MÁMA LUTEEFA PROPHESIES.
In the lonely fortress its late visitors were sorely missed by all
those with whom they had resided for nearly two months, and by none
more impatiently than by Osman Beg, its governor. By nature cruel,
self-indulgent, and profligate, he was a man of all others most
unlikely to endure a lonely life with ordinary firmness, or accommodate
himself to banishment, or at least seclusion, of which he could see no
means of enlivenment or termination. He had no companions, for he had
no sympathy with the Hindoo zemindars who were his neighbours, for the
most part rude and uncultivated men, who despised his affectation of
superiority, and did not disguise their opinion of his uncourteous,
and often insulting, language. They seldom visited him, indeed, except
to pay the usual rents of the dependencies of the fort, which they
held from the State. The Moolla of the mosque and his own physician
were intense bigots, whose conversation was limited to the subject of
the Koran and its various commentaries, of which they were diligent
students; and from the Moolla the Nawab had to endure many rebukes
as to laxity in observances of the faith, or license of speech
and conduct, and the meetings of the men often resulted in bitter
altercations, which only made matters worse.
The Moolla had no respect for a Governor who had neither wife nor
family. His predecessor was a respectable elderly soldier, a plain man,
who cordially mixed with all classes, and was much beloved. He had a
lady wife, who bore children, and the palace was often the scene of
small domestic festivals, of general religious observances, in which
the Moolla acted as chief manager, and received ample rewards for his
services. His wife, too, was always welcome after her long trudge up
the hill, and was hospitably entertained, contributing, on her part,
all the gossip of the country round.
It was very different now. The Nawab had no wife, and no hareem of
any kind. There were no entertainments, for the dancing women of the
country were afraid of the Nawab's grim solitude, and declined even to
cross the river while the water was high, with the chance of being cut
off by a flood at any time and confined for an indefinite period.
The "Nawab," too, had other troubles which were even harder to bear.
Soon after his cousin left, he had ridden over to Moodgul, and in
company with some of his old associates, who belonged to the force
stationed there, had indulged in excesses with a zest augmented by long
abstinence, so that he became more notorious than was good for his
reputation. The consequence of this being that his brother Nawab, the
old friend of the Christian friar and his sister, a moral and devout
man, treated him coldly, restricting his hospitalities to such ordinary
observances as could not be dispensed with, considering the relative
position of both.
Not in any way abashed by this, Osman Beg determined, if possible,
to gain the beautiful daughter of the Moodgul commander and governor
in marriage, and to this end he employed one of the professional
female agents, who are well known among Mussulman communities, to make
advances for him.
Máma Luteefa was a mistress of her art. She carried gold and silver
ornaments, entrusted to her by the goldsmiths, from house to house;
rich cloths also--portions of Portuguese velvets and silks; and while
selling these had ample opportunity of carrying on her vocation. In
the course of a few days she had contrived to make a proposal for her
employer in a manner suited to his rank and her own importance. But
it was rejected peremptorily; and when the old dame returned a few
days afterwards with some valuable offerings, she found herself warned
never to enter the precincts of the hareem again on a similar errand.
Osman Beg also received an intimation that his presence in Moodgul was
not desirable, and he had better withdraw. He therefore returned to
his solitary life, but he took Máma Luteefa with him, in case, as she
observed, there might be anyone in the fort, or near it, who could be
considered a fitting person for the distinction which would be the lot
of Osman Beg's wife.
We may consider, then, that the Nawab's cup of vexation was full, as
far as his present position in the fort was concerned; and without it
was equally gloomy. The issue on which he had set his heart was the
victory of Eyn-ool-Moolk and the young Prince. He had already offered
his sword and the fortress, which, as a frontier position, was very
valuable. He should at once rise to rank and favour, and whether a new
Court was established at Belgaum, or the present Court at Beejapoor
became head of the Beejapoor kingdom, he should in either case fill a
prominent position.
Nothing had, however, happened, except to increase his vexation and
cut away the last chances of extrication. The Prince Ismail, we know,
rejected by the Portuguese, had been apprehended and put to death.
Eyn-ool-Moolk had been slain and beheaded, to which his grim head,
stuck on a high pole opposite the gate of the citadel at Beejapoor,
bore ghastly witness, and that fondly cherished hope was gone; whereas
his numerous letters, which, in their offers of aid and counsel for
the extension of the rebellion, contained the most conclusive evidence
of his treachery, might have been preserved among the papers of
Eyn-ool-Moolk, and would furnish incontestable proofs to his enemies,
and lead directly to his condemnation. Once only he had received a few
lines from his cousin to say that he had fallen ill on his way and was
detained, but when anything affecting him could be heard of, he would
write again; but nothing more had arrived. Yet, could he be recalled at
any sacrifice, how easy would it be, if he escaped death, to carve out
a path of his own, if not at Beejapoor, at Golcondah, at Ahmednugger,
or with the Moghuls, who were steadily encroaching upon the kingdoms of
the Dekhan. No, Osman Beg was not happy; he was, on the contrary, more
discontented than ever, and his very body servants lived in terror of
his outbreaks of ill-temper and violence.
The venerable Syud Dervish had also grieved at the departure of
his guests. Francis d'Almeida's knowledge of Persian brought him
into intimate acquaintance with the old man, whose remembrance of
Spanish, which he had learned from his wife, assisted their means of
communication very sensibly. The Dervish missed the pleasant arguments
and discussions on religion and other subjects, the descriptions of
European life, the histories of the countries he had once visited
with so much enjoyment. He had grown interested in the good Padré's
translations, and, a man of the world himself, could rise out of the
humble place he occupied to the enjoyment of better things. He had now
nothing to fall back upon, no cheery word from the Padré or gentle
compassion from his sister. There was no one to sing to him either in
early morning or the evening worship; and though both were sinful
according to the strict rules of the Mussulman faith, yet they were
fascinating all the same. The old man's days passed listlessly now,
in prayer or meditation, and in prescribing for the sick brought to
him; but, for the most part, in a state of vacancy from which it was
difficult to arouse him.
But to Zóra the parting with Maria was more than a regret, it had
become a grief for which there was no relief or consolation. It was
Maria who had quickened the girl's dormant spirit, which before lay
dead under an outer covering of ignorance and neglect, and might never
have been moved but for the Señora's gentle teachings.
The natural intelligence of the child would have died out under the
ordinary life of a Mussulman woman of the lower orders, a station which
she at best could hope to fill. The intercourse with Maria, short as it
had been, had opened to Zóra an apparently unbounded vista of the world
without, and of knowledge which she burned to attain. Now that hope
seemed dead within her; she could only revert to her former condition
of life, to the care of her grandfather, to her Persian books, and the
habitual services to the sick, in which she had made no alteration,
and in which now lay her principal interest. Day after day the little
memorials of her sisterly friend's visit were taken out, looked at,
kissed, and put back again. Day after day she sang the little hymns
and songs she had learned. She talked to her sick folk of the kind
Christian lady, of her gentle, soothing presence, and her wise words;
and here she found sympathy, such as gave her comfort.
But when could she hope to see Maria again? Perhaps when she returned
to Moodgul; but the wicked Padré was yet there. Perhaps--ah! who shall
tell the seeming possibilities presented by hope to a young, ardent
mind, which yearns for fulfilment? Sometimes, once or twice only, she
had persuaded her friend Ahmed to take her to their old seat on the
gun bastion, whence she could follow every event of the day on which
she had taken Maria there--the sudden flood, the dead panther, and the
presence of one who to her was a new and trembling joy. "Forget him!"
"do not think of him!" had been her friend's injunctions; but she
only shook her head and sighed, and the unceasing moan of the river
plashing at her feet seemed but an echo to her sad thoughts, which,
as yet, in her young heart, had no definite meaning. Memories only
of that terrible night, and of his manly, gracious bearing and kind
looks, which had no expression in words--these would not depart, and
yet she knew them to be fruitless. Had she possessed a mother, or even
a friend, she could have spoken freely of those absent; but she was
alone, quite alone, and the future to her was very dark.
Máma Luteefa had been at Juldroog some days. The Nawab had had one of
the rooms in the zenana of the palace prepared to receive her, and made
her as comfortable as he could; but the old dame was in no good humour,
indeed, was in the last degree of indignation and vexation. Máma
Luteefa was about fifty years of age, with delicate features; her hair
was grey, and became her neatly braided as it was; and she wore a green
satin petticoat, a scarf of the finest muslin being fastened into her
waist and cast over her head. Her small feet were bare, and round her
ankles were a pair of costly gold anklets, with some heavy rings on her
toes. On her left arm she wore an armlet of solid gold, a late present
from her employer the Nawab, and a plain necklace of sequins about her
neck. Thus attired, Máma Luteefa presented a good specimen of a high
class confidential female servant in a Mussulman family, and was quite
aware of this herself.
"To take me away from my own house, and all I had to do," she said,
"to deprive me of all my society and the sweet confidences of damsels
eager to know all about the husbands I propose to them--what sort of
noses they have, and lips, and eyes; whether they are merry or sad,
stout or lean, rich or poor. And of course, Shireen-bee," she continued
to a somewhat elderly dame who was her servant and companion, "I only
tell them that the men are all they ask me, though they may be lame
or blind, ugly or old, or poor as Fakeers. What is all that to me? If
they marry, they only fulfil their destiny; and water may be married
to fire, or air to air, according to the law of temperaments, for all
that I care. It is the astrologer's business to do that, not mine; and
if he blunders, what care I, so long as my fee is paid! But, ah! 'tis a
pleasant life."
"But you are so wise, mother," said the woman, "and so honoured,
and everyone is so glad when you come to see them, and give you the
best pán and sugar candy, and I have to carry home sweetmeats by the
basket-load. And was I not proud to see you in your palanquin, smoking
a whiff now and then from your bright silver hookah, and eating your
pán; and to see all the people in the bazaars making humble salaams to
you as you passed by, and to hear the cries, 'God speed you, mother, to
a happy marriage; we wish you luck in your business. Ah! Máma Luteefa
is one of the old true sort, may her prosperity increase.' Did I not
feel proud then as I walked by the side of your palkee and handed the
choicest leaves of pán to you, neatly rolled up and fastened with a
clove. Ah! that was honour and reputation to me; and how anxiously I
looked to the issue of every case you took up."
"And did I ever fail, Shireen-bee?" she asked, with an air of
confidence. "Never, by the saints, never! When this unsainted
Nawab told me to propose him to the mother of that fairy-faced
Nujm-ool-Nissa, I told him he wouldn't be accepted; and when he
employed a low wretch, the very mention of whose name ensured his
refusal, he got his answer--a rough one if I know right. It is only a
respectable woman like me, I tell you, who can manage these delicate
affairs in great families;" and the old dame took a pinch of snuff with
an expressive snort.
"And what induced you to come to this rude place, Mother Luteefa?"
asked Shireen-bee. "Don't you remember all I told you about it, that it
was only a place for State prisoners who have to be beheaded? Whom dost
thou expect to get for _him_ here, unless it be a ghost or a ghoul?"
"Yes," replied her mistress, with a deep sigh, "it is truly an
unsainted place altogether; bare rocks, a roaring river which fills
one's head, makes one dizzy, and even cotton cannot keep it out. One
cannot stir out for fear of falling into the holes between the rocks
and being eaten by panthers or bears. Yes, if it had not been for the
bag of five hundred rupees he brought me, and this gold ring for my
arm, I had never come--never come," cried the dame, whimpering; "and
now I am here, what can I do? Hast thou heard of anybody?"
"I swear by your neck, mother, I have seen no one, and I have looked
all over the village. The Moolla has a daughter, who is seven years old
and squints; she would not do; and besides, she is betrothed. There are
two weavers who have daughters; one is sixteen, but she is deformed
and is seamed by small-pox; the other two are mere children. There is
a Brahmin's daughter who could be brought up here, and the belief and
Fateha said over her, but I suppose the Nawab Sahib would be afraid to
do that."
"May the kind Alla help me!" cried Dame Luteefa, wringing her hands,
"is that all? O Shireen-bee, any one with a petticoat, so that we
escape! Even if he got vexed and turned us out of the fort I should be
thankful, and I vow Fatehas to Sofy Surmust and all the saints if they
will grant us a safe deliverance. But is there no one--no one across
the river--no one anywhere? Do not say there is no one."
"Not a soul, mother," said Shireen, letting her hands drop on her lap.
"They are all Hindoos and Beydurs; there is not a true believer within
miles. Yet, stay; there is the old Syud's daughter, she might answer.
Some say she is as beautiful as a fairy; others that she is a tall,
lanky girl, with big eyes, kind to the poor, and learned, and all love
her."
"She a Syud, and he a Mogul--a bad conjunction; and her name is----?"
"Zóra."
"Zoé and Alif, water and fire. The one puts out the other. They won't
mix. No, that won't do, Shireen-bee."
"You are thinking of a real marriage, when both houses are good and
wealthy, not Fakeers, as these are," returned Shireen, rather tartly,
as she rolled some tobacco in the palm of her hand, with an extra
quantity of lime to make it sharp. "If this won't answer, what are
we to do? How are we to get out of this den? But what does it matter?
If it won't do, it won't; that's all your slave has to say;" and she
turned herself away rather doggedly. The prospect of a prolonged
residence in Juldroog was anything but agreeable to her. There was no
gossip, no bazaar to go to; and even the pán was old and green, only
fit for goats to eat.
Luteefa-bee reflected. "Would the old Syud give his granddaughter?
Could there be a marriage of any kind in such a place? Suppose the
girl would not hear of it. And, last of all, dare she propose even a
'Nika,' to so great a man as the Nawab, with only a Fakeer's daughter,
or whatever she might be? If she were indiscreet she might lose
her reputation altogether; and she only, to her credit, dealt with
honourable marriages."
"I might try him," she said to her servant, hesitatingly, "and see what
he says. At the worst he might get angry, and send us away. But, then,
the money! I should have to give up what he has given me; and it is
much, too much, not to risk a chance for."
"Of course it is, mother," said Shireen. "You would be a fool to give
up five hundred rupees. Why, it is riches, mother, riches! Do not sit
there thinking; people who sit thinking never do anything. Get up, and
go directly, and you had better go alone."
"Well, if it must be, it must be; what is to happen is to happen, and
no one can help their fate," she said, with a great sigh, as she got up
from her seat. "Fire and water, fire and water, they won't mingle."
"Go, I tell you," cried Shireen-bee; "you are thinking again, and if
you want to do that, you had better not go at all. Are you a coward?"
Luteefa-bee went away sadly, wiping her eyes, and, asking to see Osman
Beg, was ushered into his presence by an Abyssinian slave.
He was alone, smoking, and idly looking up the glen from one of the
arched doorways, where a pleasant breeze entered and cooled the room.
"What news, mother?" he said; "what hast thou been doing, and when am I
to have a wife?"
He spoke good humouredly, but she did not like the expression of his
eyes. They looked to her perception as if he would have added, "if you
do not get me one soon, I will have you flung down the rocks into the
river." And she shuddered at the bare thought.
"Ah! it is cold here," continued Osman Beg, who observed the action;
"come, and sit out of the wind, and tell me what news thou hast."
"Protector of the poor," cried the woman, "forgive your slave, but she
has no news. Shireen has been everywhere, but there is no one worthy
of you, no one to whom Luteefa-bee could unite you. Had there even been
one, however lowly in birth, your slave would have gone herself and
arranged everything. But one is lame, another deformed, two are little
children; and as to anyone of decent station, we cannot hear of anybody
in the whole country, even at Sugger. All the Mussulmans are only poor
weavers. Therefore, your slave begs permission to depart. She is full
of grief; but, who can control destiny?"
"You are a cheat!" cried the Nawab, furiously. "A cheat, like all your
people. Where are the rupees I gave you? Give them back; and may the
Shytán burn you. I say, where is the money?"
"I left it at Moodgul, with the banker," returned the woman,
whimpering. "Send some one with me, and I will give it back. But the
Nawab Osman Beg's generosity is great," she added, soothingly; "and
what is given is given. Who ever asks return of a gift?"
"That is a lie, mother," he said, grimly. "I know that money is in thy
waistband in gold pieces, and, by the saints, I have a mind to have
thee stripped by the eunuchs, and I would fling it into the river, and
thy carcase after it. Dost thou hear, liar and cheat? Thou hadst as
well trifle with the devil as with me. Beware!"
"Ah, my lord, do not be angry with your poor slave!" cried the dame,
casting herself before him, and pressing her forehead against the foot
that was extended. "Forgive me! I have no refuge but you in this wild
place. Do not be angry with me, else I shall die. There is yet one
thing I would say, if I were permitted, only I was afraid you would be
angry."
"Well, get up then, and say it," he returned, sulkily; "but, by Alla,
if thou try to cheat me again, I will do as I said. May the blessed
Koran be my witness;" and he took up the book and touched his breast
and forehead with it.
The woman trembled. She believed Osman Beg to be perfectly capable of
doing any violence to her, and he, and his Abyssinian slaves, bore an
evil reputation in the little village. The only gossip that Shireen
could pick up in the bazaar was that several respectable farmers had
sent away their wives and children to villages beyond the river. She
must speak now, however, or run the chance of death.
"My lord, my lord, mercy!" she cried, putting up her joined hands. "The
Fakeer's daughter, his child. My lord, forgive me for mentioning one so
mean, so far beneath my lord's station."
"Ha! so she is to be my fate after all," he said to himself; then
added, "Is it to be so, dame? Hast thou seen her? She is beautiful!"
"No," she answered, "I have not, but Shireen has; and says she will be
beautiful when she grows up; but she is too young at present to judge."
"I have seen her," returned Osman Beg; "she will, indeed, be
beautiful;" and he sat silent for some minutes.
"But, my lord," returned the dame, after the silence had grown too
long to be safe, "according to my science, which was taught me by
the blessed Saint Geesoo Daraz, of Gulburgah, the union would not be
propitious, and I warn thee of danger. Thou art water and she is fire,
and would consume thee; so let it pass, I say there is danger to thee."
"Peace with thy jargon, O fool! Am I not burned already by her? Doth
she not consume me night and day? By Alla, I believe she is a witch,
and the old man a sorcerer, and they have been plotting their hellish
magic against me. What care I for thy jargon?"
"Well, if my lord doth not fear it," she returned, "it can go on.
Else--never mind, I did only my honest duty in telling and warning
thee. Shall I go down to the Syud, and make my proposal for my lord?
I can offer money, rank, dignity, jewels, and my lord's heart, which
is already devoured by the flame of love. What girl could refuse all
these, much less a Fakeer's child? May I go?"
"No," said Osman Beg, savagely; "if she is my fate, I will manage it my
own way. Begone! when I need thee I will send for thee."
"What made the unblest woman name her?" he thought aloud "Zóra! her
fate is not mine according to the dame's vile jargon; and yet she is
my fate, as I have known long, oh, so long. Zóra, so beautiful as thou
art, how often have I watched thee, bounding among the rocks like a
deer, going demurely through the village to the sick folk, and hearing
blessings showered on thee by every tongue! Yet she avoids me, and
shudders when she meets me. Dare I ask her of her grandfather? Useless,
the Syud was insolent before, and told me the holy brotherhood could
not mate with the sons of Turcoman robbers. No, she is my fate, were
there a thousand dangers; and I dare it, for I cannot avert what is
written. Ho, Johur! art thou without?"
The huge Abyssinian drew aside the curtain and entered, clasping his
hands upon his broad chest, and stood like a bronze statue before him.
"Johur," said his master, after a pause.
"I am here," was the reply.
"Johur," continued Osman Beg, after a while, "thou knowest the girl
Zóra?"
"I know her--the Syud's grandchild; every one knows her."
"Does she ever come about the fort as she used to do, gathering flowers
or leaves for her goats?"
"Of course she does, master; no one hinders her; we often speak to her,
and she has ever a merry word for me. I pull flowers for her when she
cannot reach them."
"You must bring her to me, Johur; I have much to say to her."
Johur started; he feared evil to the girl, but he dared not disobey. He
well knew that his life would be the instant forfeit, and the rocks his
grave, where a fellow slave had gone before him.
"She will not come readily with me," said the slave, as the tears ran
down his cheeks, and his chest heaved.
"That is for thee to manage. Take Abdulla and Raheem with thee if thou
wilt. Else thou knowest what will follow, and that disobedience is
death. Go, be wise, and bring her."
"When? master."
"It is late to-day, the evening closes; to-morrow, if you see her, is
enough; watch and see."
"I obey," said the man; "your orders are on my head and eyes;" and he
withdrew. "But, oh! Zóra! Zóra!" he cried with a bitter cry as he went
out, "that it should be I to have to do this deed. I would that I were
dead."