Her boy was her delight in life. No other woman was allowed to scold
him. When Yûsuf slapped him in the cause of order, which happened
often, for the child was naughty, she made it up to him with
sugar-plums and fond caresses. In his father’s absence Muhammad was the
lord of the harîm; all vied to please him. His foster-mother and the
servants told him fairy stories in which good children killed all kinds
of monsters. One, which he never tired of hearing, ended thus:
“Then little Hâfiz took a sword and reaped the head of the atrocious
ghoul; and beat to death the hag who had ill-used him, and with the
help of all the neighbours, who acclaimed his goodness, burnt all his
wicked little cousins in a cheerful fire.”
He knew that tale by heart and went about repeating it. He had a lot of
toys, but none which gave him so much pleasure as a little cane. With
this he beat the slave-girls, uttering terrific curses. The victims,
for his satisfaction, made believe to cry, and assured him they were
seriously injured. His mother and old Umm ed-Dahak praised his manly
spirit.
Fitnah Khânum sometimes shook her head and spoke of necessary
discipline. Barakah only smiled; as she did also, when young Na’imah,
puffed up with pride of her new motherhood, exclaimed: “By Allah, I
will bring up my son otherwise.” But when the prim and dainty Turkish
ladies looked fastidious, glancing around her room where toys lay
scattered, she felt angry. The salons of those ladies were maintained
in spotless cleanliness; their children, though untidy to avert
ill-fortune, were as courtly as small chamberlains towards their elders.
“It is strange! Thou art an Englishwoman, yet thou likest these
things!” Amînah Khânum exclaimed once, remarking her affection for
a certain sweetstuff, common in the markets but unknown in decent
houses--a taste she had acquired through Umm ed-Dahak. “Thou art too
much with the women of the country. Be more discerning in the choice of
friends.”
But Barakah was happy as she was; or, if not altogether happy, chose to
seem so from a blend of pride and indolence. Against the condescension
of the Turkish ladies she armed her dignity with the reflection that
she was born above all Eastern women. Yet she dared not let remembrance
dwell on England for fear of terrible misgivings she had sworn to
banish. Her boy, she thought, should be her vindication. He was visibly
superior to other children of the land.
To him, clasped tightly to her breast, she poured out all her secret
and tormenting thoughts.
The English had ill-treated her most shamefully. Her son must hate
the English for her sake. And yet he must remember he was half an
Englishman, a being of a different order from the children round him.
And when he prayed he must ask Allah to increase his strength and
wisdom, so that he might prove a match for any Englishman he might
encounter in the course of life. The child, with bright eyes, drank
in all she said, but God alone knew what his mind could make of it;
for Barakah’s opinions were a tangle as of angry serpents, their
utterance as incoherent as the cries of battle. She heard him once hurl
“Englishwoman!” at a slave who had enraged him. The girl laughed back:
“Thy mother is an Englishwoman,” when he replied: “A noble race and
warlike--the Muslimîn among them, like my mother. But thou art a low
Christian of that race, a filthy harlot!”
Outside her own house and her husband’s family Barakah’s chief friends
were Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr. With them she laid aside the pride
which had become her usual armour in society. Yet Gulbeyzah said one
day when Barakah was calling on her: “How thou art changed! Rememberest
thou the days when we talked French together? Then thou wast as timid
and demure as mice are; and so good and wise! Now thou art a high and
mighty Arab lady. I am half afraid!”
“Thou too art greatly changed, O wicked joker!” cried Barakah,
impounding the Circassian’s hand. “Rememberest thou the little window
in the passage?”
“Hush!” said Gulbeyzah, with uplifted finger. “By Allah, thou art owner
of a shameless memory. But come with me!”
She led her friend away from the reception-room, upstairs, and showed
her such another little window as that they both remembered, looking
out on distant roofs. “I come and dream here sometimes as of old--I,
the mother of two children!” sighed Gulbeyzah. “There is a roof well
fitted for a hopeless lover, but no one ever comes. Now thou knowest
that I have not changed my foolish nature, although in motherhood I
have acquired a soul.”
That the Turkish ladies rather wondered at her preference for Gulbeyzah
and Bedr-ul-Budûr, two former slaves, made Barakah the more enamoured
of their friendship. Muhammad was allowed to visit them, and play games
with their children, a transcendent favour; and it was with a horror as
of treason and of base ingratitude that she heard them, too, declare
that he was sadly spoilt.
It was at the wedding-feast which Tâhir, the great singer, gave his
daughter. The ladies of the grand harîms flocked thither eagerly, for
it was known that Tâhir would perform. The two Circassians found
out Barakah amid the throng, and went and sat with her in a deserted
corner. Muhammad had that day been playing with the children of
Gulbeyzah’s house.
“He is a little tyrant!” said his hostess, laughing. “A young savage.
He attacked my little girl as if to kill her, because she tried to get
back her own doll. I had to shake him. I told him that his mother would
be very angry at his conduct. He cursed my religion and then spat at
me. By our lady Zeynab, thou shouldst beat him sometimes, O my soul!”
“His spirit is too high and needs restraining. Every one says so,” said
Bedr-ul-Budûr.
“You must have thwarted him. He is not used to it. He has the noblest,
the most generous nature,” answered Barakah.
“By Allah, it is difficult not to thwart a boy who claims the eyes from
out one’s face as his to play with! He must be denied, and when denied
he grows infuriated,” said Gulbeyzah mildly.
Barakah was on the point of making a fierce answer, when the glorious
voice of Tâhir rose, compelling silence. She had heard a hundred
singers, male and female, since she came to Cairo; but Tâhir’s voice
alone had power to move her. The others mouthed and shrieked to
individual passions; but Tâhir took the soul and soared with it,
producing exaltation and a sense of peace. He sang from the pure heart
of El Islâm, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the
song died she had forgotten anger.
That wedding-feast became for ever memorable by reason of a shocking
tragedy at its conclusion. Barakah and her friends were led by Umm
ed-Dahak, who was a relative of Tâhir’s wife, to view the nuptial
chamber. It was full of flowering plants; the bed, with silken
coverings, was quite embowered. In addition to the odour of so many
blossoms the air was thick with perfumes burnt and sprinkled. The room,
they were informed, had been arranged, the flowers provided, by rich
admirers of the singer’s talent.
“By Allah, pretty! But I should not like to sleep there!” had been
Gulbeyzah’s comment, little guessing what would happen. For next
morning it was known to high and low, through all the city, that the
bridegroom and the bride had died of suffocation. When people went to
rouse them in the morning they found corpses. The news was brought
to Barakah by Umm ed-Dahak, who had herself been present at the sad
discovery. She told the story with an artist’s relish.
“What did Tâhir do? The poor demented father? What did he? He took his
lute and struck the chords and sang a song more mournful than was ever
heard on earth till now. Many present had to leave the room in grievous
pains. And then, with the last note--C-r-r-a-c-k!--he broke the lute,
and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. In sh´Allah
he will change his mind,” said Umm ed-Dahak, in her ordinary tone.
“The world would lack a soul without his singing. His oath has spread
despair through all the town.”
For months the news of Tâhir was demanded eagerly. After his daughter’s
death he went to Tantah for a while. Returning to the capital,
prepared to keep his vow, he took a shop and furnished it with goods,
intending to become a merchant. He thought to work out bargains over
cups of coffee, by way of pastime only, for he was a wealthy man. But
the people, his admirers, would not have it. They thronged his shop
directly it was opened, and bought up all his goods in a few hours,
paying the price first asked without a protest. He stocked his shop
again; the same thing happened, till, finding himself debarred from
occupation, he cursed the day when he was born; and in the end repaired
to the Grand Câdi, and asked for liberation from his vow. The reverend
judge released him with a grin and “Praise to Allah!” It was what
his Honour and the whole of Egypt had been wanting. Enormous crowds
assembled to hear Tâhir call to noonday prayer at the great mosque El
Azhar--the first occasion of his singing since his daughter’s death.
“The praise to Allah, we possess him once again,” said Umm ed-Dahak,
when reporting his defeat. “It has cost us trouble to regain him,
Allah knows. He did wrong to swear that oath; which was as impious as
swearing to cut off his hand or foot, the work of God; and so the Câdi
told him in his judgment yesterday. He brought the grief upon himself
by doting on the girl above her merits, calling her his soul of music,
neglecting the son who is still with him--a fine lad. By the Prophet,
it was courting sorrow to make all that fuss about a daughter. Now had
it been his son, his source of honour----”
Barakah interrupted with a prayer to Allah to avert the omen of her
stabbing fear. She clutched Muhammad to her bosom; but he, intent on
playthings, kicked and struggled, even swore at her. And at that moment
Fitnah Khânum was announced.