“Blood,” explained Umm ed-Dahak, “is but the juice of living creatures.
Had they crushed a fruit before thee, would thy Grace have shrunk or
fainted? Those servants sacrificed a thing of value in thy name and
scattered blood upon the threshold to bring thee good luck. The flesh
of the victim was distributed among the needy, as an almsdeed to the
credit of the house of Yûsuf Bey. There are those among the learned who
declare such practices to be against religion. Allah knows! Blood is
the life of creatures, and a precious offering; and our traditions say
that it is wise to shed it upon great occasions. Do but apply thy mind,
and thou shalt learn to view such sacrifices with a sort of pleasure.
It is true, by Allah! There is a thrill peculiar to the sight of blood.”
To this and many kindred exhortations Barakah replied with shudders.
She was downright ill. At last, perceiving her repugnance to be quite
invincible, the old woman resigned that branch of her instruction to
the Most High, and once more proffered only what she knew would please
her. Observing, also, her disgust at the sight of blind, diseased, or
crippled persons, numbers of whom frequented the harîm in quest of
alms, she prevented such from entering her presence.
To gain some credit with Murjânah Khânum, Umm ed-Dahak went and told
her, “My sweet lady is too frail. The weakness of the infidels still
clings to her. She cannot put her trust in God as we do, but is
harassed by the thought of pain and illness. I have tried in vain to
win her to a better mind.”
“Leave that to Allah!” was the saint’s reply. “All that I ask of her is
to frequent her equals, and not seclude herself in low frivolity.”
“To hear is to obey,” bowed Umm ed-Dahak.
She forthwith set to work to school her mistress in all the courtesies
expected of a noble lady. She coached her for her visits, teaching her
the names of all the male relations, after whom it was the custom to
inquire although she could not know them, together with the private
history of each lady of the house.
With such a commentator at her elbow, Barakah found amusement in her
social duties. Amînah Khânum was as kind to her as ever, but made no
secret of her disapproval of the life she led.
“I know,” she said, “that thou must feel bewildered sometimes. Our life
here is so different from that of Europe. It is natural for one who
has left much behind to seek forgetfulness in little pleasures. But
why with vulgar natives of the country? Why not with us, who are more
civilized and have a nobler view of El Islâm? Thou art not the only
European to be found among us. I have asked some others here to meet
thee, and rid thee of the sense of loneliness, which must be dreadful.”
She had in truth collected half a dozen other European women who had
married Muslims and assumed the veil. But Barakah, instead of being
pleased to meet them, seemed annoyed. They came from Italy and Southern
Austria. To be ranked with them aroused her English pride. When Amînah
Khânum asked why she disdained them, she replied that they were women
of the lowest class and doubtful character.
“It is unlawful to say that,” the princess scolded. “Such scorn is not
permitted here among us. A woman is invested with her husband’s honour.
It is a sin to cast up what she did before her marriage. Thy boast is
simply thou wast better guarded. Praise God for that, but do not scorn
those others!”
Barakah loved them none the more for this rebuke.
In her new dwelling she had three reception-rooms. The gilt salon was
kept for very ceremonious visitors. Her intimates were welcomed in a
large apartment with cushioned dais and divans round the wall, where
she herself was wont to sit with Umm ed-Dahak, though sometimes they
would camp upon the housetop under sunshades.
All kinds of suitors came to the selamlik to see Yûsuf; and most
of these brought presents, some of which were left at the haramlik
entrance to bespeak the intercession of the lady. Ghandûr was made the
steward of the house; he and his wife, who still attended on Muhammad,
inhabiting a room close by. Barakah was glad to hear his voice again.
As a relative by milk, he was allowed sometimes to kiss her hand and
raise his chant of honour in her presence.
The winter following her change of residence Barakah was once more
brought to bed. The whole household had been praying for another boy;
Muhammad had been taught to lisp, “A boy, in sh´Allah!” every time he
saw his mother. Umm ed-Dahak had desired her mistress might produce
boys only, because, she said, some of the brood were sure to die, and
were all boys there was less likelihood of being left with girls alone,
like Leylah Khânum. But a girl it proved to be. Muhammad shook his
little fist at the intruder, shouting, “Daughter of a dog, who bade
thee enter?” There was little joy at her reception in the world, and
that little raised to cheer the mother’s spirits.
“It is no matter,” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, whose optimism triumphed over
every obstacle.
“A girl comes not amiss; she has her uses. Since some are bound to die
in early childhood, it is as well in every family to have a few who can
be spared. And Yûsuf Bey will thank thee for this gift. The fathers
always like to have a girl or two.”
“Why should some die? In sh´Allah, both of mine will be preserved!”
wailed Barakah.
“In sh´Allah! Yet if all the children born were to survive, there soon
would not be room to move in our great houses. For example, take the
palace of our lord the Pasha, thy good father. Let me see!” She sat in
thought and counted on her fingers: “Murjânah Khânum bore him twenty at
the least--all dead; Fitnah Khânum more than that--say thirty--of whom
six alive. The mother of Ali--she that was a slave--ten at the least,
three living. Then there was another concubine ...”
“Stop, stop! It is not true! It cannot be,” cried Barakah, with a
hysteric laugh.
But Umm ed-Dahak answered, “True, wallahi. What dismays thee? A woman’s
task is to produce. We leave the rest to Allah.”
And to console her hearer she went on to tell of broods of thirty,
even forty, reared successfully; when Barakah’s dismay was turned to
laughter.
In her moments of depression she was haunted by two terrors on her
son’s account. One was ophthalmia, a disease so prevalent in Egypt
that half the population was composed of blind and one-eyed persons.
The other was the plague, of which the women told grim stories with a
strange complacency. Many of her friends had been through epidemics of
the pestilence and, by their own report, had known no panic. It was a
swift and cruel illness, by which they had lost dear ones in despite
of careful nursing; it was from Allah; no one’s thinking could avert
or cure it. The horror the mere thought of it inspired in Barakah, her
futile worry, filled them with a placid wonder.
She had made up her mind that, if the plague drew near, she would carry
off her boy to Europe, having no doubt but she could win consent from
Yûsuf. But she said nothing of this resolution to the women, knowing
they would deem it godless. As a preventive against ophthalmia, she
bathed her son’s eyes with cold water twice a day, and gave orders for
the flies that settled on them to be brushed away--a thing the slaves
would not have thought of doing on their own initiative.
The plague did not come near her; and Muhammad’s eyes continued bright
and liquid under long black lashes. An enemy, unfeared as unexpected,
struck her joy.
About the period when he was being weaned, Muhammad had a serious
illness. An Armenian doctor was called in, who said, “It is the fever.”
At that the women wailed and prayed to Allah. The foe was too well
known, the scourge of children. There was no need to tell them what to
do.
“It carries off a host of infants every year,” said Umm ed-Dahak. “But
be not downcast, O beloved. God is great! Many survive, and those who
do recover are free from its malignancy for evermore.”
The malady was typhoid fever, or so like it that Barakah could not
detect the slightest difference. She had been often told that it did
not attack the natives of the land, but only Europeans, who were
thought more delicate. Here, then, was the reason. The natives who grew
up were all inoculated, having been through the disease in infancy.
Muhammad lived, for which his mother gave wild thanks to Allah, and
performed a hundred alms-deeds she had vowed in her suspense. But a
year later her small daughter died of the same scourge, and in the
after years she lost five children by it.