THE HOUSE OF ISLÂM
THE HOUSE
OF ISLÂM
BY
MARMADUKE PICKTHALL
“Man prays for Evil as he prays for
Good, for man is unthinking.”—ALCORAN.
[Illustration]
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK MCMVI
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1906_
THE HOUSE OF ISLÂM
INTRODUCTION
In the reign of the Sultàn Abdul Mejìd Khan, upon termination of the war
with Muscovy, a multitude of faithful Georgians and Circassians chose
to cast themselves, their women and children, upon the bounty of the
Padishah rather than endure the yoke of an infidel conqueror. They begged
but leave to settle in some part of the Sultàn’s dominions, to dwell in
peace among true believers in obedience to the law of God, as transmitted
to Muhammed, His Apostle. But their spokesmen had fierce eyes, and, when
a little emphasis seemed called for, each clutched quite naturally at the
dagger in his sash.
The Sultàn’s advisers—black-coated, red-capped Othmanlis of the eyes that
see but never look—noted this slight discrepancy while placidly telling
their beads. There were lawless spots in the empire. On the confines of
Esh-Shâm, for example, the peasants paid tax to the chiefs of the desert
rather than to the lawful tithe farmer. There was a place with work in
the world for men both loyal and warlike.
The Sultàn Abdul Mejìd heard those exiles. He clothed them in the mantle
of his grace. Lands were granted in a far province, rights and privileges
were conferred upon them. Letters written under the Tûghra made it a duty
for all men to do them honor. And to prevent untoward collision with the
old inhabitants, one Milhem Bey, a native of that country, was appointed
to overlook the settlement and quell the disputes which were sure to
arise at the outset.
Many days after the Circassians had set sail for their new land, one hot
afternoon, this Milhem took boat at Tufana, down by the bridge, and went
to visit his brother, a young doctor of the religion, who dwelt by the
shore of Asia. As his caique shot forth into the strait, the coasts of
Europe opened like a scroll. Fat domes and slender minarets rose up white
from out dark cypress groves on the hill of Istanbûl. Heaped Ghalata
and straggling Pera gathered beauty as their forms receded. The song of
waters, with the pleasant sense of gliding, soothed Milhem. He closed his
eyes upon the shining prospect, while he said in his soul:
“It is well.... Yet not altogether well. After fifteen years of
obeisance, now at last I am lord of something—a small thing, but earnest
of more to come. That is good. Praise to Allah, I am blest in that!...
But it has taken long to reach this little eminence, and has cost
me—Merciful Allah!—how much money! My patrimony is all but spent. And
this post is not worth the trouble unless as a step to something finer.
A few rock-scraping fellahìn, a few wild-beast Circassians.... What
profit, O Lord, in such a government? After six months or eight I shall
return. Then, it may be, they will speak to me of a pashalik. Where—Allah
pity!—can I touch the price of a pashalik? Without money I can go no
farther. If Shems-ud-dìn, my brother, will not help me, I must borrow of
the infidel. O Shems-ud-dìn! O my soul! Allah knows it has been my sin to
neglect thee. How long since I embraced thee, O my dear!”
The boat came to land at a point where a huddle of colored dwellings on
the sea’s brink and a mosque with needle-pointed minarets cast a shimmer
on the smooth water. Milhem clambered out on to a landing stage and
started to climb a path through orchards which led to his brother’s house.
The Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn sat under a tree enjoying the view, across the
strait, of the imperial city, when he was struck by the apparition of a
white sunshade slowly bobbing up the path from the shore. Another minute
and he sprang to his feet, crying, “Thanks to Allah!” With eyes alight,
he ran to kiss his brother.
“They told me thou wast gone,” he said, as he led him to the carpet under
the tree. “But my heart informed me that they lied. Thou wouldst never
have gone without my peace on thee. I am glad they lied who told me thou
wast gone.”
“Of a surety they lied,” chuckled Milhem. “Everyone thought I should
travel with those wild beasts. Only this morning one of the greatest
called me laggard for remaining behind. Hear my answer! I said: ‘O my
lord, had I journeyed with the colonists, I had surely been a party to
their quarrels as they arose. With your Grace’s permission, let the
quarrels first arise that I, coming as a stranger, may judge impartially
with whom the right. Moreover,’ I said, ‘may it please your Highness,
I would set my house in order ere I go. And your Excellency’s self
will admit that the city Istâna is mistress of more charm than the
desert possesses.’ I tell thee, he laughed, that great one; he laughed
immoderately and praised my understanding. Men begin to perceive that
Milhem Bey is not foolish. In sh’ Allah he will be Milhem Pasha some day.”
“In sh’ Allah!” echoed Shems-ud-dìn vaguely.
“But a province costs much money!” sighed Milhem, at the same time
darting a sharp glance at his brother’s face.
The stupid had not heard. There he sat, fingering his great black beard,
and gazing with his great brown eyes, full and wistful as a gazelle’s,
over the cypress tops of an adjacent cemetery, over the blue strait, to
the crowding minarets of the city.
“Am I here to watch thee dreaming?” said Milhem tartly. “Art in love, or
what ails thee?”
Shems-ud-dìn turned to him with a smile.
“Love, saidst thou? I have not loved these many days, since the death
of one I loved truly. She whom I have now is but for appearance, lest
neighbors should deem me disreputable, living alone.... I do but think, O
my brother! I think, by Allah’s leave, I go with thee.”
Milhem flung up his hands and eyes to heaven.
“What a fancy!” he cried, affrighted. “May Allah heal thee of it quickly.”
“Mock me not, O beloved!” pleaded Shems-ud-dìn. “Whom love I in the world
like thee? While thou wast absent fighting in the holy wars, had my soul
peace? And since then, seeing thee so seldom, have I been content? I
adjure thee, by our love of old, gainsay me not in this matter!”
Launched upon a favorite theme, he continued in this strain of deep
affection a great while.
Milhem answered not a word. Profoundly moved, he plucked up the grass
near him by the roots, snuffling to keep from tears. At last, able to
bear it no longer, he rose abruptly and took his leave with broken
words of blessing and praise to God. Not until his boat danced midway
across the path of darkening water, and the minarets of the sovereign
city, aloft in the sunset, seemed spears of a phantom host uplifted,
threatening, did he remember his purpose in the visit.
On the morrow, before noon, he found his way to the street of sweet
odors, where Shems-ud-dìn had a shop which it was his custom to visit on
that day of each week for the purpose of taking account with his steward.
This morning Shems-ud-dìn was not alone. Two old men sat with him in the
inner gloom, beyond where a group of women chaffered with the salesman.
They were sheykhs renowned through all the world for their learning and
piety, stern foes to innovation, for whom a time-serving official was an
unclean beast.
Milhem bowed low before those holy ones, and blessed the lucky day.
After seats had been resumed, Shems-ud-dìn observed:
“I was telling these, my friends, of the journey I purpose to make. And
they have honored me with a mission....”
But Milhem stopped his ears, crying: “Think not of it, I beseech thee, O
my brother! I come on purpose to restrain thee. With the permission of
these reverend ones, thy thought to go with me is not of wisdom. Does a
man right to quarrel with the part allotted? Behold thee here in great
honor, with such friends about thee; yet not content! Thou must needs
embark upon a venture—very perilous, very tiresome—whereunto no one calls
thee. Do not so, O my brother, for the sin is great!”
“Once upon a time Eblìs himself met an angel from Allah, and, looking
earnestly upon his face, observed, ‘Sin not, I entreat thee,’” said one
of the two old doctors in a manner of abstruse meditation.
Milhem bit his lips. He said, “Who am I to discuss what is right with
the law’s exponents? Yet, now and then, in my chamber, I give thought to
these high matters. And it has seemed, to my little understanding, a sin
that my brother should wander from a road so clear before him.”
“By my beard, I see not the harm!” said the sheykh who had before spoken.
“Why should not our friend, the learned Shems-ud-dìn, revisit his
native land, a land of true belief? In sh’ Allah, he will enjoy himself
there.... But perhaps our lord the Bey would go alone. Two eyes of truth
fixed constantly upon him embarrass the statesman.”
“Which is only to say: ‘He would keep his master’s counsel.’ Allah
witness, I have no desire save for my brother’s welfare.”
“That is known for certain,” cried Shems-ud-dìn heartily. “But fear not
for me. I go gladly.”
Milhem shrugged his shoulders. As soon as coffee had been served he took
his departure. Where was the use in staying longer? These dotards showed
no intention of moving, and he would not mention his need in their cold
hearing.
At a later hour he returned that way, and, seeing Shems-ud-dìn alone in
the depths of the shop, ran in and, stooping, kissed the hem of his robe.
Through eagerness to convince, he magnified his want a hundredfold. By
Allah, by the admirable Korân, he had spent all his inheritance—had sown
it rather, hoping to reap a rich crop of honor. His last para had gone
to procure this beggarly appointment of governor over sundry wild beasts.
On his return, if Allah kept him alive, he would have the offer of a
wilâyet. Where in the world could he touch the price of a wilâyet? Rather
than borrow of an Armenian or other usurious infidel, he would beg in
the gate of one of the mosques; he had not yet decided which. He was in
the hand of the Almighty, to whom the praise.... Three hundred thousand
piasters at the lowest.... Ma sh’ Allah! It was too much to ask of any
man!...
“O my dear, O light of my eyes, O my breath!” cried Shems-ud-dìn, when he
could speak for amazement. “Why hast thou kept silence? Is it for this
thou didst shun me? Fie on thy pride! Thou hast a share in this business,
as in all belonging to me. Talk not of begging when thou hast a trade.
There is but little now in my hand; but to-morrow or the day after I will
pay thee all I can collect. Of the rest we will speak later. Have no
fear! All mine is thine; and, by the blessing of Allah, it may be that my
patrimony has increased while thine wasted.”
Milhem wept on his brother’s neck and called him kindest of the sons of
Adam.
“By my life, he has earned the right to bear me company,” he murmured as
he went his way. “May Allah requite him! And if, in such close converse,
he should discover a little thing to my disadvantage, it is so decreed.
Allah knows, a man of my employments cannot keep the habits of a saint.”
He vowed before God to keep strict watch upon himself, to avoid giving
offense to his brother’s piety. But he had forgotten the vow, or
recanted, when the day of departure came.
Shems-ud-dìn, with other turbaned voyagers, was in the customhouse,
patiently enduring the chicanery of a number of small officials whose
end was bakshìsh, when Milhem passed down the middle of the great shed,
escorted by the mûdìr and a group of high officers. He overlooked
Shems-ud-dìn’s salutation, appeared unconscious of his neighborhood. In
loud talk with his companions he walked out at the farther doors, through
which the dance of violet waves shone twinkling, and his brother was left
to conclude his bargain with the customhouse men, when a nod from the
Sultàn’s plenipotentiary might have released him.
On the steamship, bewildered by the novelty of his situation, alarmed by
the pushing of rude Franks, Shems-ud-dìn herded for countenance with a
little group of the faithful on the fore part of the deck; nor dared to
look round for Milhem. The shores and the fair, great city were slipping
fast away, ere he descried the latter standing amidships. He ran to him
with intent to embrace, but was checked by the formality of his reception.
“Leave me alone here, I entreat thee,” said Milhem, as if his teeth were
set on edge. “Afterwards, upon land, I will explain all things.”
Shems-ud-dìn withdrew, much hurt. He made no further claim on his
brother’s notice, but sat all day long in the company of three Turkish
merchants, men of substance and of imperturbable phlegm, who spoke in
proverbs between long sucks at the narghileh. At the rising of the night,
when the evening prayer was ended, his black servant brought him food,
and spread a bed for him beneath the stars. Once, ere he lay down, his
ear caught the voice of Milhem at no great distance talking glibly in a
foreign tongue, and by the light of one of the lamps he could distinguish
his brother strolling amid a crowd of Franks, both men and women. They
kept laughing the senseless, heathen laugh that knows not past or future,
nor foresees the judgment of the last day.
The faces of Shems-ud-dìn’s companions were lost in night, except when
the charcoal in the bowl of a narghileh glowed up redly as its owner drew
on it. One said:
“Allah created different animals. He made no crossbreeds. These latter
spring from sin. What can be said of one who, being circumcised and
duly shaven like ourselves, yet chooses to sit on a chair at a table
with infidels, his hands unwashed, to eat abomination, and to toy with
unveiled women whose face is of brass for all men, who know not shame?
Shall such an one treat us as dirt, being most likely the son of some
pimp or other? May the justice of God overtake him, and that suddenly!”
“Now Allah avert that curse, for the man is my mother’s son,” said
Shems-ud-dìn sadly.
“Ma sh’ Allah! Is it truth thou speakest? Then Allah forgive me! Let it
be as though I had said nothing. I guessed not, O my lord, that he was
the son of any honorable house. Most of these officials are the sons of
nothing. Why comes he not to sit with thee? May Allah teach him the way
of the upright!”
The speaker, a good old man, by name Yûsûf, a dealer in cotton goods,
sucked hard at his narghileh. From that hour no one of the sedate circle
referred to the great man on board, or betrayed the slightest interest
in the doings of the Frankish passengers. Time glided smoothly for
Shems-ud-dìn in their company, though few words passed, and those of
abstract wisdom. It seemed matter for praise to Allah that there was no
chatterer among them. And ever the steamboat panted on over that silken
sea, tossing back its mane of dingy smoke along the furrow it had plowed.
Only when the panting ceased awhile, did the faithful quit the pose of
resignation, uncross their legs, rise, stretch themselves, and praise God
for the view of some white town that rimmed the sea, with minarets and
distaff cypresses, and fertile gardens on the hill beyond.
At length, near dawn of the fifth day, Shems-ud-dìn awoke to find the
ship at rest on the bosom of a wide bay. Already a whiteness played
upon the ripples. Already, above high mountains in the east, appeared a
blushing streak, a fluttering pulse of light that throbbed and spread
till shapes grew clear in silhouette upon the shore line, here a palm
tree, there a dwelling; and still the sky to seaward was night blue and
spangled with stars.
Shems-ud-dìn knelt down and prayed with fervor, prostrating himself
many times. The sun rose, and its rays struck upon his two hands held
before his face as he prayed. There were the heights of Lebanon, towers
of darkness up against a glory. By the mercy of Allah, he beheld those
heights once more. His heart was full.
Later, when the sun rode high and many boats had put forth from the
shore, he embarked in one of them with his friends of the voyage, and was
rowed to the customhouse. There, engaged in the civilities preliminary to
the gift of a coin, he was surprised by Milhem. He leaped at the sound
of his brother’s voice hailing him with words of love, and the flush
of pleasure overcame him. The Bey showed a paper to the officers, who
straight made reverence. Shems-ud-dìn and his friends were free to go
where they chose.
“I have saved thee and those quaint worthies a mejidi apiece. Art thou
not grateful?” laughed Milhem, as they issued forth into the morning
sunlight.
Instantly their ears were assailed with the shouts of carriage drivers,
and a mob of porters pressed on them, shouting also and gesticulating,
shouldering one another roughly in the strife for employment. The Bey had
one arm round his brother’s neck. With the other he signaled to the most
importunate of the carriage drivers, who shook his reins in triumph; the
while he continued:
“Praise to Allah, that ordeal is ended. May all the Franks rot painfully,
and their fathers be consumed with fire! But it is the will of the
Sultàn that we mix with them and learn their ways. For me, to hear is
to obey. What am I but a servant?... I proceed to the city Esh-Shâm by
the coach this evening. That Greek dog, my secretary, follows with the
baggage. There I obtain my soldiers from the Wâly—a hundred only, not
half enough to overawe those wild beasts. Go thou, upon arrival in that
city, to the khan of Ahmed Effendi, the same who was the steward of our
father’s property. I shall seek thee there.... Allah be with thee now and
always, O my beloved!”
He kissed Shems-ud-dìn very suddenly on both cheeks, sprang into his
carriage, and was driven to a foreign hotel.
His brother, left thunderstruck, stood by the door of the customhouse,
impervious to the frantic efforts made by porters, and others having an
interest in new arrivals, to attract his notice. He scarcely heard his
servant speak to him, and answered at random a question as to whither
they should be going.
“So his Excellency the Bey has flown again,” said the voice of Yûsûf,
the old merchant, close to his ear. “Well, Allah knows where such birds
nest! I know not, nor greatly care to know. Wilt thou make the journey
to Esh-Shâm with us who are plain men? With Allah’s leave we will hire
baggage animals, and buy each one of us an ass whereon to ride. We shall
journey slowly, by easy stages, being old men and burdened with fat. If
thy youth can bear with our infirmities, journey with us and welcome,
for we love instruction, and it is seldom that a learned sheykh of the
religion falls to our lot for company.”
“Let it be as he says, O my lord!” pleaded the negro eagerly; for he
tired of standing still, a gazing-stock for low people.
“So be it then,” said Shems-ud-dìn, with a cordial smile. “By my beard, I
thank thee; for in this minute I knew not where to face.”
So it happened that Shems-ud-dìn entered the city of his birth one
morning, riding soberly upon an ass, in the company of three fat old
men, riding each likewise upon an ass. The legs of all four stuck out
wide over full saddlebags. On foot beside Shems-ud-dìn went his faithful
negro, now walking, now trotting, in accordance with the donkey’s pace.
From Zebbadâni, where they had spent the night, they ambled by garden
ways to the great city, down a valley full of shade, and the song of
birds, and the ever-sweet murmur of running waters.
Shems-ud-dìn had found the journey anything but tiresome. And now, in
the familiar streets where every sight and sound recalled his childhood,
he felt like nothing more than a happy child.
Near by the khan of Ahmed Effendi, in a covered way narrow and crowded,
where the cavalcade had to go in single file with shouts to clear the
path, a hand grasped Shems-ud-dìn’s arm, and the voice of Milhem snarled:
“Get down! Get down, madman!”
With fear the traveler alighted, holding his donkey by the bridle. The
rope was promptly snatched from his hand and thrust into that of the
negro, who stood grinning by.
“Go on—on to the khan! Destroy that beast!—hide him!—drown him. Y’
Allah!” hissed the same voice of authority and anger.
More and more alarmed, Shems-ud-dìn faced Milhem. The latter seized his
arm.
“Come away! This way or that, what recks it?... And now, peradventure,
thou wilt deign to inform me why, in the Holy Name, thou masqueradest
as a jester, riding upon an ass, preceded by three old men, all on one
pattern, all of them also riding upon asses; so that people, deeming it a
portent, ask: ‘What means this strange riding?’ Thou couldst well afford
a fine horse apiece for thyself and thy servant. What ails thee that
thou must needs play the mountebank?”
“I must return to my friends,” said Shems-ud-dìn, disengaging his arm.
“They will wonder what has befallen me.”
“Thy friends!... That absurd procession!... Allah witness, it is a
child!—a little child!” Milhem raised eyes to heaven, while his laugh
rang out. “Must I tell thee that thou art a great man here? All the
learned await thy visit with impatience. They would have ridden forth
to meet thee. And behold thee seated upon the sorriest scrub of an ass
that ever I saw; preceded by three old men, all the sons of one mother,
all born at one birth, all as like as camels. What can one say? It is a
miracle, perhaps!”
“They are not brothers, neither do they in aught resemble one another,”
said Shems-ud-dìn, much aggrieved. “They are my good friends. Howbeit, to
please thee, I will sell my donkey and buy me a good horse before we ride
together.”
“That is well. For didst thou come riding upon an ass, attended by three
old men with but one face between them, I should know thee for a wizard
and depart quickly.”
With that Milhem went off, chuckling; leaving his brother, crestfallen
and mystified, to find his own way to the khan of Ahmed Effendi.
Milhem’s words proved true. Shems-ud-dìn found himself in high request
among the erudite of Damashc-esh-Shâm. During the weeks spent there, he
was constantly visiting and being visited; twice was he called upon to
preach in the great mosque; and a general meeting of the doctors was
convened on purpose to debate with him upon certain knotty questions of
religious law. To his vast surprise, Milhem attended him everywhere,
lending a disciple’s ear to his disquisitions, and treating him in public
with a new respect. In private, he condescended to explain:
“O my dear, it is well for one like me to secure the good word of these
reverend ones; who, as a rule, hate the government and its servants. I
would have them perceive that I am not irreligious in the likeness of
other officials. And I thank Allah for thy great holiness, O my brother!”
“Call me not holy!” cried Shems-ud-dìn in horror. “There is none holy
save God alone. I give thanks for thy goodness, O light of my eyes! Very
kind hast thou been to me these last days. Nevertheless, I shall rejoice
when we ride out from hence. It tires me, all this honor undeserved. My
head aches with the burden of it.”
At length came the morn when Milhem rode forth from that city at the head
of a hundred armed horsemen. Certain of the notables of Esh-Shâm bore
him company a part of the way, and many of the learned paid the like
compliment to Shems-ud-dìn, who cut no mean figure in the cavalcade,
mounted as he was upon a coal-black charger, richly caparisoned with
housings of gold and scarlet and light blue. Out through the orchards
they pranced in the cool of morning, and peasants at work among the trees
stood idle a space to admire their bravery. Anon the orchards gave place
to vineyards, the vineyards in turn fell away, and the desert rolled out
before them, smooth and bare. Then, a halt being called, the promenaders
from the city took leave of the serious wayfarers.
“It is the pilgrim’s road. You face the kibleh!” one called to
Shems-ud-dìn. “Allah hold you in safe keeping!”
Shems-ud-dìn rode beside Milhem at the head of his retinue. Their way
led straight across the brown waste—a track a mile wide marked by the
horde of pilgrims wending yearly to Mekka. Here and there, upon the sky
line, rose a wave of faint blue mountain. The sun shone hot on their left
cheeks.
Milhem was in high spirits. Ever and anon he turned in the saddle to
gaze with pride upon his suite, who rode at ease, smoking cigarettes,
talking and laughing lightly together.
“Art thou happy?” asked Shems-ud-dìn.
“Very happy. Praise be to Allah who has freed my hand at last. I have not
known such elation since the day when the Muscovites fled from before
Silistria.”
“Silistria! Wast thou really there? I have not heard thee speak of it.
The story, I beseech thee.”
“I speak but of the joy felt by all believers when the place was
relieved. I was not of the heroes.”
“But thou thyself hast done brave deeds, O my brother?”
“Yes, surely,” said Milhem; and he proceeded to recount a few of them.
That night, in a pavilion pitched on the open plain, the guards lying
upon the ground without, around their watch fires, Shems-ud-dìn could not
sleep for the wonder of those tales. Himself a timid man, he loved to
hear of wild encounters. He strove to place himself in some of the perils
braved by Milhem, and thought he would have died of fright.
There seemed no end to Milhem’s strange adventures. On the morrow
he remembered more of them, which he told with a wealth of homely
circumstance which enabled Shems-ud-dìn to witness all he heard. For the
listener, those long marches passed as the Thousand and One Nights must
have passed for King Shahriar.
They left the plain and entered a land of rocks, where the horses picked
their own way gingerly. Here progress was, perforce, much slower. At
length, after noon of the fourth day, he reached a height whence, their
guide informed them, they could catch sight of their destination.
Immediately a dispute arose among the soldiery, some vowing they could
see a fine city plainly, while others as positively asserted that there
was nothing of the sort within view. Milhem made use of his field glass,
a marvel he loved to display, then handed it to his brother. At first
Shems-ud-dìn could see nothing; but suddenly he became aware of rocks,
and houses like to rocks, of monstrous ruins and a few poor fig trees,
the whole presented in a rainbow light not of earth.
“A sweet, a charming place!” said Milhem bitterly.
They descended a rough slope to a ravine, which led on to other ravines;
so that more than three hours elapsed ere they again beheld the little
town, this time close at hand. A motley crowd of men occupied a hillock
at the entering in of the place, above the thrashing floors. At sight
of the horsemen this crowd broke in a trice and ran helter-skelter down
the hill to meet them. There appeared some strife among the runners, each
trying by every means to retard a neighbor. Some were knocked down; some
rolled together, struggling among the rocks.
“Allah have mercy! Behold, trouble already! A feud, if I mistake not,”
said Milhem, as he watched the race. He spoke a word to the chief of the
soldiers, who repeated it in a louder tone. The troop pulled up, smartly,
on the alert.
Two young men, an Arab and a Circassian, had distanced all competitors.
They ran beyond reach of one another, converging upon the spot where the
Governor had halted. As they drew near, it seemed the Circassian had a
slight advantage, but so slight that they were about to collide, when the
Arab caught his rival’s trousers to fling him back. The other turned with
a yell, felled his adversary, and knelt upon his belly. A knife flashed
on high. It would have fallen had not some one caught the arm that
flourished it. There was a moment’s tussle. The Circassian turned to face
his new assailant, when all at once his resistance died away. With a curt
laugh he dropped his blade.
“Who are you?” he said to the soldiers, who now surrounded him. “I
would have eaten that dog and all of you into the bargain. Not yours the
victory. It belongs to that man there. I looked in his eyes while we
fought, and they disarmed me; there was no wrath in them.”
“Capital! Most marvelous!” cried Milhem. Forgetting dignity in his
excitement, he sprang down off his horse and embraced the hero of the
hour. “Thou, the timid one, to perform such a deed! Even I, who am called
courageous, had hesitated to come between that wild beast and his prey.”
Shems-ud-dìn was near weeping. He could not believe that it was indeed
he who had shown such presence of mind. He felt weak now, and dizzy,
incapable of any action whatsoever.
By this time the crowd of townsmen had come up. Alarmed by what had
happened, they stood silent by until the Bey remounted, when another
rush befell, another struggle. “A boon, O our lord!”—“A boon!”—“Hear
him!”—“Hear him not!” came the conflicting shouts. There seemed every
prospect of a bloody fight under the very nose of the Sultàn’s appointed
peacemaker.
At a word from Milhem, the soldiers surrounded both factions.
“Where is the sheykh of the place?” shouted the great man furiously. A
tall old man stepped forward, making reverence. “Where the chief of the
colonists?”
“I am he!” bawled the prisoner insolently, from between the troopers
guarding him. “My name is Hassan Agha, and the title Guardian of the
Frontier was conferred upon me by express firmàn.”
Milhem smiled. “Release his Excellency at once. Allah forgive the
indignity offered to one so great and powerful. By the Korân, I took
thee for a common murderer. Deign to come a little nearer! I would get
down off my horse and offer him to your Highness were I less weary with
traveling.”
The man approached, shamefaced, while a titter spread among the crowd.
“Stand on my right hand, O Great Guardian of the Frontier, and thou, O
sheykh, on my left.... Praise be to God!” he cried suddenly. “His Grace,
Hassan Agha, Guardian of the Frontier, deigns to stand beside my horse. O
honor!”
A roar of laughter went up from crowd and soldiery.
“Show a little mercy, O my lord!” whispered Hassan wretchedly. “Am I not
shamed enough?”
Milhem did not answer. With the heads of both factions as it were at
his saddlebow, he made haste to inform himself of the grounds of
dispute between them. On the one hand, he learned how the Circassians
would pay for nothing, how they were a turbulent crew, the worst of
neighbors, and had even shown disrespect to some women belonging to the
old inhabitants; on the other hand, how the Arabs were a set of churls,
fathers of avarice, without one generous thought in their black hearts.
Shems-ud-dìn, hearing the vigor of those mutual denunciations, judged
the case hopeless of settlement without bloodshed. He was amazed to hear
Milhem chuckle.
“It is my intention, and the will of the Sultàn is with me in the
matter,” said the Governor pleasantly, “to live throughout my stay here
at the expense of the lord of this place, be he Circassian or the son of
an Arab; to reward his loyalty, and that he may boast to his children’s
children of how he entertained the Viceroy. Now unto the house of which
of you two shall I repair?”
The rivals stooped down and exchanged glances under the horse’s belly.
“He is the sheykh of the town,” said Hassan. “And I have no house of my
own.”
“He is the Guardian of the Frontier,” said the sheykh. “And may it please
your Excellency, he has taken my best house and is living in it without
rent. A sin it is, and a great loss to me.”
“Your honor does not mean to ruin either of us?” coaxed Hassan, glancing
up at the great man’s face.
“In sh’ Allah, he does but jest,” muttered the sheykh, with fervor.
“I have the power,” said Milhem sternly, “and by Allah Most High, I will
quarter myself and all my retinue upon that one of you who first breaks
the peace. To-night my camp is pitched beyond the town. You have heard my
judgment. Go!”
The old Arab and the young Circassian fell back together, grinning at
that clever judgment. But presently the latter returned, and clutched
Shems-ud-dìn’s stirrup.
“As for thee,” he cried, “thou shalt lodge nowhere but in my house. I
swear it.”
“Yes, go with him, O my brother,” said Milhem, as one well pleased. “It
seems thou art a tamer of wild beasts. Go with him and Allah with thee.”
So it happened that Shems-ud-dìn and his servant supped and slept that
night in the house of a wild brigand, whose talk reeked of gore. And when
he awoke in the morning, there was Hassan watching him from the arched
doorway, where he stood polishing a long-barreled gun with a piece of
goatskin. They smiled the one to the other.
“Watching thee asleep, I have found out why thou didst overcome me
yesterday—me, the pupil of the mighty Shamil; thou, a peaceful doctor of
religion. It is because thou art a saint!” said Hassan Agha.
“Allah witness I am the least saintlike of men,” said Shems-ud-dìn,
yawning to fuller consciousness. But Hassan would have it that he was a
saint.
“I go presently to see thy brother,” he added after awhile. “We need
horses if we are to fight the Bedû. He is a devil, that brother of
thine. I expect he will help us with some stratagem.... By Allah, it is
a thankless task, protecting these tillers of the rock. They have been
wont to pay to the chiefs of the desert a tribute, by virtue of which
they were unmolested. Now they scowl on us because we forbid all tribute
save to the officers of our lord the Padishah—that is, ourselves. As yet
we have not seen one Bedawi. The whole nation, they say, is far away in
the east at this season. They come not here before the first rain. But
these fellahìn are great liars. They told us there was a forest close at
hand, but when we looked, behold! a few old terebinths scattered over as
many hills. They told me there were tigers, but after hunting the region
near and far, I brought back but one lean partridge, some conies, some
pigeons, and an owl or so. There are no tigers. Perhaps there are no Bedû
either.”
Hassan spoke in a jargon approaching Turkish interspersed with words
of Arabic. Shems-ud-dìn understood what was said, though he would have
been puzzled to separate the words. The friendliness of the speaker was,
at all events, past question. He clapped his hands and a girl appeared
from some inner chamber, bearing a tray, whereon was bread and curds and
fruit, which the negro took from her and set before his master.
“It is my woman,” said Hassan casually. “Thou hast not brought one with
thee? A pity! Thou wilt sigh in vain. Now there is the daughter of my
uncle—he who commands the colonists at Ain Tûbeh, six hours from here—a
fine girl, plump and tractable. My uncle would resign her to thee at a
fair price—that is, if he have not already struck a bargain with the
dealer. It is a custom from of old with us to sell the pretty ones. So
they become the mothers of great men, perchance even of the Sultàn’s
majesty.”
“I have not given thought to woman these many days,” said Shems-ud-dìn,
with the look of sad remembrance. “My fair one, my Leylah, died in
childbed awhile since, my desire with her. A long story, O my friend! It
began at Edreyneh, whither I had gone, by invitation of my friend, the
learned Mustafa, to preach throughout Ramadan in the mosque of Sultàn
Selìm——”
“By thy leave,” broke in Hassan, “the morning calls us. At noon or in the
evening we can tell our stories. Come forth now, and let me show thee
this place of dogs.”
No sooner did they leave the house, than men emerged from adjacent
dwellings and walked with them till, ere they had traversed half the
town, they headed a multitude. Hassan led the way by foul and narrow
alleys to the open hill where stood the remains of great buildings, whose
smooth pillars and finely wrought capitals contrasted the rudeness of the
modern stonework.
“These are the work of the jinn,” said a voice from the crowd. “The
devils still hold festival here of nights when there is no moon.”
Here in the arena of a ruined amphitheater Milhem’s tent was pitched.
Around it half-dressed soldiers were grooming their horses to the
entertainment of a swarm of noisy children. Hassan went forward to the
tent; Shems-ud-dìn, in enjoyment of the morning sun, sat down upon a
fallen column with his face to the blaze.
The flat mud roofs of the town formed a succession of terrace steps
beneath him, descending to a stony wady, beyond which swelled the
wilderness of barren rocks. A patch of verdure by the town spring, a few
olive trees down in the ravine, a few poor fig trees among the ruins near
to where he sat—all else was bronze and purple of the desert hills.
“Even such a land,” he mused aloud, “did our lord Muhammed (peace to him)
inhabit of old. Amid such solitudes did the angel of God converse with
him to the salvation of man and jinni.”
The townsfolk had taken seat around him upon the ruins. All eyes were
fixed on his face. At those pious words one said: “It is some holy one!”
and the whisper ran apace. It startled Shems-ud-dìn, who had forgotten
their existence, when the sheykh of the place stood forth and bowed
before him, saying:
“Instruct us, O master! We believe; but ignorantly, having but little
knowledge of the Way. Teach us now, we entreat thee.”
Then Shems-ud-dìn, looking round upon those eager faces, was moved to
pity.
“You can recite the Fat’ha and the belief?” he asked.
Instantly the prayer went up as from one throat, and the shout followed:
“God is greatest. There is no God but God; and Muhammed is the Apostle of
God.”
“You are not in total darkness,” said Shems-ud-dìn, with a smile; and he
began to tell them of the dealings of God with men from the days of Adam
and Nûh and Ibrahìm unto the time of Muhammed, and thence downward even
to the present day.
In this occupation, Milhem, coming forth from council with the chief of
the colonists, found him at length.
“Hail, O tamer of wild beasts!” he laughed. “It is as if they would
swallow thee whole, their mouths are so wide open. It is too hot for thee
to sit out longer. Come now into my tent—or return to the house of our
friend, the Guardian of the Frontier. By Allah, I must thank thee for
his friendship. It is a great debt I owe thee, for he could have done me
endless mischief.”
“By my gun, he is a devil, that brother of thine!” said Hassan, as
they sauntered back through the town. “With one blink of his eyes he
constructed a plan whereby we may obtain a stud of the best horses at
the lowest price ever known. But that is a secret.”
Shems-ud-dìn lacked curiosity. He was thinking how to improve the minds
of those Muslims, so hungry for instruction.
In the days which followed, he delivered many discourses in the little
tumble-down mosque, and up on the open hillside. He came to love the
place and its inhabitants, and could not sympathize with Milhem, whose
lips dropped curses on the entire country.
Summer broke at length, with thunder, lightning, and a tremendous
downpour. Rain fell in sheets for the space of five days. When at last
the sky cleared, there was a new cold taste in the air; a torrent
thundered in the gorge beneath the town; green plants began to shoot
among the rocks. In a little while the hill of ruins became starred all
over with blossoms of the crocus and the cyclamen.
Then Hassan was absent all day long, scouring the hills with his men,
armed to the teeth. Each evening he spent in cleaning and polishing his
beloved weapons.
One night he came in with eyes of joy.
“The Bedû, O beloved! I have seen the Bedû! Their tents blacken a dell
not two hours distant. Their herds roam at large. They will come hither
for the accustomed tribute. Ah, thy brother is a devil! To-morrow and, it
may be, the next day also, I abide in the house with thee. Dost wonder
why? Ah, that is a secret!”
Two days later, as Shems-ud-dìn sat meditating beneath a fig tree on the
hill of ruins, shrouded horsemen came riding out of the east. His eyes
made out twenty of them, each armed with a long lance whose point glanced
in the sunlight, each well mounted on a prancing steed. Then, remembering
the veiled words of Hassan relative to the tribute, he descended in haste
to the town.
Standing at the junction of two narrow ways, he saw the foremost of the
cavaliers ride up to the sheykh’s door, before which a few children
seemed to loiter. The sheykh came forth, crying welcome, and offering his
house by a gesture. The leader jumped down and made fast his horse to a
stone of the wall. His followers also alighted, tethering their steeds in
like manner. They all entered the house with friendly words to its owner.
No sooner were they gone than from every dwelling beside the way, out of
every lane, poured soldiers and armed Circassians. The throng prevented
Shems-ud-dìn from seeing what happened after. But a fearful din arose;
shrieks, curses, laughter mingled with the clash of arms. He stopped
his ears. The sky above the hovels turned black in his sight, the houses
livid white, a grin beneath frowning brows.
Presently, one came running blindly, moaning as he ran—a man well
stricken in years, no other than the sheykh himself. A tall, slim girl
ran after him, barefoot and weeping, her veil displaced. Shems-ud-dìn
caught the old man’s hand and ran with him till the town was left
behind. There the frenzied wretch broke from him, and flung himself down
in a place of stones, dashing his face upon hard rocks, cursing the
day that he was born. Shems-ud-dìn and the girl raised him up between
them, and in so doing their eyes met. She bethought her of her veil;
in haste she dragged the white lawn across her face, while the little
pout of annoyance in self-consciousness became her well. It seemed to
Shems-ud-dìn that he had gazed once more in Leylah’s eyes—profound as a
night of stars when no moon rises.
Despite all attempts to calm him, the sheykh went on shrieking and
tearing his raiment. He plucked off his turban and adherent tarbûsh, and
cast them from him, exposing his naked poll to the sun of noon.
“Allah witness, I was forced to it!” he yelled madly. “The sons of Eblìs
forced me to betray my good lords. They sat as guests in my house when
the soldiers took them. Their horses are stolen, they themselves taken to
serve in the army. O Lord!... Allah knows the deceit was forced on me.
Hassan—may his father perish!—swore to slay my three sons if I refused.
We had peace till he came. Now we shall never know peace any more. For
our lords of the desert will avenge this outrage. The Circassian pigs
will not suffer, for they have no property. But we ... O Lord! Would to
God I were dead and in the tomb!”
Shems-ud-dìn replaced the skullcap and turban upon the old man’s head.
When the frenzy had somewhat abated, he advised him to seek some
neighbor’s house; and watched him shuffle off, leaning upon the arm of
the tall maid who hid Leylah’s eyes beneath her veil, and had not said
farewell. Then he himself strode frowning in search of Milhem.
His Excellency sat in the guest chamber of the sheykh’s house, flushed
with triumph, the Circassians praising God around him. He was in the
course of dictating a report of the affair to the Greek, his secretary,
when Shems-ud-dìn stood in the midst and cried shame on him. For one
minute he seemed startled. The next he turned his eyes toward the vaulted
roof, crying:
“Allah witness, it is a child—a little child!”
“Now I know why thou wast loath to have me journey with thee. And I
confess here, before all these men, that I did wrong not to be ruled by
thee then, that I did wrong in cleaving to thee. For great grief is come
upon me. My brother, once the best of men, has sinned most heinously, and
I am witness of his crime.”
“Said I not he was a saint?” said Hassan triumphantly, from somewhere in
the background.
Milhem frowned, stroking his close beard, then smiled indulgently.
“What dost thou know of statecraft? Go, O my brother! and when thou art
recovered I will speak with thee,” he said, with some compassion and much
dignity.
“I go,” said Shems-ud-dìn curtly, and stepped forth once more into the
sunlight.
That night, as he sat with Hassan in the house, the latter mocked at his
grave looks.
“Art still vexed about thy brother’s little stratagem? Let not that
trouble thee. It is war, thou understandest. The Bedû will take vengeance
for this, and we, in turn, shall avenge their vengeance, and so it will
go on—in sh’ Allah—till the last day.”
“My thought is not of war,” said Shems-ud-dìn. “Know, O Hassan, that
I love once more!” And he related his adventure with the old sheykh’s
daughter. “O her eyes! O her straight white nose! O the fullness of her
cheeks, her chin!... Now tell me, what character does she bear?”
“Thou wouldst not wed her, surely?”
“I love—that is enough. My life flows out to her. There is but one
beloved!”
“Ma sh’ Allah!” murmured Hassan, in the utmost consternation. “She is a
girl like another. There is nothing told of her. A virgin has no form, no
color, no fire, save that one gives to her. For me she is nothing; for
thee, much. As for character, she has none, which means she is a young
girl.... But reflect, O my dear! When thou returnest to Istanbûl——”
“I shall not return.”
“Ma sh’ Allah!” muttered Hassan again, and he kept silence a great
while, munching his long mustache. At length he said, “I must inform thy
brother, my lord the Bey, of this thy decision.”
“Tell him,” said Shems-ud-dìn.
On the morrow he was roused betimes by Hassan’s hand on his shoulder.
“Arise, O my soul, and come with me to my lord the Bey. I have seen him
already.”
It was a gray dawn threatening rain. In silence they repaired to the
house which Milhem had occupied since the approach of winter. The great
man sat upon his bed to receive them.
“O Shems-ud-dìn, what is this?” he cried reproachfully. “Is it true thou
wilt abide in this wilderness worse than Jehennûm? Surely thou art mad.
There, at Istanbûl, thou art in the road to great honor. By Allah, I look
to see thee Sheykh-ul-Islâm. Whereas here—what awaits thee?... And canst
thou contemplate a lasting union with the daughter of a base fellâh—thou
who couldst make a grand alliance to enhance thy honor and mine? I
beseech thee, think not of it! If thou doest this through disgust of what
befell here yesterday, know that those men are rebels against the Sultàn.
They owe more than the worth of their horses to the government. And how
light their punishment! They are but asked to serve three years in the
army, like every faithful subject of his Majesty. By Allah, there is no
wrong done to them!... Say, was that the reason of thy mad resolve?...
The term of my appointment draws nigh, and it makes me sad to think of
leaving thee here in this lair of wild beasts.”
“I am content to be here,” said Shems-ud-dìn firmly. “Once have I sinned
in forsaking the path God showed me. I will not sin that sin a second
time.”
“But Allah pity! What can a man of thy wealth and attainments do in a
place like this? It is not a place one could beautify for a wonder and a
byword. I myself have had that dream: to change a desert to a paradise.
But what can a man like thee do here?”
“He can live in peace; he can teach the people; he can ply his trade in
the bazaar. As for my wealth, I have no need for all of it. When thou
regainest Istanbûl, sell all I possess, and take the half of the proceeds
to thyself, sending me the other half. I shall give thee letters to my
steward and also to the heads of the learned. Thy need is greater than
mine.”
“Allah, look! It is a child—a foolish child!” cried Milhem loudly; but
he was somewhat moved from opposition to his brother’s scheme. “Thou
talkest of peace. Remember yesterday. That is nothing—a trifle—a mere
beginning.... Peace forsooth! Nay, my soul fears grave danger for thee.”
“Fear not, O my lord!” said Hassan, who had all this while stood silent
by. “On my head be the danger. This, my good lord, thy brother, is not
one who can guard himself. He is not like thee, a devil! Thou hast said
it: he is a child—a little child, whose hand is in the hand of Allah.
The friendship of such an one is counted to a man for righteousness. By
Allah, I am glad he stays with us. His presence calls a blessing on us
all. But would to Allah he had chosen the daughter of my uncle. It would
not have been half so serious. As it is, we must swear peace with those
fellahìn forever and ever.”
“Said I not well when I named thee tamer of wild beasts?” said Milhem
laughing. “But I would thou hadst chosen some pleasanter way in which to
display thy power. I ask but one thing of thee, thou dear madman. Let me
depart ere thy wedding. I would not defer thy bliss, but fix it for the
day of my departure; so thou shalt not mourn my loss too deeply. I shall
start at the dawn, leaving my peace with thee. By Allah, it is a disgrace
to our house. Nevertheless, do as thou wilt. It is thy business.”
The day whereon Milhem’s government expired, Shems-ud-dìn rose two hours
before daylight, mounted the horse which Hassan had saddled for him, and
rode slowly to his brother’s residence. The town was astir. Lights moved
here and there as yellow eyes in the darkness, illuming spaces of rough
wall and filthy pathway. He had to shout his way through the crowd which
choked the approaches to the house of the Bey.
The cavalcade stood ready to start, bits jangled, stallions neighed. The
soldiers standing at their horses’ heads, in hooded ulsters and high,
long-tasseled fezzes, cut a queer figure as seen in silhouette against
the shine of sundry lanterns borne by members of the crowd.
At the noise of his brother’s arrival, Milhem came out, when the crowd
gave forth a strange, deep note, like a night bird’s cry, repeated at
regular intervals; and with the note each man beat his staff with might
upon the ground. The staves fell as one. The effect was both weird and
mournful, by the light of a few scattered lanterns, in that cold hour and
in the darkness under the stars.
Milhem was warmly wrapped. He embraced his brother silently, and then in
a husky voice gave the word to advance.
The same wild sounds of respect and woe accompanied them to the hill
without the town, to ring in their ears long after.
Shems-ud-dìn rode beside his brother through dark chasms of the hills
till the white of dawn appeared above the rock ridge toothed like a saw.
Then he reined in his horse.
“In thy grace I depart,” he murmured.
“With my peace thou goest!” said Milhem, and he gulped as if to swallow
something which impeded speech. “Allah knows I sin in suffering thee to
remain here alone. My heart reproves mere sorely. Kindest of the kind
hast thou been to me always. Often have I been ungrateful; very often
have I sinned against thee. I ask thy forgiveness humbly now. Allah knows
my soul hurts me!... O beloved!... Give me now a blessing ere we part.”
Milhem sprang down off his horse, and would have knelt to Shems-ud-dìn
had not the latter, dismounting also, prevented him, saying:
“Thus only do I bless thee, O my dear!” He kissed Milhem warmly on both
cheeks.
For a moment they clung together, white dawn on their faces. Then
Shems-ud-dìn whispered:
“God bless thee, O my brother, now, and in the hour of death, and in the
last day.”
He climbed back into the saddle and rode lonely away, followed by shouts
of good will from all the escort. He felt nothing, saw nothing, thought
of nothing, for a long while.
Just as he reached that turn of the wady whence the town is first seen,
the sun glanced out behind him. Himself in deep shadow, he beheld all
the opposite slope, dwarf town, giant ruins, a few poor fruit trees,
bathed of a sudden in a rich glow, like nothing earthly, beneath a sky
grape blue and full of stars. He drew rein, gaping at the vision. There
were the peasants going to their tillage among the rocks; there were
the veiled ones tripping down to the spring, each with arms upcurved to
sustain the pitcher upon her head. In that ruddy glow they flitted as
thin shades. He could realize nothing, remember nothing. The place seemed
foreign to him.
But presently a horseman galloped forth from the town, and rode straight
toward him, clattering upon the rocks. Shems-ud-dìn heard his shout. It
was the voice of Hassan, crying:
“Hail to the bridegroom!”
Then Shems-ud-dìn blushed hot for joy. Even now the bride prepared
herself. It was his wedding morn.
CHAPTER I
Many years had passed since that day-spring. Shems-ud-dìn sat in his shop
in the small bazaar, a great sorrow at his heart. His wife had died long
ago; his son, lured by promises from the exalted Milhem, had gone forth
to try his fortune in the government service; and now it had pleased God
to smite the last remaining of his dear ones.
Alia, little Alia, whom he cherished as his own eyes, lay sick of a
wasting illness none could name. Every homely charm and nostrum had been
applied in vain. A famous leech from distant Damashc-esh-Shâm had bled
her copiously, and stayed ten days in the house, expecting some good
result. At last, seeing her life still waned, he had taken Shems-ud-dìn
aside and spoken gravely.
“O Sheykh, this is from the hand of Allah. All my science is as air
against it. The stalk is cut, the ear will fall. It is decreed. Grieve
not overmuch, I entreat thee. Rather thank Allah that it is not thy son,
but only a girl from whom no honor comes.”
Shems-ud-dìn duly thanked Allah, but cast about in his mind for some
remedy yet to try. He was come to his shop at this idle hour of noon on
purpose to think undisturbed. But the halls of his understanding were
darkened and unfamiliar; even the lamp of faith burned dimly, a great way
off. Though he prayed, “In mercy heal her! O Allah, spare the sunshine of
my age!” he knew the worthlessness of such prayer. His will was not lost
in the Divine Will, but beat against it to its own hurt, a moth at the
flame.
The voice of the torrent in the wady, swollen from days of rain, droned
in his ears. The noontide murmur of the town—men’s talk, the cooing of
doves, a clink from the forge—was subdued by it. It filled all the pauses
of thought with a dull refrain which seemed that of his own woe, the
ever-recurring numbness of sheer grief that prevented his thinking to any
purpose. It deadened a noise of bells approaching, until it was quite
near, in the bazaar itself.
The clangor filled the air suddenly, starting many echoes. But
Shems-ud-dìn did not turn his head. He continued sitting with his back
to the world, spreading out his hands over the brazier, which he had
lighted for an illusion of comfort. He heard the ponderous, padded tread
of camels; he smelt their hides; and one by one, in passing, the huge
beasts took the daylight from him. The jangle of the bells was deafening.
All at once it ceased. The train had halted. But Shems-ud-dìn did not
turn his head.
“O Allah, weld my will to Thine! O Lord, spare my daughter!” he kept
moaning.
“For how much dost thou sell this, O effendi?” said a husky voice behind
him.
Turning then, in some dismay, Shems-ud-dìn beheld a man unkempt and
meanly clad, grinning sheepishly as he held up a tiny bottle of attar of
roses. It was evidently one of the camel drivers, for he held the end
of a rope wound round his wrist; and the small, superb face of a camel
looked over his head into the shop, sneering at what it saw there.
“For how much?” came again in the husky voice. “I give thee six piasters.”
“Be it thine at that price. Take it, my son, and go in peace.”
The grin departed from the camel driver’s face. His mouth fell open, and
his eyes grew round with alarm. He set down the bottle hastily, and began
muttering to himself.
“What ails thee? Why dost thou murmur in thy soul?” asked Shems-ud-dìn.
“Ma sh’ Allah! Thou askest why? Is there not cause enough, O my master?
Is this precious attar—the soul of a thousand roses? By Allah, no, I
think not. For six piasters! And if I bought it and carried it to her I
love, and a jinni came out and deflowered her I love, and slew me and
took my love away under the sea or among the roots of the mountains....
Aha, precious attar indeed! and cheap at six piasters!... But Ibrahìm
is a wary man, one accustomed to look behind him. When he saw thy back
toward him, when thou gavest him no greeting, he said in his soul, ‘O
soul, be warned! Either this merchant will play the listless to drive the
harder bargain, or else here is something strange, out of the natural——’”
“Be silent, foolish one!” interrupted Shems-ud-dìn. “My daughter, in whom
I delight, lies near to death, and my mind is distraught with grief.
Though I heard thee and saw, it conveyed nothing to my mind. In truth,
the perfume is worth more than six piasters. Take it as a gift from me
and go.”
At that the simpleton kissed the ground before Shems-ud-dìn.
“O father of mercy!” he blubbered. “Long have I desired to make such a
present to her I love. Allah comfort thee, O my dear lord! Despair not
for thy girl. There be workers of miracles in the land nowadays. Hear
what befell myself awhile since. As I journeyed to the Holy City in the
train of certain Franks, having charge of their baggage, death seized me
round my belly and flung me from my mule whereon I sat, and laid me upon
the stones of the path, and there knelt on me with such weight that I
shrieked aloud for the pain in my midst. It had been the end of me, had
not one of the infidels, who was a physician, jumped down off his horse,
and producing something from his clothes, forced me to swallow a part of
it. Its taste was bitter as gall, so that I screamed the more and cursed
the poisoner. But after a little, death fled and my health returned to
me, and I went forward singing upon my way. Great is the science of the
Franks. Our physicians are as fools to them. They have a fine hospital in
El Cûds. Take thy daughter thither....”
“Ya I-bra-hìm!” came a cry out of the distance. “Where art thou? Make
haste! We tire of waiting.”
“The companions call me. In thy grace, I go. Forget not my counsel. What
is the journey to El Cûds for one like thee? Three days, or four at the
most; and the girl can ride comfortably in a palanquin between two mules.
There, with Allah’s leave, she will be healed.... I come! I come!”
Tucking the bottle into his waistband, he turned and would have run, had
not the camel, refusing to be hurried, pulled him up with a jerk. The
rope between them was taut as a lute string as they passed from sight.
The jangle of bells had sunk once more beneath the roar of the torrent
ere Shems-ud-dìn perceived that his prayer was answered. Then great awe
fell upon him, and he said in his heart, “I have sinned.” It shamed him
to know that Allah had heard his wayward moaning. He, an old man whose
beard was white, had prayed blindly, senselessly, as a child prays, to be
shown a little hope, some remedy yet untried. Now that his request was
granted, he felt as that camel driver had felt on finding the attar his
at the price first offered.
While he sat thus between great hope and fear, a face looked in upon him
out of the sunlight, and a youthful voice exclaimed:
“May thy day be happy, O my master. How fares the beloved?”
It was Shibli, his favorite pupil and the bridegroom designate of Alia.
“Enter, O my son, and welcome,” said Shems-ud-dìn; and he straight
described to his disciple all the happenings since sunrise, from the
departure of the city physician to the advice so strangely proffered by
a simple camel driver. At the end, Shibli cried:
“It is the best advice. Let us go to El Cûds. Apart from the virtue of a
pilgrimage to the Dome of the Rock, I thirst to behold so famous a city.
My father will grant me leave to travel with thee. O happy day!”
Shems-ud-dìn smiled upon the boy’s excitement. To rebuke it, he said:
“Allah knows it is not for pastime that I go.”
But Shibli’s delight in the prospect made it bright for him also.
Presently, giving his disciple charge of the shop, Shems-ud-dìn issued
forth into the sunlight and started to climb a steep and stony path,
like the bed of a torrent, which led to his dwelling. Women, gossiping
at their doors, blessed him by name as he passed, and inquired tenderly
concerning the health of his dear one. The sun, sinking down upon the
hilltop, dazzled his eyes. Hope, renewed, opened the gates of his mind,
even as his despondency had shut them fast, to things around him. He
noticed the lizard basking in the sunshine, the tuft of hyssop growing
between the stones.
His house stood highest of all in the little city, close upon the hill of
ruins. He had himself planned and superintended its building long ago,
so that there was none like it for size and nobility of aspect.
Before the wide open arch which was the entrance hall, upon a terrace of
rolled mud—which seemed a parade ground, but was in fact but the roof of
the house below—an old negro was standing in a posture of some dejection,
gazing wistfully at the heights beyond the wady. He started at his
master’s approach, and answered the question about Alia with a despairing
grin.
Shems-ud-dìn passed into the house. Very softly he opened a door. The
room within was darkened. What light stole in through chinks in the
shutters revealed but vague outlines.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“As always. She has not slept.” Some one arose in the gloom and came to
him.
“Who is it?” wailed a fretful voice from the floor. “O Fatmeh, who is it?
Bid him depart.”
Shems-ud-dìn went and knelt beside the sufferer.
“See, O beloved! I have brought thee a thing thou lovest well—some of thy
chosen perfume!”
“I love it not. I hate it! I hate everything! O Allah, kill me
quickly!... I would sleep. O Fatmeh, take my father away that I may
sleep.”
Fatmeh followed the sheykh to the door, and clutched his robe.
“Hear me, O my lord!” she whispered. “She is not better; she cannot
sleep. What can one do? I will tell thee. Be not wroth with thy servant.
There is a tree not far from here—a good tree and efficacious, for all
thy frowns—one that has healed thousands. Let me tear off a strip from
her finest garment and go myself and hang it on the tree. So, in sh’
Allah, she will be healed and no one know the manner of her healing. Cast
me not off. Hear only, I entreat thee. Let us make but trial of the tree.
How can it be a bad tree? Did not Allah make it with the others?”
“Be silent!” said Shems-ud-dìn sternly. “Allah forbid that one of my
house should commit so great an impiety!” With which he passed out from
her and shut the door.
By that time the evening shadow covered town and hillside; only the
summit of the minaret shone like the henna-dyed tip of a finger pointed
heavenward. But the cliffs across the wady still basked in broad
sunlight. The figure of the old negro, lounging in the archway, stood out
darkly on that distant glow.
Shems-ud-dìn sat down in the entrance and remained in profound
meditation, his every thought a prayer; while the flower of sunset
bloomed and faded upon the cliffs beyond the wady, and blue night
stole upon the landscape. Then, out in the gloaming, a cry arose—a
long-sustained yell, breaking anon into a wild unearthly chant. It came
from the minaret, which the piety of Shems-ud-dìn himself had added to
the little mosque. Its burden of memories brought tears to the old man’s
eyes.
He arose and went out on to the roof of his house. A star sparkled on the
fading green of sunset. A cool breath from the hills fanned his cheeks.
Falling on his face toward the kibleh, he prayed Allah to abate something
of his too great love for Alia, which had broken the calm of resignation
becoming his age, which hung as a cloud between him and the Creator.
When he regained the porch, old Mâs was hanging up a lantern to a hook on
the wall.
“O Mâs, go to the house of the excellent Hassan Agha; if he be within,
beg him to honor me with his presence here.”
“No need,” grinned the black. “Even now I hear his honor’s voice without.”
In confirmation, there came a shout, “Peace on this house!” and the
Guardian of the Frontier appeared in the entrance arch. Behind him a
crowd of heads, but dimly seen, were bowed reverently. Hassan’s men—a
fierce-eyed, swaggering crew—followed him about always like tame dogs.
With a shrug and his grin, Mâs went off to pound coffee for the invaders.
“What is this I hear of thee, O my eyes? Thou goest to El Cûds under
advice of an angel from Allah? Shibli told me the strange story as I rode
through the bazaar at sunset,” said Hassan, after salutations. “Hopest
thou still for the girl? By my gun, it grieves me to see thee seek the
cause of misfortune, going groping like a blind man, when the cause is
plain to all besides thee. Thou hast let the girl grow between thee and
the Praiseworthy; wherefore the Almighty slays her, as one breaks the
small branch of a tree, that He may see thee. What do I with my mare if
one praises her too warmly, so that my pride in her leaps up to flout the
Most High? I say piously: she is thine. I give her in haste to him who
extols her. I put the occasion of sin from me. And so I would do with my
daughter did I sin through her.”
“The right is with thee, O Hassan,” said Shems-ud-dìn, in great distress.
“But—O my pearl of pearls! O my Alia! O young moon rising on my night
of years! Darkness were my portion without thee! My woman is dead, and
I have not the heart to enjoy another. My son is far away, and his love
grows cold. I have received no answer from him these many months. But my
Alia—she is here, my soul itself. Allah forgive me, I must try to keep
her.”
“I say naught against that, O my eyes, but only against the extravagance
of thy love for her. Obey the angel certainly. The Franks have skill in
medicine—more especially that tribe of them which is called the English.
One Englishman, who was in Kars during the siege, healed my father’s
brother, and a thousand others who were counted dead of the Yellow Wind.
The power to cure is their inheritance from Isa the Prophet, the mighty
healer. Proceed to El Cûds. Thou art like to behold thy son there, by
what I heard to-day from the mouth of a camel driver from that city who
had much to tell of one Abd-ur-Rahman Bey, an officer in the garrison,
and nephew to the glorious Milhem Pasha. It can mean no other than our
friend, thy son. He came thither from Istanbûl three months ago.”
“Three months!” ejaculated Shems-ud-dìn, with downcast eyes.
“Yes, certainly thou must journey to El Cûds, if only that the sight of
him may refresh thy soul. But tell me, O my dear, what is the right of
this story of an angel? Shibli said only that an angel had appeared to
thee, and bidden thee take him (Shibli) to El Cûds, for the sake of Alia,
somehow.”
“Not so,” said Shems-ud-dìn. “The truth is quite otherwise. Indeed, it is
more likely that he who appeared to me was a devil.” Therewith he told
the plain story, the Circassians listening with open mouths.
“Ma sh’ Allah! A jinni, very surely,” said Hassan, at the end. “I
myself observed something peculiar in his aspect. Not often is so long
a train of camels sent forth without money in the hands of the drivers.
Yet—believe it, who can!—on three men, having charge of more than fifty
camels, we found but half a bishlik, two poor knives, one brass button,
and a bottle—a very small bottle—of attar of roses. No doubt, but the man
was an afrìt, who spoke with thee. Devils love to attack a saint, just
as I would rather kill a big, strong Bedawi than a little weak one, when
it comes to avenging their slaughter of my two sons. Yet fear not, O my
soul! A man of thy works can laugh at all the jân. I myself will journey
with thee, and, while the Frank physician heals thy daughter, I, with
Allah’s help, will procure new rifles for my comrades, a great supply
being lately come to the garrison there.”
Hassan paused to think awhile, stroking his heavy white mustache.
“Yes; a devil, very certainly; perhaps even Eblìs in person—Allah knows!
The thing is proved. You have heard, all of you here, how a devil cannot
profit by the gift of a holy one; how the gift will presently return from
him? Well, behold this small bottle of attar of roses!”
He held up the phial so that all could see. A shudder of applause ran
round the circle.