“Thy son—since the first day he has not visited thee. Allah guard me from
begetting one like him.”
The reproach of Zeyd, scarce heeded at the moment, linked Shems-ud-dìn’s
reveries on the morrow of its utterance, recurring often like a sad
refrain. It prevented his submersion in that stupor of prayerful musing
which was his comfort. Yet not until noon was past, and the shadow of the
gracious dome drew out to eastward, did it hold the foreground of his
thought.
The aged Mahmûd Ali had come to sit with him awhile, and was reciting
words of comfort in the high mosque voice, when Shems-ud-dìn asked
himself, Was Abd-ur-Rahman all to blame? Had not the father likewise
a duty toward the son? To be sure that his mind did not err, he said
presently to the aged sheykh, his comforter:
“O my brother, hear a case and pronounce on it. A certain man had
offspring a son and daughter, those two only, both dear to him. Yet did
the balance of his love incline toward the daughter. One day he appeared
to slight the boy, making much of the girl. And the boy was angry and
drew away from him. Was the right with the son or the father? Upon which
of them two rests the obligation?”
Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, on his heels out in the sunlight, emitted an
“Ah!” of breathless interest. The aged Mahmûd Ali stroked his beard,
reflecting. At length he replied:
“There is right with both of them, and against both. But the higher right
is with the son. For did not his father reverse the ordinance of God by
setting the woman above the man? Less is expected from a woman, it is for
that she should receive less. I perceive that the case is thine. Is the
son with thee in this city?”
“Let the case be a case like another,” said Shems-ud-dìn, unwilling to
betray his son’s name.
Zeyd moaned. “It is too much for me. My blessedness is become a pain
in my side. Surely never till now was man, poor and ignorant like me,
privileged to hear such wisdom.”
The verdict of the Chief of the Learned removed all hesitation from the
mind of Shems-ud-dìn. Accordingly, about the fourth hour after noon,
some time before he was wont to repair to the side of Alia, he entered
the streets of the city, and bade Zeyd discover the whereabouts of the
Bey’s lodging. In this they experienced no difficulty, everyone consulted
making haste to direct them with reverence for the callers on so great a
man. Zeyd, finding his beggarly appearance overlooked, grew less rigid
in dislike of a youth whose name had so genial an influence. Still it
was with relief, on arrival at their destination, that he heard the
doorkeeper inform his master that the Bey was out, and unlikely to return
ere night.
The tidings cast down Shems-ud-dìn. Made aimless by disappointment,
he wandered in the streets. Zeyd followed unobtrusively, his shadow
always. The disciple was racking his brain for an array of words fine
and imposing enough to comfort one so accomplished, when, in passing the
entrance of a tavern, Shems-ud-dìn happened to glance therein.
“Praise to Allah!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Behold him there. He is
found.” And he turned in beneath the low arch, Zeyd at his heels.
The vault within struck dark and very cool. It was empty save for the
proprietor (a portly Nazarene) and a group of three Turkish officers set
on stools round a small table. Of these, two seemed sons of an Arab; but
the fez of the third and eldest sealed the face of a Frank. The eyes of
this last were blue, his cheeks ruddy, his mustache had the color of
ripe wheat.
At Shems-ud-dìn’s glad cry the three turned startled faces. Only one rose
up in response to his salutation, and that was Abd-ur-Rahman. The other
two kept their seats, staring aghast at the intrusion. And Abd-ur-Rahman
did not rush to embrace his father, but hung back, the picture of
irresolution.
Blind to this reluctance, Shems-ud-dìn took a stool beside his son, while
Zeyd crossed his legs upon the ground hard by.
“I come to reproach thee a little, O my dear! Why hast thou failed my
soul these many days when I need thy love for a staff? Thou hast shown no
concern for Alia, who often cries for thee. It is not kind, O beloved!”
“O my eyes, I have so much business. Ask of these, my companions, and
they will certify thee.”
“Ah, by Allah, business enough to kill ten yoke of oxen, yet we survive
somehow,” affirmed he of the red face mockingly. “Drink something, old
man. With me the money.”
“May thy wealth increase; I am not thirsty,” said Shems-ud-dìn stiffly,
disliking the man’s tone. “What is that thou drinkest, O my son? It
must be precious as attar of roses to be served in so small a glass.
Doubtless it is some sherbet new to me. The caterers invent fresh kinds
from year to year.”
Abd-ur-Rahman muttered unintelligibly. He had done all man could to
conceal his glass.
“That is it, by Allah,” laughed the two others. “A new sherbet. Taste and
judge of its composition, O my uncle.”
“I thank you, no.” Shems-ud-dìn drew back from the glass thrust on him.
He began to resent the manner of these youths. Why did not Abd-ur-Rahman
restrain their insolence? He looked to his son in indignant appeal, but
the lad’s face was turned away, his attitude helpless.
“Then shall the valiant emìr, thy companion, taste thereof. Come, O
Commander of the Faithful. Ennoble this little glass.”
Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, took the glass held out to him, sniffed at the
liquor, and then poured it out upon the ground.
“It is accursed, a sin for any man. Let the dirt drink it,” he said
coolly.
At that the jokers laughed immoderately.
“Thou dog!” cried he of the straw mustache, whose drink it was that was
spilt. “Thou hast wasted a day’s wage of one like thee. Thank Allah that
I beat thee not until thou clog thy belly with the dirt it soaks.”
But Abd-ur-Rahman joined not in their laughter. He kept his face averted
from his father, and his whole pose announced such perfect wretchedness
that Shems-ud-dìn, feeling concern for him, touched his arm, asking:
“What hurts thee, O my son?”
“Nothing. There is nothing,” came the answer like a moan.
“It is this new sherbet,” roared the other two. “It cools, and he has
drunk too much of it. It has iced his belly. Fear not, O my uncle. He has
a girl—ah, a beauty! who will expel the evil for him.”
At that, perceiving they made game of him, the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn arose
with dignity.
“Allah shall teach you with punishment. Your own fathers are dishonored
in that you respect not my beard and turban,” he said; and without
further words strode forth into the street, followed with alacrity by
Zeyd, the son of Abbâs.
The tavern keeper, seeing customers driven forth before they had ordered
anything, ran after and entreated them to remain and honor him. In low
tones he apologized for the rudeness of the young officers.
“They have no manners, they respect nothing. The others are bad enough,
but that Nemsâwi is the lord of mischief. Before now he has broken my
chattels without so much as a blessing. He pays for nothing. Keep it not
against me, O my lords, but return and taste of something. Ennoble my
poor place.”
Shems-ud-dìn walked on, leaving him to groan and wring his hands upon the
threshold.
The jeers of the young men accompanied the departure. But Abd-ur-Rahman
neither spoke nor moved. The last Zeyd saw of him, his face was buried in
his hands.