was a false report thou heardest, O my uncle. Men
are wont to speak idly in the markets, and their tongues wag ever most
glibly of those who sit in high places. I marvel only that a man of thy
penetration should have paid any heed to their talk. The wish to sell
my house is very far from me; nay, it was but in this hour I was taking
counsel with the heads of my father’s house about a plan for adorning
the women’s apartments with a screen of Cairene lattice-work, and to
inlay the walls of the court with devices of marble. At the moment of
thy entering I was reading in that scripture thou seest upon the table,
which is an exact account of all that the house contains and the value
of it. If thou doubtest the truth of what I say, inquire of any man
here, and he shall certify thee.
“By my beard, I am amazed at thy speech, for to sell this house, which
belonged to my father and my father’s father before me, was never
further from my thoughts than it is to-day.
“And yet … now that thou hast put it in my mind, I know not that I
should altogether refuse to sell, were one to make me a tempting offer.
As thou sayest, a large sum in the hand is better than the like sum
paid in slow instalments. Moreover, a man like me has many liabilities
to which one of thy condition is not subject. Thou receivest money
every day, and thy wealth is with thee in the house; whereas the
fortune I inherit is vested in lands and houses, which cannot be moved,
and which it is tiresome to sell; and withal I must always be spending.
Thou art eloquent, O my uncle, and thy talk sways my mind a little.
Having no instant need of money, nor indeed any enduring wish to sell
at all, I shall not certainly part with this fine house for less than
its utmost value. Nevertheless, since the whim is upon me, I am curious
to know what price thou wouldst offer!”
He did not wait for Saïd’s answer, but very carelessly shouted an order
for coffee to be served at once.
All his kindred raised hands and eyes ceilingwards, calling Allah to
witness their astonishment at what they had just heard. Mahmud Effendi
to think of selling his house! Surely the great man spoke in jest! If
he were indeed serious, then the sun might shortly be expected to rise
in the west! They murmured together in amazement and concern.
Saïd, with eyes fixed upon one of his host’s Frankish boots, appeared
lost in reflection. At length he faltered,—
“O my lord, know that I am a small man, wholly unworthy to compete with
thee in any way. Who am I that I should presume to set a price on that
which belongs to thy Highness? Deign to name such a sum as thou deemest
just, and I, thy servant, will say whether I can afford to pay it. I
am a small man and my wealth limited. Notwithstanding, having a great
regard for thy Grace, I shall endeavour by all means to content thee.”
“Truly thou askest no easy thing of me,” muttered Mahmud, with puckered
forehead. “It is hard to compute the price of that which has never been
sold nor valued for sale. If I were really earnest in this matter,
I should say, Bring valuers, one for thee and one for me. Let them
go over all the premises and make each his estimate. But, as it is,
wishing only to know what thou wouldst give, I know not what to say.
I would rather that some other gave an opinion in my stead, lest thou
shouldst say, Of course, he extols that which is his own. Now behold,
there are many honourable persons here present, who know the house
perfectly and all it contains. If it please thee, let them confer
together and we will abide by their judgment.”
But Saïd put in humbly,—
“Nay, O my lord, I cannot engage to pay whatever price the arbiters may
lay upon me. My wealth, alas! has limits. Allah keep thy Grace ever in
safety; that which I ask of thee is only reasonable.”
“Of course, it shall be as thou choosest,” said Mahmud, carelessly.
While the coffee was being passed round, the umpires spoke earnestly
together in low tones, now glancing at Saïd, now at their kinsman,
with manifest impartiality. At last they resumed their seats and their
former languid postures. An aged man, uncle to Mahmud on the father’s
side, had been chosen spokesman. He now rose to make known the verdict.
The sum he named made Saïd wince, though he was prepared for almost
any extravagance. Mahmud himself could not refrain from throwing an
admiring glance round upon his relations. The merchant smiled painfully
and stroked his beard.
“Well, what sayest thou, O my uncle?” said Mahmud, in a voice of
encouragement. “Remember, thou hast not yet seen all the house, and
this is not the only fine room in it. Observe the walls a little, I
pray thee, what excellent workmanship is there! By the Coràn, I think
it a low estimate. What sayest thou?”
Saïd, though secretly gnawing his underlip, made shift to smile.
Shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands wide in deprecation:
“The price exceeds my fortune,” he murmured. “I cannot bid more than a
third of it.”
“Never!” cried Mahmud, in extreme disgust, fending off the insulting
offer with his hand. “Never!” cried all his kindred in chorus, eyeing
Saïd as though he had done every one of them a mortal injury.
A long and chilly pause ensued, until Mahmud, having managed to bring
his outraged feelings into subjection, renewed his inquiries after the
visitor’s health in the cause of hospitality. But there was a marked
change in his manner, and Saïd, perceiving that he was no longer
welcome, made haste to depart. The lofty courtesy of his company had
daunted him during the whole interview. That sudden change from the
sunshine of condescension to the frost of contempt sent him forth
bewildered into the scorching street. But ere he had made many paces
from the outer gate he was again master of his wits.
Walking in the shade of the white parasol with the green lining, he
reviewed the whole scene with a chuckle. With patience, he felt sure
of getting the house at very nearly his own price. He had made a not
unreasonable offer. In a very few days, he foresaw, Mahmud would
summon him once more to his presence; and then the haggling would
begin in earnest. It might last a month, it might last a year. All
depended on the temper of the great man’s creditors. In any case, he
felt sure of his bargain in the end; and the memory of that splendid
presence-chamber made his brain swim with ambition.
III
The house of Saïd the Merchant was so set in the heart of the city
that for strangers and country people, who had not the clue to the
labyrinth, it was a day’s work to find it. The approach from the
nearest bazaar was by an archway infested with dogs and beggars, down
a winding lane, and through a gate in the wall. Even after the gate
was passed, callers were forced to ask their way, for one passage gave
access to three several dwellings, and who, uninspired, could tell
which door to choose? As one stood on its roof and looked out over
the town, it seemed an easy feat to scramble thence to the minaret
of Isa, half a mile distant, without once descending to the level of
the streets. You would have deemed Es-Shâm hewn of a single stone, so
hard it was to mark where one building ended and another began. It was
on the house-top that Saïd was wont to say his prayers at nightfall,
and often in the day-time, with face turned duly southward towards
the kibleh. Often, too, he would cause a servant to bring an ewer of
water to him upon the roof, and there, in sight of the many who sought
refreshment in the evening air, he would perform the lesser washings of
preparation, without which no prayer of man is acceptable to Allah.
He had a very large and precious copy of the Coràn, so exquisitely
written that each word was a monogram for a learned scribe to
decipher; for Saïd it was quite illegible. This manuscript, bound
in finely-chased leather, was carried every Friday by a servant to
the mosque, together with a cushion. It was a small place of worship
frequented by poor people, to whom a merchant was a great man. As soon
as Saïd was comfortably seated on the cushion, the volume was placed
in his hands. Opening it at random, he would recite some passage which
he knew by heart, in a very loud, nasal voice, and to the edification
of all who sat there on the bare stones, waiting for the coming of the
preacher.
He was known to give alms of all his substance, and it was understood
he would make the pilgrimage as soon as ever his house and business
could be set in order. No wonder that he was reckoned a holy man,
esteemed and reverenced of all his neighbours; the roof of his house
being high and conspicuous, and little of his devotions done in private.
His abode consisted of a small square court, elaborately paved; three
sides of which were taken up by the living rooms and offices, the
fourth being filled by a blind wall of the next house, in which was
the entrance door. The court was no larger than a large chamber, and
the house was small to match it, but convenient and more roomy than
it promised to be. Hard by the entrance was a little chamber with a
vaulted ceiling, where the doorkeeper lived, and facing it, across the
court, yawned the doorway of a large cellar or storehouse beneath the
women’s apartments, where cooking and other work of the household was
done.
It was in this place that Hasneh sat on a morning, grinding with one of
her maidens at the handmill; while another who, being high in favour
with Ferideh, thought herself entitled to do as she pleased, sat
idly looking on, burying her hand in a sackful of wheat, and letting
the grains glide through her fingers. The sound of grinding was loud
in room and courtyard, relieved by the voices of the women chanting
shrilly at their task. Now and then one would cease singing and let go
the handle, to draw her veil closer as a protection from the flies;
only to burst out afresh in song, and fall again to the turning with
renewed strength.
Out in the sunshine, the doorkeeper, a burly negro, could be seen
dozing with head against the wall. The heat and the glare, abhorred of
others, were dear to him. He basked in them languorously, with closed
eyes, stretching himself like a cat and showing his white teeth.
“Our lord is late to-day,” said Hasneh, excitedly, pausing to push
back a fold of her robe which was in the way. “Allah grant no ill has
befallen him. I have to speak with him when he returns.”
“Thou hast to speak with him, sayest thou?” said the maid who sat idle,
in languid amazement. “Is it thy errand, pray, or another’s?”
“There is a word from Nûr, the old woman, and something I must add to
it of my own knowledge.”
“It is plain thou hast little understanding, O mother of nothing!” said
the girl, jeeringly. “Our lord holds thee of no more account than an
old sandal, and the words of thy mouth are as the voice of a fly in his
ears. If Nûr desired a hearing for her message, she would surely have
addressed herself to the lady Ferideh, or to me, that am her handmaid.
This errand of which thou boastest is some slight message of compliment
such as men bandy in the streets and count not. Or it may be”—the girl
tittered—“thou hast something of moment to tell concerning thyself.
Nûr is reputed skilful in such matters. How is thy health, O honoured
lady? Say, art thou once more with child, O mother of a thousand?”
Hasneh let go the handle of the mill and sprang to her feet. Ever since
Ferideh had borne a son her life had been full of bitterness. Never a
day passed without some cruel jest at her expense. The child she would
have loved for his father’s sake was trained by his mother to strike
her and spit at her. From the time he first began to lisp, Suleyman
had been taught to call her Childless Mother, Mother of Wind, and a
host of other unkind names; and the maidens, aping their mistress, were
for ever nettling her with the like taunts. Anger, as she had learnt
by long experience, only gave point to their amusement; and she had
schooled herself to be patient under their gibes. But this morning,
with a biting retort on the tip of her tongue, she gave full vent to
her pent-up spite.
“Daughter of a dog!” she screamed. “May thy father’s grave be defiled
and thy race perish utterly from off the earth! Thou art made on the
pattern of thy mistress, and she is a harlot! Our master is deceived
when he thinks her at the bath all the morning. Ah, I have learnt a
thing by the mouth of Nûr—a thing which, whispered in Saïd’s ear,
will cause the downfall of this fine lady who lies all day long among
soft cushions, and fears to soil the whiteness of her fingers. Saïd
may kill her in his wrath—such deeds are common!… No, I warrant thee,
the message I bear to Saïd is no vain compliment—by Allah, no! It is
of weight to crush thy mistress and thee, and a hundred like thee. Go
tell Ferideh that I have enough of her taunts, that I will abide them
no more! Give her my peace, I pray thee, and call her by the name she
has earned for herself! To be childless by the will of Allah is no sin;
but for a woman to be faithless to her husband is a crime in the sight
of God and man. Let her despise me because I am without issue, because
my hands are rough with work while she lies at ease; it is well—very
well! Praise be to Allah, I am not as she is—curse her father!”
Hasneh spat at the girl, who blenched before her. Then, still trembling
with the tension of her outburst, she sat down with what countenance
she might, and turned her handle of the mill so furiously that her
helper was obliged to expostulate.
“What is there?” cried the negro, sleepily, from his basking-place in
the yard. “Allah destroy you women! A man can enjoy no length of peace
for the noise of you. It seems that a warm day of summer, when it is
pleasant to rest and praise Allah, is the same to you as a winter’s day
of rain and wind. You quarrel at all times, jabbering at the pitch of
your voices. Be quiet, I say, and cease bickering, or I will throw my
great staff at you!”
“Hold peace thyself, O Ibrahìm, and be more courteous in thy speech!”
retorted Hasneh, highly, from her task, without looking at him or
turning her head.
Conscious of having knowledge which would ruin her enemy, elated from
the triumph of her late denunciation, she was inclined to be arrogant.
She fondly believed that the shame of Ferideh would mean her own
reinstatement; and clearly the handmaids were of a like opinion, for
their bearing towards her was wholly changed. The girl, Ferideh’s pet,
whose ill-natured jest had called forth that storm of her wrath, sat
shrinking and abashed, and seized an early occasion to slip away. Her
fellow-worker at the mill was become obsequious, full of attentions.
She exulted in the thought that Saïd would be restored to her at last;
forgetting that she grew old, that the day of her charm was passed and
the light of youth quenched in her eye. She recalled bright moments of
her life; the last days of maidenhood, when Saïd led a bride to his
dwelling on the seashore; her meeting with him after long separation
in the gateway of the lonely khan, in the first pallor of the dawning.
Then, as they sat together, the sun rising upon the desert, he had
vowed that she alone was mistress of his fancy, and should rule in his
harìm. His heart had warmed to her then, and she had been very happy.
But Ferideh, the Christian’s daughter, had cast a spell upon him,
weaning his love from her. Now it was in her power to make him hate
Ferideh, and, when the first mad rage of jealousy should be spent, he
would surely come to his old wife for comfort. Her heart made a song of
passing sweetness rhythmic with the grinding of the mill.
She was indulging in such dreams as these when the tones of her lord’s
voice, cursing the doorkeeper for a sleepy pig, scion of a race
of dogs, caused her to start. She rose quickly and, disposing her
shroud-like clothing as decently as the hurry would allow, stepped out
to meet him in the sunlight. Her companion remained by the mill, gaping
after her with eyes of awe.
Saïd strode aimlessly into the yard, followed by his bare-legged escort
and the sunshade. Seeing Hasneh come towards him, he greeted her
carelessly and straightway turned his back; but she ran, and, falling
on her knees, caught the skirt of his cloak.
“Allah bless thee!” he cried testily, striving to draw away. “Come
to me at another time when I have leisure. For the present I am very
busy …. O Ferideh, what wouldst thou, light of my eyes? I come to rest
awhile with thee till the heat of the day be over …. Let go my robe,
woman, lest my anger light on thee!”
In her eager haste to be heard, Hasneh had had no eyes save for Saïd
only. She did not see Ferideh issue forth from the door of the women’s
quarters, nor the face of the favourite handmaid peeping from the
projecting lattice of the upper storey. Now suddenly, as Saïd ceased
speaking, she found herself face to face with her adversary; and the
shock robbed her of speech. Ferideh had come forth hurriedly, unveiled.
Her eyes were steely bright, her mouth was a thin line of dire rage and
determination.
Hasneh still clung to the merchant’s robe, but her gaze was fixed on
her rival’s face, fascinated with a kind of horror. Saïd strove to free
himself but could not.
“If, indeed, thou hast anything to say, speak, woman, and make an end!”
he exclaimed, with rising anger. “If thou art dumb, as thou seemest to
be, unhand me—dost hear?—and that speedily, or it shall be the worse
for thee!”
“O Saïd, O my beloved, hear me but a minute!” she gasped, aiming to
kill Ferideh with her eyes. “It is no good news that I bring thee, O my
soul. Know that Nûr visited thee this morning, and, finding thee from
home—”
She fared no further, for Ferideh sprang on her and closed her mouth.
Though, from glaring in her rival’s eyes, Hasneh had seen what was
coming and was half prepared to meet it, the shock all but bore her to
the ground. It forced her to quit hold of Saïd’s garment, and, kneeling
as she was, pressed her back and down on her heels.
“Merciful Allah! What does this mean?” cried the lord of the house,
surprised out of all countenance. “Allah destroy you both! Speak, O
Ferideh! What has Hasneh done to thee that thou shouldst so misuse her?”
“Thou askest what she has done!… O my dear lord, she is a liar, a
backbiter and a breeder of all mischief! She hates me, as thou must
surely have observed, with a great hatred, because I have borne a son
to thee while she is childless. She had a quarrel in this same hour
with Sàadeh, my handmaid, wherein she called me every foul name and
swore to poison thy mind against me, she cared not by what falsehood.
Every day she does something to my hurt or annoyance, and Sàadeh tells
me that she has vowed to kill Suleyman, thy son and mine. There is no
safety with her in the house …. Do I not right to stop her mouth with
my hand lest she speak a lie in thy ears? A false tongue is powerful
to make mischief, and, Allah pardon! I die only to think thou mightest
have believed her tale. O my beloved, hasten to my chamber, where I
will explain to thee the whole matter.”
One of her hands closed Hasneh’s mouth while with the other she held
her rival’s throat in a tight clutch, forcing her backwards so that she
was nearly powerless. Even when Saïd sharply bade her let go if she
would not strangle the woman, she still clung to her hold.
“Speak, O Ibrahìm,” quoth Saïd, turning to the doorkeeper, who, with
the bare-legged henchman, stood looking on aghast. “Heardest thou aught
of this quarrel of which the lady speaks?”
“Yes, surely,” replied the negro, with a candid grin. “There is
no doubt but that the mother of Suleyman—may she be blessed in
him!—speaks truth; for I myself was disturbed a while ago by a great
din, and heard with my own ears the lady Hasneh utter foul insults. But
of a truth I wonder not that she grows spiteful, for she is the butt
and laughing-stock of the other women. They name her Mother of Wind
and jeer at her for no reason. It is no wonder, I say, if she try in
her turn to hurt them a little, for to my knowledge they use her very
ill. No one should laugh at a camel for his crookedness, nor at a woman
because she is childless. These are as Allah Most High was pleased to
make them; it is no fault of their own if they are not otherwise.”
Saïd waved him off impatiently.
“Enough,” he said. “I perceive clearly that the right is with thee,
Ferideh. Now leave off fighting with that woman and come with me into
the house. It is a sin that thou shouldst be so unveiled in the sight
of men.”
Ferideh gave her enemy a final push, so that she fell heavily on her
side. Exultant, with bright eyes and face aglow, she followed her
lord into the gloom and coolness of the house. A reaction shook her
from head to foot, inwardly, as the seeds of grass are shaken. As
she crossed the threshold of an inner door, the voice of Hasneh was
lifted shrill to denounce her. The words were of hatred unmeasured
for bitterness. They let her know all that she had escaped. Looking
soft-eyed into her lord’s face, with hand caressing his arm,—
“Said I not that she had a grudge against me?” she murmured. “Hear now
the words of her mouth, how evil they are. Hadst thou listened to the
voice of her spite, thou hadst believed her tale, perhaps, and then,
alas! I had lost thy love, O prince of my soul! Did I not well to
silence her in time?”
“Thou didst well,” whispered Saïd, fervently, drawing near and circling
her with an arm. “But Allah have pity! thy hand bleeds. The palm of it
is bitten through. Behold the blood is on my robe—and thine likewise!
Thou hast great courage, O my beloved. By the Coràn, I, who am a man,
and reputed no coward, had screamed for a wound like this.”
Smiling tenderly, “I felt it not,” she murmured, seeking his eyes. “I
care not what befalls me so that I be still mistress of thy fancy, O
stream of my life!”
He tore a strip of his own clothing and swathed her hand in it. Full of
care for her, he did not quit her chamber until the evening.
After a frantic attempt to pursue her rival, which was easily
frustrated by the two serving-men, Hasneh returned to the storehouse.
She found it empty, for the work of grinding was done and the maid was
flown to join her fellow in another place, to chat over the scene and
debate its meaning. For a great while she sat there heart-broken. Once
Suleyman ran in upon her out of the sunlight, to kick her, spit upon
her, and slap her repeatedly with his tiny hands; cursing her religion,
her parentage, and calling down all evil upon her for the hurt done to
his mother. But, as she seemed not to heed, the child soon wearied,
and, with a last kick, trotted out again into the court. She could hear
him pestering the doorkeeper, telling the tale of her misdeeds with a
child’s exaggeration of detail. Then he went back to his mother or to
join the maids, and there was quiet once more.
At length, when the day was far spent, she drew her veil, and, gliding
unobserved by the drowsy negro, bent her steps towards the cellar of
Nûr.
IV
“O my loved one, I tell thee there is no end to her hate of me; and
Nûr is as her mouthpiece in this matter. Thou wouldst know the reason?
That I cannot tell thee, for I myself have not ascertained it. But one
thing is sure: she would fain destroy me and mine. For my life I fear
her, and for the life of Suleyman, the hope of thy father’s house. It
may be that she cannot bear to see me preferred to her in the secret of
thy love, to know that I shall rule a part of this great mansion thou
art minded to buy. She would kill me, thinking to make thee all her own
once more. Laugh with me, O my soul!—she thinks she yet has charms to
tempt and hold thee …. She will say all things to turn the favour I
have found in thy sight to loathing; and, if speech avail not, she will
certainly compass my death and the death of Suleyman, thy darling. This
day she has tried one way and failed. It is likely she will next bring
Nûr hither, as it were to confirm her report, to tell thee lies of her
teaching. Thou wilt not hearken to her, O my lord? Swear to give no
heed to the words of her mouth—the words of my enemy, whose creature
she is! O Saïd, swear this to me by the spirit of thy religion! For the
sake of the son I have borne to thee, set my mind at rest! My heart
grows sick for fear I should lose thy favour by which alone I live.
Swear that thy understanding shall lend no weight to their calumnies,
that I may know I have yet a little grace in thy sight! And ah! swear
to put away this wicked woman—to cast her forth as an evildoer from
thy house. Does she not daily, hourly, plot my death and the death of
thy son? Is she not therefore guilty of blood? O Saïd, O my beloved,
O spring of life to me, scorn not my prayer or I shall know that thy
desire is clean gone from me!”
Saïd fondled Ferideh’s head as she lay in the crook of his arm upon
the couch. He swore eagerly, as a lover swears, that he was deaf
thenceforth to all that might be said against her. But with regard to
Hasneh, he would ponder the matter at length and decide what was best
to be done.
At that she cried out that he loved her not, and made as if to break
away; but his strong arm held her fast. Pouting, with reproachful
eyes,—
“What is this?” she whispered. “Art thou then weary of me and has
that foul hag thy favour, that thou shakest so thy head and wilt not
vouchsafe me a plain answer? Does she not plot to murder me and my
child?—Ay, and it may be thee also, O sun that warms me! My prayer is
for thy happiness and the lives of all who love thee. Cast her forth, I
beseech thee, as thou carest for me.”
She hung upon him with strained throat and bosom crushed. Her eyes
languished into his, striving to cast that spell upon him which made
his heart like melted wax for her will’s moulding. For a brief space
his purpose wavered. The faintness of strong desire came upon him as a
mist confusing his brain, so that he saw things dimly. But he mastered
himself; and his face took on a look of tender firmness, such as one
uses to chide a well-loved daughter.
“Allah witness, I would do all things to preserve thee, O Ferideh, O
garden of my delight! But this one thing I cannot; to cast out a woman
who has been mine since first I wore the turban, and who has given
proof of faithfulness in many trials and hardships. To do this would be
a crime in the sight of Allah, and all my neighbours would cry shame
upon me. It may well be that she is jealous, but thou in thy anger
dost think too ill of her. Nevertheless jealousy is an evil spirit to
possess man or woman. It makes a virtue of foul sin, and is mother to
the lust of blood. I will have her watched narrowly, I promise, so that
her malice shall not harm thee. Moreover, I swear I will never speak
friendly to her from this hour forth, since she is hateful to thee, O
full moon of my nights. But cast her forth I cannot, lest all good men
should forsake me.”
He thought directly of Selìm, that upright servant, before whose
outspoken criticism and advice he had quailed more than once despite
his show of assurance. Selìm was a good Muslim, a man pious and devout
both in practice and at heart. Had he been born to wealth and eminence
he would have been revered of all men for a saint, even as Ismaìl
Abbâs, the Sherìf. Saïd, coveting above all things a reputation for
sanctity, had come, almost without knowing it, to model his behaviour
on that of his bailiff. Whenever a question of conduct confronted him,
he would refer it mentally to Selìm, conjuring up a bearded face, with
mild eyes looking shrewdly from under a high, turbaned forehead. This
time the brow of the vision was knitted in strong disapproval and the
eyes were keen of reproach.
Though far from content with his answer, Ferideh understood that it
was final. She hung back from him, and, resting her chin in her hand,
sulked awhile with downcast eyes and jutting underlip. The change from
girlhood had taken nothing from her charm. The full, round lines of
bust and limbs, scarcely blurred by her under robe of silk gauze, might
coarsen to fatness by-and-by, but showed as yet no more than a pleasing
softness. The skin of her face and neck were waxen white, except the
cheeks, which were painted. Paint also was responsible for the extreme
redness of her lips, which made them like a wound. Her grey eyes,
artificially brightened, languished under long black lashes; and her
hair was glossy with unguents.
Saïd’s passion for her, instead of abating, had grown with the years.
Hasneh had given him her whole heart at one gift, and he had soon
wearied of her. But with Ferideh he was haunted by a suspicion of
something withheld, of some inner shrine still barred to him. There was
a reserve in all her tenderness. Though never felt at the moment, it
struck him always in the retrospect. Looking back upon the times when
she had been most yielding and full of endearments, he recognised its
presence then as ever. And the feeling of something beyond kept his
ardour alive, as the fire leaps always to fresh fuel.
The scene of their talk was an upper chamber, lighted discreetly by a
deep-bayed lattice projecting over the yard. The vault of the ceiling
was shaped like a sea-urchin; and from the height of its dome a curious
lamp of bronze hung by a chain of the like metal. In one corner,
near the door, stood a bed, decked with a white coverlid cunningly
embroidered with gold, and veiled by mosquito curtains of the finest
gauze. It was a true Frankish bed—just such another as that Saïd had
coveted years ago, in the house of the missionary. Its iron frame was
supported on six legs, and above it at each corner stood a brass knob
flanking the rail. He had bought it of a Greek merchant for the price
first asked, so instant was his desire of it, and the money burning his
hand. Two or three large stools inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a great
chest or press of the same workmanship, a large divan, wide as the bed,
and made as soft with gaily-coloured cushions—these and a number of
vessels and trays of earthenware, copper, brass and even silver, set in
a row beside the entry, made up the furniture of the room. The walls
had once been painted in a chequered pattern, but the paint had worn or
peeled off for the most part, and none had cared to renew it. The pair
were alone.
“What part has Nûr in this business?” asked Saïd at length, breaking
a thoughtful silence. “She has ever been most friendly to me—and to
thee likewise, O my soul; since it is by her aid that I am lord of thy
fancy. It cannot be that she is turned my enemy …. By Allah, no! it is
impossible.”
Ferideh slipped from the couch and knelt at his feet. She reached out
her arms to draw him down to her, gazing tenderly into his face.
“O my great lord,” she murmured, with a playful fondness, “thou art a
man and wise, while I am but a woman and of no understanding. Yet must
I be thy seer, it seems, to point out to thee the cause of many things
thy wisdom cannot fathom. Know then, O breath of my life, that mightier
than jealousy, more misleading than strong drink, more heady than the
perfume of a fair woman, is the greed for money. Now Nûr is the very
mother of avarice, and, since her lot is not as the lot of other women,
she can have her will of what belongs to her. A maid or a wife may
hoard money, but she is sure it will never profit her. With this old
woman it is otherwise. The thirst for more grows on her with the years.
I doubt not but thou didst fully requite her for her service to thee
in the year of the great war, when—may Allah preserve thee for ever,
O father of kindness!—thou didst stoop to rescue me, thy handmaid,
from the ruin of my father’s house. I say, I am sure thou didst reward
her nobly. Yet, now that she beholds thee rich and high in honour, she
remembers it as little and grumbles openly.
“O my beloved, the cause of all this coil is thy distrust of me. I am
not jealous of Hasneh—Allah forbid! Yet it grieves me to think that
thou hast a secret with her which is concealed from me. I mean the
secret of the place where thy store is hidden. Nûr knows well that
Hasneh is in thy confidence; it is for this that she courts her favour.
I, thy servant, am the main obstacle in her way, wherefore she, as
well as Hasneh, schemes to remove me; well knowing that I suspect the
Mother of Wind, and keep strict watch on her and all who visit her. I
know not what reward she holds out to Hasneh, but it must be a great
one; for Sàadeh tells me that the eyes of the childless one brighten
strangely when she speaks apart with her, and all her bearing is of one
who clinches a rare bargain. Now, my lord, thou knowest all—as much as
I have been able to gather of the plot. May Allah preserve thy life to
me for ever, and may all who hate thee perish utterly!”
V
Saïd’s anger burst forth like a torrent after rain.
Even Ferideh’s life was of less moment than his precious hoard. He
called down every kind of shame and disaster upon Nûr and all her kind.
Though his understanding discounted the tale of Hasneh’s complicity,
his savage rage of the moment made no distinctions. He had no doubt
but that Nûr had beguiled his woman to let her into the secret of the
hiding-place; and he cursed Hasneh with all the venom of threatened
greed.
A slight hubbub arose in the court below, but he heeded it not, though
Ferideh strained her ears to listen.
“By Allah, I must at once remove my treasure to some other place; and
henceforth I will trust thee, and thee only, O Ferideh,” he muttered
in a kind of frenzy. “It may be they have filched from it already.
Praise to Allah, thou hast warned me in time! At present there is but
a small sum in the house; but, after a few days, when my shop and
stock-in-trade shall have been sold, the whole head of my wealth must
lie here for a while, until I have closed the bargain with Mahmud;
for I have sworn never to trust a usurer with my fortune. Mahmud is
obstinate and makes a brave show of holding out, but I know privately
that his need is urgent; and he must shortly come to terms. By the Holy
Coràn; by Allah Most High, I shall henceforth trust thee only, O my
soul! Now listen ….”
She sat at his feet with veiled eyes, but her whole posture told of the
keenest attention. The chatter of voices in the yard was no more to her
now than the droning buzz of flies which filled the room, and which
from long use was accounted silence.
“Thou knowest the roof of this chamber, how it towers above the rest of
the house, and the flight of steps leading up to it. Beside the steps,
on the right of one ascending, there is a stone like to other stones in
the wall, seemingly firmly set as they. Thou mayst know it by the mark
of a chisel near its centre. It is a cheat, being but a thin slab—the
door of a kind of cupboard. This night I must move my money thither,
and if thou canst contrive to join me by stealth, I will teach thee the
trick of it. It was made by the owner of the place for his own ends. He
showed it me as giving his house an advantage over others; but hitherto
I have not used it, considering that Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, had dwelt
long on the premises and might well have an inkling of its whereabouts.
But now that my own hiding-place is discovered, I must place the money
there. Henceforth thou and no other art in the secret. Allah reward
thee, that thou hast warned me in time!”
Ferideh kissed his hand and fondled it, her face shadowed by the
tresses she had loosed to charm him. A sweet perfume rose from her,
enervating him. He stretched his hands to raise her.
But, even as he leaned forward, the door was pushed open and Suleyman
ran in with a burst of laughter.
The little boy was arrayed as a miniature Turkish soldier—a fancy
dress Saïd had seen in the shop of a tailor, and had brought home with
him to please Ferideh. The doorkeeper had fashioned him a tiny wooden
sword, which he wore proudly stuck in his belt. With a spoilt child’s
confidence he flew straight to Saïd, laughing, childlike, for no cause
whatever. Scrambling upon the couch, he seated himself cross-legged,
still laughing, ere he deigned to speak.
“O my father,” he piped. “It is Nûr, the old woman, who is come to
see thee. She waits below with the Mother of Wind, whom I have beaten
stoutly—I promise thee, by Allah—for making my mother’s hand bleed.
She—I mean not that wicked one, but Nûr—she bade me say that she
would speak with thee alone. Now I love Nûr well, because she brings
me sweets from the shop of Kheyr-ud-dìn, and Kheyr-ud-dìn, as thou
thyself hast said, O my father, is the lord of all for candies. See, O
my mother, what she has brought me to-day!”
He opened his hand to show a sample of the sweetmeat called “baclawi,”
which is a kind of pastry sandwich, filled with spices, sugar, and a
dough of sweet nuts, the whole perfectly soaked in honey. The hand
displayed was sticky, so he licked it; rubbing his belly with the other
to convey a gluttonous joy.
“Up, O Suleyman!” cried Saïd, fiercely. “Run, bid this old woman come
hither, to this room, if she has aught of importance to say to me. Tell
her besides that I have no secret from the mother of my delight!”
The little boy slipped down from the sofa and stood a minute staring
up at him, the half smile of his parted lips begging but a little
encouragement to become a guffaw. Then, awed by the sternness of the
eyes meeting his, he ran to do the errand as fast as his short legs
could carry him.
Ferideh snatched up a shroud-like garment and a veil which hung over
the end of the couch, and made haste to don them. Then she knelt to
Saïd and kissed his hand, pressing her forehead to it, as a servant
craving protection. He fell to stroking her head-dress, a great storm
in his throat choking speech.
They heard footfalls on the stair, and a sound of laboured breathing.
Then the tall figure of Nûr, which the years had bowed a little, stood
in the doorway; and a deep, unquavering voice said,—
“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, child of my soul! and upon thee also, O
daughter of Yuhanna.”
Ferideh returned the salutation mechanically; but the wrath of her
lord broke through the habit of a lifetime. Without one word of
compliment or blessing, he rushed upon the visitor and cursed her for
a thief and a liar, the mother of all mischief. She stood aghast as
one thunderstruck, staring at him, while he heaped insult upon insult,
sparing no taunt that might wound her. He reviled her with her way of
life, calling her all the foul names his throat could frame or his lips
utter. He spat upon her for a robber, and would have smitten her face
where the eyes shone through the veil, had not Ferideh rushed forward
screaming to stay his arm.
For long Nûr remained speechless under his abuse; but by degrees, the
lash of his tongue stinging her, she waxed furious. The words of her
mouth scarcely reached Saïd save as a stream that strove and failed
to drown the torrent of his cursing. Yet a few of them remained with
him long after as a menace. “I have loved thee ever as my own child,
O Saïd, lord of ingratitude. I would have served thee with my life.
And yet thou returnest me no greeting when I bless thee, neither
dost thou wait to hear my tale, but assailest me suddenly with evil
words, heaping dishonour upon me. Thou art a fool thus to outrage one
who never drew near thee with any other purpose than to promote thy
welfare …. Get me gone, forsooth! Yes, truly I will get me gone, and
that for ever, from this house and the pig its owner. Allah witness,
I wash my hands of the dirt of thee. It is well seen thou art the son
of low people, O fisherman, who breakest every law of behaviour in
thy own house. See how he winces, how the mean soul thinks shame that
he was once poor by the will of Allah! Ah, there are many things thou
didst bind me not to tell which now shall be made known in the city!
How gottest thou that wealth, the root of all thy honour? Didst thou
not take it from the old man, the beggar who called thee son? And did
he not plunder it from the house of Yuhanna, father to this woman,
whom he slew with his own hand? Was there not the Sultàn’s order that
restitution should be made, even to the full amount of all that was
looted from the Nazarenes? and hast thou made any? Have I not been thy
preserver a hundred times, when a word of my mouth could have ruined
thee? Even now, when I publish the truth, thou shalt hardly escape a
heavy penalty. It may be they will deprive thee of all that thou hast;
for the Wâly is needy and loves money, and thy name and honour stand
not high enough to acquit thee ….
“Allah knows I loved thee as though thou hadst been my own child, and
because I loved thee I have been a shield to thee these many years; but
now all ties are broken betwixt me and thee. All I know concerning thee
shall be noised abroad; and thou hast told me much that ill becomes a
believer. Thy neighbours shall turn from thee with loathing when they
learn how thou didst use thy more than father, when he lay dead; making
off at once with the money, and leaving thy duty of burial and grief to
be done by others. Oh, may Allah blast thy life and blind thee, thou
hypocrite who wouldst be called a saint! I came hither, a friend, to
warn thee of a peril threatening thee: I go hence, thy foe till death,
the friend of thy haters, O dog, son of a dog!”
She was gone and the sound of her retreating steps died upon the
stairs. But odd phrases of her speech, which had come to him through
the thunder of his own rage, rang yet in Saïd’s brain, like the
catch of an evil song, and rankled there. He frowned and his eyes
grew haggard. A hush seemed to have fallen upon the house; or was it
only that he was deaf from the late uproar? He pictured the servants
whispering together in corners, and hoped to Allah no word of Nûr’s had
reached them. He heard the voice of the doorkeeper raised in a farewell
compliment, and the slam of the closing gate behind someone who had
passed out; and he was thankful to know that she was gone.
Ferideh laughed scornfully, looking at the empty doorway as if she
still saw the bowed figure filling it, wrapped in its shroud of blue
with tarnished fringe of gold. Then, marking her lord’s gloom, she
knelt down at his feet and put up her arms to him.
“Praise be to Allah!” she murmured. “Now I surely know that I have
favour in thy sight, because thou hast refused to hear the tale of
this wicked woman, which is a lie even as the words she spake but now
concerning thee are all lies. Seem not so sad, O my dear, for she is
powerless to hurt thee seeing thou art set high in wealth and honour,
and all men know thee for a good man and an upright. For the sake of
the kindness thou hast shown me in this matter, and because thou hast
deigned to reveal to me the secret place of thy treasure, I am now more
fully thine than ever before. What thanks can I render thee, O my soul?
Behold, my inmost secret heart is thine, and I have no desire apart
from thee. Take me in thy arms, O sun that warms me! Kiss me, O my
beloved!” …
Whereat Saïd became as one of no understanding.
VI
On an evening Saïd went forth alone into the gardens, to the
coffee-house of Rashìd, which was on the river bank. He was sure to
find Selìm there at that hour; and he walked eagerly, having blithe
news to tell. At last Mahmud Effendi had humbled himself, and Saïd was
master of the bargain, though in no haste to conclude it. One more
interview with the needy grandee and he would own the finest freehold
palace in the city. Moreover, thanks to his address in beating down the
price, he would have plenty of money left when it was paid. The surplus
he would employ in trade and usury, to such advantage that he would
soon be the richest man in the province and highest in honour. He saw
himself a member of the Council of Notables, enthroned at the Wâly’s
right hand, advising the Governor in all things.
The sometime fisherman hugged himself at the prospect. As he emerged
from the eastern gate the last rays of sunlight, glanced from the dark
hill-tops, were melting the leafage to amber and pale gold. A rich
purple gloom gathered in the east, under a sky of amethyst melting
to palest green. Down the narrow road, between stone walls more or
less ruined, which led to the pleasure-groves by the riverside, men
in flowing robes were sauntering by groups of two and three. Their
moving shadows were long, oblique and very blue. Most of them dangled
chaplets, whose beads they shifted lazily one by one. A few of the more
exquisite held flowers of strong perfume to their nostrils, at which
they smelt rapturously with a deep breath like a sigh.
The blaze on the hill-tops died suddenly, leaving a glow as of live
coal. All things took on soft, dead tints. Shadows grew faint, ashy
grey all at once. The sky basked in an afterthought of glory, growing
tender for the stars.
A low doorway of the kind which is usual in walled vineyards admitted
to the garden, or rather wilderness, in which was the tavern of
Rashìd. Saïd bowed his head to pass the lintel, and then stood still
in astonishment. In a space pretty clear of the bushes, which formed
thickets on every side, there were four tents pitched. Three of them
were large marquees; the fourth, a mere canvas screen about a fire,
was observed closely by a gathering of curious loafers. Hobbled horses
grazed where they could. In the mouth of the largest tent a party of
Franks, lounging on chairs of loose structure, were enjoying the cool
of the evening. The sound of their laughter reached Saïd, like the
beating on a tin for emptiness. From the point of the tent where they
sat drooped a small flag of red, white and blue, oddly striped. Saïd
knew the pattern of it. It was the same which fluttered on the first
day of every week over the dwelling of the English Consul. “Travellers
from the land of the English,” he thought, and marvelled at the folly
of men who, having wealth and honour in their own country, and being
neither merchants nor pilgrims, would thus wander forth in discomfort.
Taking stock of the encampment, he drew near to the tavern. Two or
three persons who knew him rose and saluted at his approach. He
returned their greeting in a preoccupied manner and passed on to
Selìm, who had carried his stool apart and sat against the trunk of a
walnut-tree which overhung the stream. Rashìd himself was forward to
bring a seat for the merchant and to ask what he would be pleased to
drink.
“What news, O my master?” asked Selìm, settling down once more to the
enjoyment of his smoke.
“Good news—excellent!” rejoined the other, with a complacent purse
of his lips. “Praise be to Allah, one may say that the bargain is
concluded.”
“Now, by my beard, I am happy with thee. May Allah make thee blest in
it!”
There followed silence between them for a little while; Saïd reviewing
his cleverness with a gratified smirk, Selìm gravely watching the dark
swirl of the eddies in their bed of pale stones.
“I needs must call in all my money by the third day of next week,”
murmured Saïd, as one who thinks aloud.
Selìm knitted his forehead, calculating.
“To hear is to obey,” he said ruefully. “Nevertheless, there is much
business and the time is short. Two weeks would scarcely suffice for
all that must be done, and behold, thou givest me but a few days. He
who sells in a hurry sells at a loss. If, as thou sayest, thou hast
made an easy bargain, it cannot surely be that thou wilt need the whole
of thy wealth. O my brother, I counsel thee to put off the sale of thy
merchandise for at least a little time!”
“It cannot be,” said Saïd, peevishly. “I must know the true sum of
my wealth. To buy a fine palace and not to know exactly what was
left to him were the action of a fool! The man who did so would be a
laughing-stock, and rightly despised …. By Allah, it would be sweet to
hold it all before me—all the great wealth which is mine—to pass my
fingers through it as one does through dry grains of corn; to reckon
it over and over and know that it is with me in the house. Praise to
Allah, who has made me rich!”
“Now, Allah forgive thee, O my brother, for thou settest too great
store by thy money. Thy heart and thy soul are in it. At that time evil
befalls a man when most he vaunts his honour and is puffed up because
of it. It is not right for one to keep too close an account of his
goods. A man’s fortune is like his vineyard: the heart of it is his
own, but every wayfarer has a share in the outlying parts which skirt
the highway. Who would deny a bunch of grapes to the thirsty? And if
he pluck for himself, would any be found to blame him? So the heart
of thy fortune is thine by Allah’s leave; yet thou shalt not take too
exact an account of it, lest from always saying ‘I have so-and-so much’
thou set thy wealth between thee and Allah Most High. When a man has a
field of corn he will suffer God’s poor to glean in it at the harvest
time. Likewise, when a man is blessed with riches even as thou art, it
is seemly that, in taking account, he leave an undefined portion for
the poor. Nothing of all a man has is his own, but he must pay a part
of it in alms to God. If he omit to do this, Allah Himself shall call
him niggard and shall soon strike him down, as unworthy, from his high
estate. O my brother, all this while that I have been thy servant it
has been in my mind that I would rather be a simple hireling, as I am,
than the lord of great riches, as thou art. Many snares are in the path
of the great, but—praise be to Allah!—the way of the humble is plain.”
“Thou speakest vainly,” said Saïd, snapping him up; “and thy words
have no point for me. All this which thou tellest me so solemnly, as
if it were some new piece of wisdom, I have known and observed from
childhood. With what one fault canst thou tax me, I should like to
know!… Do I not give alms to the utmost of all that is mine? Do I not
always praise Allah at the appointed hours? Have I ever omitted to
purify myself according to the law? By Allah, I wish to know for what
cause thou scoldest me!”
Selìm pleaded,—
“Nay, O my master, be not angry with me. Allah forbid that I should
venture to chide thee at all. I know well that thou art in all things a
just man, and I myself have great reason to bless thee. I call Allah to
witness that, from the time thou didst bestow on me that rich garment
which I still treasure in my house, I have held thee always as a dear
brother. It was but as a brother that I spoke to thee, fearing lest
thou shouldst make for thyself an enemy whom none may withstand. And
in truth I think thou holdest too much by the outward duty of the law,
which, as his Honour Ismaìl Abbâs says, is to its spirit as the word is
to its meaning, or the shell of a nut to the kernel. Moreover—”
But Saïd stopped his ears.
“Enough! Enough!… Thou wilt provide that the goods and the shop be
sold, and the money brought to me on the second day; I command thee: it
is finished. And now, with thy leave, we will speak of other matters.”
After that Selìm was silent a great while, while Saïd puffed defiantly
at his narghileh.
The stars were bright by this time, though the sky above the western
horizon was still pale green and lustrous. A single dome of the city,
seen through a gap of the foliage, seemed to shine beyond the dark
walls with a spiritual whiteness all its own. The moon, a thin crescent
like the paring of a finger-nail, hung just above it, salient as a
jewel on that silky sky. A bird cried drowsily from the upper branches.
The wailing voice of a singer came from some other pleasure-house down
the stream. The eddies sang and murmured as they sped by.
Anon Saïd picked up his stool and drew near to the tavern.
He had remarked the grouping of those who sat there about some person
in their midst, and had caught several deep-breathed “Ma sh’Allah’s,”
betokening amazement. Undoubtedly there was some story-teller whose
fables might serve to while away an hour and dispel the gloom which
Selìm’s sanctimonious croaking had cast upon him. He imparted the
conjecture to his henchman, who followed, nothing loth.
They set their stools within the circle of light shed by a clumsy
lantern which hung from a joist of the roof; their coming hardly
noticed by the other customers, so absorbed were they in listening to
the words of him who sat in their midst. Those nearest them, on the
outskirts, turned their heads for a second and that was all. Rashìd,
grown very fat with the years, was leaning against the doorpost of the
inner room. His eyes ranged over the seated crowd before him and his
lip curled in scorn.
Saïd beckoned him to draw near.
“Who is the narrator, O my uncle?” he whispered. “Is it anyone of whom
one has heard? Are his stories worth heeding?”
“Faugh! It is no narrator, effendi, but only a braggart Nazarene who,
having acquired a smattering of the learning of the Franks, is become a
dragoman. It is a shame that true believers are found to flatter him by
giving ear. By the Coràn, it angers me to see it! He is a great liar,
as thou shalt presently hear.”
Having imparted this to the merchant in an undertone, the taverner
returned to his doorpost. The rays of the lantern brought the faces
of some of the listeners into warm relief; but the story-teller had
his back to the light. He wore a fez set rakishly on one side, and
for the rest was very gaily dressed in the Turkish fashion. He seemed
consumedly proud of a whip of rhinoceros hide mounted and ringed with
silver, for he kept it constantly before the eyes of his audience,
illustrating every remark with a flourish. The man’s attitude was
boastful and assuming, blent, however, with pride at sitting thus on
equal terms with men of the dominant creed. Without, in the blue gloom
of the garden, the camp-fire and the light of a lamp within the largest
tent shone bleared and ruddy. Black shapes were seen moving athwart
them from one to the other; the travellers were being served with their
evening meal.
“And that city—that Lûndra of which thou speakest—is it a great city
like this of ours, or a small place like Hama or Zahleh?” asked an old
man of poor appearance.
The dragoman laughed loud and long.
“O Allah!… O Lord!… How you make me laugh, you men who have seen no
land but that you were born in! I tell you that if the city Es-Shâm
were five times as great as it is, it would not amount to the half of
that great city Lûndra of the English.”
At that there was great outcry of wonder and unbelief. “Ma sh’Allah!”
cried some and held their peace, aghast. “Allah pardon!” cried others.
“Was there ever such a liar? We are simple men and unlearned—that is
true—but this thing passes belief!”
“By the Holy Gospel, I speak truth,” insisted the dragoman, with
vehemence. “May Allah cut off my life if that which I say exceeds the
truth by one little. I am likely to know; for I went to the city of
Lûndra and sojourned there half a year by favour of an English lady—no
less than a princess, by Allah!—who loved me and would have me with
her in the house.”
“Ah, the women! Tell us, I pray thee, O Khawaja, what the women are
like,” said a young and handsome Muslim with a chuckle of self-conceit.
The dragoman grew rapturous.
“The women, mean you? Ah, how can I describe them!… And yet I promise
thee it is not from want of knowledge that my tongue fails me. The
girls of that nation are white and often plump. Their hair varies in
colour from black to the hue of clean gold. They are cold and difficult
to men of their own race, for whom they are used to care nothing; but
they are warm and easy of access to foreigners, and especially to us
sons of the Arab, whose blood is as fire in our veins, whose speech is
impassioned poetry: so different from the men of their nation, in whom
the blood is a stagnant pool and the tongue a sluggard. When I was in
Lûndra, fair women followed me in the streets to beseech my company.
I speak not, you understand, of the loose women of that city, who
are very fine and numerous, but of the wives and daughters of men of
substance. There were even some who offered me money to go with them.
I tell you, any son of an Arab of an agreeable presence could have his
pick of the women of that land, from the wife of the greatest Emìr to
the daughter of the meanest fellah.”
“By the prophet, I have a mind to visit that country,” said the young
Muslim with a fatuous laugh.
“Now in this party which I conduct at present”—the dragoman pointed
with his whip in the direction of the tents—“there is a girl—ah! I
tell you—a pearl—a delight.” He held out his hand, pressing the tip
of his thumb on that of the extended forefinger: the common gesture of
those who would describe something too nice for words. “She loves me,
and comes forth to me every night while her parents sleep. She entreats
me always to marry her; but I am doubtful whether to do so or not. Her
father, you must know, is rich—a great lord. It would be honourable to
wed the daughter of such an one. Perhaps—Allah knows!—I shall yield
at last to her prayers. Hist!” …. He sank his voice swiftly. “Hither
comes the very girl. No doubt she strays in search of me. Observe now,
I pray you!”
Saïd stood up so that he could look over the intervening heads. Every
neck was craned, and all eyes peered in one direction.
A young girl of about sixteen years, clad in the close-fitting garb of
the Frankish women was sauntering towards the tavern, eyeing the scene
there with dreamy curiosity. She wore no head-dress save her thick fair
hair, which hung free down to her shoulders, where it was gathered in
and confined by a ribbon. In spite of her unveiled, undraped state,
which, to the mind of the onlookers, was little better than nakedness,
she moved freely, without a trace of embarrassment, until she grew
aware of the gaze of so many prying eyes, when she averted her face
and stepped more consciously. She passed just within the sphere of the
lantern, so that a faint, warm light played on the outlines of her
figure, hinting rather than revealing its slender grace. Her hands
clasped behind her neck threw her bosom forward, strengthening the
curve of it. Saïd had often seen Frankish women and had marvelled at
their lack of modesty, but he had never beheld one so fair, so young
and so perfectly shameless. Believing the tale of the Nazarene, he
envied the good fortune of that son of a dog.
She was passing by with a timid glance when she caught sight of the
dragoman, who to that end had thrust himself forward. She smiled and
nodded graciously to him, saying something kind in her own language.
The man replied in a tone of familiarity which conveyed all he meant
that it should to the minds of his hearers.
“Aha!” said he, as soon as she was out of earshot. “Aha! She is a
peerless gem. By-and-by, when her parents sleep, she will steal out
to seek me. By Allah, her mouth overflows with honey. The taste of it
makes me drunken.”
The young Muslim stared after the maiden; then, turning,—
“Now, by my life, thou art in luck’s way,” he said. “It is well seen
how fair she is! But her father is surely a man of no understanding,
and her mother must be like unto him, to let her thus wander without a
covering.”
“There is one law for the daughter of an Arab, another for the child of
a Frank,” said the dragoman, sententiously. “As for me, I have dwelt
so much among foreigners that a veiled woman is almost a strange thing
to me. And, in truth, I know no cause why a woman should veil her face
any more than a man, unless she be extremely frightful or loathsome to
view.”
The tavern-keeper here spoke for the first time, and severely,—
“Young man, thou speakest folly, being a stranger to the Faith that
saves. It is a law from of old that every woman shall hide her face
from the sight of men. Know that sinful Cabil ebn Adam did lust
after his twin sister, Abdul Mughis, and for her sake slew Habil,
his brother, who was a good man and dear to Allah. Wherefore it was
ordained that all women should hide their shape, that mere lust of
the eyes might never more induce so great a crime. Allah is just and
merciful!”
At that the garrulous talker was abashed, and his audience looked
strange upon him. In the interest they took in his conversation they
had all but forgotten the difference of creed. A pause fraught with
mutual shyness ensued. Then the dragoman called for more arak and
launched forth once more, though with somewhat less of assurance,
feeling lonely all at once.
Saïd abode in the little tavern until the first watch of the night
was almost spent. He was unaccountably interested in all that the
rascal had to tell of that distant land of the English, where the sun
was seldom seen, and the women were at once so lovely and so kind to
strangers. He questioned the narrator shrewdly as to the state and
manner of trade in those parts, and was pleased with the answers he
got. It seemed that the finer merchandise of the East—as silks and
rich carpets, spices and sweet perfumes—were much prized by the
Franks. The way of life there was easy, he learnt, for one who had
money and was warmly clad. He felt attracted, and hoped to visit that
land.
He imparted this desire to Selìm as they walked back together to the
city whose walls rose black before them under a sky pale with stars.
But Selìm was chary of sympathy.
“It is true what the drunkard told concerning the Frankish women, how
they love men of the East,” he said gravely. “Lo, is there not the
English princess in our midst—she who dwells in the house called the
House of the English Garden, which is beyond the Christian quarter?
She submitted herself to a young man of the Bedawin, and is become his
wife. It is true what the dog said. But as for thee, thou hast not yet
performed the great pilgrimage; and that must be done ere thou canst
think of migrating to a land of unbelief.”
“Perhaps the right is with thee,” rejoined Saïd, moodily. “Yet, from
what the infidel said, it must be a pleasant land to dwell in—none
like it under Heaven! Didst mark the girl, how sweet she was? By Allah,
it is a shame that the son of a dog should have her …. I charge thee
make all speed with the business of which we spoke. Allah keep thee in
peace, and may thy night be happy!”
They kissed and parted at the city gate.
VII
Early on the morning of the second day of the week Saïd strode through
the bazaars towards that familiar upper room which was his shop and
which would soon be no longer his. His servant walked a little in
advance of him, using the furled parasol as a staff to admonish such
of the crowd as were slow to make way. All the ways were thronged with
noisy folk. The whole city hummed of life. Rifts in the crazy roof
admitted a sunbeam here and there—a bar of light, hazy with dancing
motes, which transfigured wayfarers for a moment, causing the colours
of their raiment to bloom, and fade as suddenly.
Many of the traders who sat cross-legged behind the stalls bordering
the causeway were well known to Saïd. He used his right hand to salute
them as he passed; his left hung limp, telling the amber beads of a
chaplet. Pleasant odours assailed his nostrils, for many vendors of
perfumery had their shops in the lane he was threading.
He was light at heart. The full tale of his fortune was to be told
into his hands that day, and on the morrow he would dazzle Mahmud with
a part of it. He remembered how Selìm had ever striven to dissuade
him from taking this sure path to glory; and his lip curled with the
blandest scorn. Selìm was a good man and pious; he could be trusted to
the utmost at all times. But he lacked the fire and enterprise which
exalt one above others. Calling to mind the fable of the beggar and the
collar of gold, Saïd quaked with inward laughter. It tickled him to
think that such a story had been told for his instruction—to him, the
wiliest of men living.
A woman, cowled and veiled, stood in the way before him, conversing
with a tall Christian. The man was dressed in the Turkish fashion,
with a tight vest of murrey-colour buttoned down the front, a blue
zouave jacket, and a sack for trousers. The woman was shrouded in dull
crimson—a common choice of colour. They blocked Saïd’s path in spite
of the servant’s cry of “Oäh!” He observed them pretty narrowly in
passing, thinking shame that the wife of a Muslim should converse with
an unbelieving pig. When he was a little way beyond them the voice of
the woman startled him. For a moment he could have sworn that it was
Ferideh speaking. He turned sharply to look back, but the conversation
was over and the woman lost to sight in the throng.
He felt uneasy. It was the hour when Ferideh and her handmaid were wont
to visit the bath. He had sometimes remarked upon the length of time
she spent there, and had heard her excuses. Could it be that she was
deceiving him? The more he thought of it the less likely it seemed. She
had been most docile of late, fulfilling his heart’s desire gladly in
all things. Besides Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, was there to watch her,
and he at any-rate was trusty; he would never suffer her to go forth
alone. A little reflection showed his fear groundless.
A loud shout to clear the way disturbed his musing. He looked and saw a
rider drawing near, well seen above the press of foot-passengers. The
crowd parted, making way for an old man of exceeding fatness mounted
upon an ass, which was kept at an ambling pace by the vigorous prods of
one who walked behind, using his staff for a goad.
“May thy day be happy, O Abu Khalìl!” cried Saïd, merrily. “Whither
away so early?”
The fat taverner, who of all men was used to be most friendly to Saïd,
for once seemed alarmed to encounter him. He returned the merchant’s
greeting falteringly, as one aghast at some sight of terror. He neither
reined in his steed nor showed the least wish to parley, but rather
urged the donkey to greater speed by vicious digs with the sharp
corners of the iron stirrups.
“Cut short thy life!” cried Saïd after him. “What ails thee, old
man? Surely thou art possessed with a devil!… Allah keep thee, O
Camr-ud-dìn; what is amiss with thy father?”
The young man stood still to scowl at the speaker. Then, seized with
sudden anger, he threatened Saïd with his stick.
“My father is a just man and honourable, and thinks shame to speak with
a murderer!” he hissed. “Who was it that slew his father shamefully for
the sake of gain? Thou knowest not who it was, I warrant! The blood of
Mustafa, my father’s friend, is between us, O thou false saint!”
He spat on the ground for very loathing, and so ran on to catch up the
donkey which, curbed only by the weak hands of Abu Khalìl, was making
sad havoc of the crowd.
Saïd had shrunk back, fearing violence. For some time he strove to
collect his wits. Roused at length by the servant’s inquiries touching
his health, he became aware that people were staring at him.
“By Allah, it is a lie!” he gasped. “May Allah strike me dead if one
word of what the dog said is true!”
The bystanders thought him raving. They murmured of compassion one to
another. The servant took his arm respectfully to lead him home; but
Saïd, recovering his balance, shook him off and ordered him angrily to
lead on. He was glad to be sure that few, if any, had observed the true
cause of his discomfiture.
As he pursued his way through the shaded markets like passages in a
vast house, he pondered the words of Camr-ud-dìn with mingled anger and
distress. It was not hard to guess the source of the libel. Nûr had
sworn to make him rue the day he flouted her, and this foul slander
was undoubtedly the first-fruits of her spite. The lie was chosen with
devilish cunning. He could by no means disprove it, for there had been
no eyewitness to the manner of Mustafa’s death. His only course was one
of flat and obstinate denial, and even then many were sure to think he
spoke false.
But in the very midst of gloomy forebodings a droll memory came to
make him chuckle. He grinned broadly, and his eyes twinkled under
brows still lowering. It had often been told him how, at the burying
of Mustafa, Abu Khalìl had all but met his death through excess of
mourning. The faithful have the custom to put a little soap in their
mouths when attending a funeral, that the foam on their lips may vouch
for the frenzy of their grief. Now Abu Khalìl, being an elderly man and
wheezy, had managed to swallow his piece of soap at the very outset,
before it was well melted. It had stuck in his throat, choking him; so
that he flung himself on the ground, spitting, coughing and struggling
in mortal terror. All those who walked with him, ascribing these antics
to respect for the deceased, looked on admiringly; until Camr-ud-dìn,
divining the true cause, rolled his father over and thrust a finger
down his throat, when they saw the fun of it and fell a-quaking,
exaggerating the gravity of their faces to mask the untimely mirth
convulsing them.
He had always felt friendly towards Abu Khalìl, and to know the old
man’s mind estranged from him was of itself a cruel blow. He consoled
himself, however, with the reflection that on the morrow he would be
the peer of princes, owning a great palace, and so out of reach of the
malice of these low people.
No sooner did he arrive at the shop than all cares were drowned in
the instant bliss of counting out a great sum of money all his own.
His entire wealth was there before him, bestowed in leathern bags
whose fulness was a joy to see. He abode in that upper room, drinking
sherbet, smoking and gloating over his riches till the fall of night,
when, with the help of Selìm and his son, he conveyed the treasure
privately to the hiding-place prepared for it in his own house.
The delight of possessing so much made him generous, and Selìm’s
faithfulness was suitably rewarded. Saïd sat late upon the house-top
that night, looking out over the city and up at the moon, a great pride
choking him and bringing tears to his eyes.
VIII
The moon was near the full. The city, precise in clear light and velvet
shadow, seemed a fantasy of carven stone with its domes great and
little, graceful minarets tapering like spindles, and the jutting cubes
of its upper chambers. Seen thus from above, it had no life save that
which the glow from some high lattice hinted, or a group of black forms
motionless upon some terraced roof. The half-circle of the hills closed
the distance, as it were the dark rim of a cup filled to the brim with
moonlight.
Saïd’s eyes strayed from the precision of the near buildings to the
floating mystery beyond. He was dreaming a fair dream, and the realism
of keen outlines hurt his eyes. He sat there in the hollow of the
night, and its silence talked with him; while the city murmured weary
as a shell, so faintly that it seemed a hush made audible. He was alone
with Allah: the thought hallowed his selfish ecstasy. Exultant, he
lifted up his heart in thanksgiving to God, who had endowed Saïd the
Fisherman with sharp wits beyond his fellows, so that, by the blessing
of the Most High, he was now risen to be Saïd the Merchant, lord of a
great palace, and of money enough. He hugged himself for a clever one.
By the Coràn, there was none like him in all the world!
A sound of weeping rose from within the house. It had long been
audible, but he perceived it suddenly and with a start. It came from
the chamber where, by his order, Hasneh was confined. She had been
in durance except when at work ever since the day of her attack on
Ferideh. Always she prayed to be allowed to speak with her lord, were
it but for a minute, but Saïd had been peremptory in refusal. The voice
of her distress broke jarringly upon his dream. His heart smote him so
that he frowned and cursed her under his breath. The next impulse was
to go down and speak kindly to her, to silence the one note discordant
with his happiness. But he was mindful of his promise to Ferideh, and,
moreover, was loth to move lest, by so doing, he should break the
spell of his lonely musing. He contented himself with a vow to treat
her better in the future. The new house, which would be his on the
morrow, was roomy enough to accommodate many women. Hasneh should have
a separate lodging in it, and, it might be, a handmaid to wait on her.
Having given this sop to his conscience, he was falling again into his
waking dream of pride, when he became conscious of a soft footfall on
the roof behind him. Turning, he beheld Ferideh, her veil thrown back,
coming towards him with outstretched hands.
“O father of Suleyman!—O my lord!—O my dear!” she besought him. “Thou
hast taken no food since the early morning, and now it is sleep-time.
Thou art surely famished and faint with the fatigue of the day. Come
down, I pray thee, and partake of that which with my own hands I have
made ready for thee! Ever since the sunset Suleyman has been crying for
thee—hardly could I coax him to sleep. Come now, O star of my soul,
and delay not to take refreshment!”
“Good—I come!” said her lord, brushing away the last mists of reverie
with the back of his hand. “Allah increase thy wealth, O mother of
Suleyman! Now, indeed, I perceive that I am hungry, though the thing
had escaped my mind. I will gladly go down with thee into the house
for an hour, but after I have eaten I must return hither. No sleep
will seal my eyes this night for the care of my treasure which is here
bestowed. Wherefore I purpose to wrap me in a cloak and abide here till
daybreak.”
“Now, of a truth, thy speech is not of wisdom,” said Ferideh, chiding,
as she followed him down the stone flight which climbed by the wall.
“By watching thou wilt but weary thyself to no purpose; for who is
likely to rob thee, O light of my eyes? I alone, of all in the house,
am privy to the secret of thy treasure, and I shall be with thee
through the night. Nay, by Allah, if thou thinkest indeed that vigil
must be kept, I myself will watch instead of thee. Thou hast toiled all
the day while I have been lazy; wherefore thy servant is now the better
fitted for this duty.”
Saïd was touched by her devotion. He blessed her, but bade her speak no
more on the subject for his mind was made up.
In the best chamber of the harìm a meal was set forth on a large tray
of brass, beside which was spread a square of carpet. There was a
savoury mess of rice and chicken meat, another of beans fried in oil;
a large earthen bowl brimmed with a syrup compounded of honey and the
pressed juice of grapes, in which were whole grapes floating. Two
loaves were there, as flat as pancakes, besides a little heap of figs,
very tempting in their purple ripeness. At sight of these dainties
Saïd’s hunger strengthened apace. He took stock of them, enjoying the
foretaste, while Ferideh fetched a vessel of water, a basin and a
napkin from the antechamber. His washings done, he crossed his legs
upon the mat, and, leaning forward, plunged a ravenous hand into the
mess. Ferideh waited upon him clingingly. Her fingers had a trick of
caressing whatever they touched, of dwelling lightly for a moment as
if reluctant to quit hold. To watch her through the open door, bending
languidly over a brazier where coffee was stewing, lifting things
and setting them down with that strange touch of hers, thrilled Saïd
unaccountably.
“Art thou still minded to keep lonely watch upon the house-top
to-night?” she said archly, when, having cleared away the fragments of
the feast, she came to nestle against him.
He answered,—
“Nay, by Allah; I have no mind to do aught save content thee.
Nevertheless, after I have spent an hour at thy side and thy eyes grow
heavy with sleep, it may well be I shall repair again to the terrace.
Understand, O my pearl, that my mind is anxious out of all reason. And
to watch upon the house-top in the cool night air seems better than to
be wakeful in a narrow room.”
She turned her shoulder upon him, pouting, but held her peace. His arm
circled her lovingly. Of a sudden she started away and clapped her
hands in childish glee.
“O my dear, I have something good for thee!” she cried, “something
sweet for thee to taste. Merciful Allah! I had quite forgotten it until
this minute. Wait but a little and I will bring thee a glassful hither!”
She ran from the room and shortly returned, carrying in her hand a
glass filled with some amber fluid. She offered it to him.
“What stuff is this?” asked Saïd, cautiously, taking the glass in his
hand and holding it up between him and a candle which burned on the
wooden press by the wall, so that a ray shone through it.
“Know, O lord of all my doings, that I, thy servant, was idle after
noon of this day, and I grew weary of being idle. So I called Sàadeh to
me and took counsel what to do. And it happened, by the grace of Allah,
that there were many figs with us in the house—of the gift of Rashìd
the taverner, thy friend, who sent us yesterday three basketfuls. And
it came into my mind to make a new dainty—I mean a sherbet of figs.
So we made careful choice of the fruit and crushed it with sugar in
a little water and set it in a pan to boil. And afterwards, when the
mixture was cool again, we sipped and found it very good. And I said in
my soul, O soul, my idleness has been well employed for I have devised
a new dainty for the mouth of my beloved. Now taste, I pray, and tell
me how thou findest!”
Saïd sniffed at the contents of the glass and made a wry face.
He said,—
“The smell of it is not good. It is perhaps some trick thou wouldst
put upon me for laughter’s sake. Allah grant it be no unclean thing or
fierce drug to madden me. It were a sin to make me drink wine who am
preparing for the pilgrimage.”
But Ferideh’s gaze of stricken love reassured him. Once more he held
the potion up to the light and looked through it.
“Sherbet of figs, saidst thou? Allah have pity? Surely it cannot be.
Figs are all too fleshy to yield clear syrup like this.”
Ferideh’s voice quavered a little as she replied,—
“We strained it through a piece of new muslin, and when all which would
run through was collected, we took the cloth with what remained therein
and wrung it out over the basin. Thus we obtained much syrup. O my dear
lord, it is cruel to tease me so; being as if thou didst doubt my care
for thee, which Allah forbid! I beseech thee drink and tell me: Is it
not good?”
Saïd sipped at the lip of the glass, then worked his tongue
reflectively.
“It is not unpleasant,” he admitted. “But, by my beard, I perceive no
taste of figs in it, but rather of walnuts, I should say, or something
of that kind. It is sweet, however, and I am fain to drink it if by so
doing, I may pleasure thee.”
At that she drew closer, with tender looks and soft speech inflaming
him. When he had emptied and set down the glass she locked her hands
behind his neck. She knelt close to him upon the ground, her bosom
strained to his chest so that he felt its warmth. Her head was thrown
somewhat back, that her eyes might look into his. The poise of her
head, with the trail of her body along the ground, suggested a snake in
act to strike its prey.
He clasped her to him. “Allah is great!” he muttered; more as a
convenient explosive than for any bearing the words had upon the
case. He marvelled vaguely at the change which had taken place in her
during the last few weeks. Formerly it had been hard to win the least
endearment from her, but now she lavished tenderness upon him at all
times. Once her words of love, when uttered, were spiritless, as though
she had them by rote; now they were impassioned even beyond his own.
Referring this new fire of hers to the circumstances attending Hasneh’s
disgrace, he wondered that so slight a thing should have power to
change the whole nature of a woman.
She went on speaking feverishly, gazing ever into his eyes as if she
expected something to appear there which was long in coming.
A strange slumber stole upon Saïd. At first it was but a pleasant
languor. Then he grew dizzy. Things dilated and dwindled unaccountably.
He heard himself murmur, “O garden of my delight!” … and then all was a
blank. He knew no more until he awoke in broad daylight to find Selìm
bending over him with an anxious face.