“IN INMOST BAGDAT.”
“My last day of this!” said Charlie to himself the next morning, as
he went on deck. It was a sad thought, and he tried hard to be duly
miserable, but the morning was so fine and the air so clear that he
could not help whistling, in a sort of sympathy with nature; and then
Cecil came on deck, looking as bright and fresh as the day, her
headache all gone, and it became his duty to invite her to join him in
a promenade, since the morning was a little chilly. It was impossible
to feel melancholy long under such circumstances, and he soon found
himself rattling away in his usual style, and predicting all kinds of
delightful times at Baghdad. Lady Haigh, having once declared her
pleasure, had perfect confidence in Charlie’s sense of honour, and was
even a little sorry for him, and therefore she did not declare that
she and Cecil were busy, and send him off to talk to the captain, a
perverse habit which she had developed of late, but allowed him to
remain beside her, and instruct Cecil in the habits and folk-lore of
the wild tribes on the river-banks. Thus the day passed pleasantly
until, towards evening, Cecil, who was looking ahead, uttered a cry of
delight as the steamer swung round a bend in the river. Before them
lay Baghdad, bathed in the sunset light, which brought out in all
their brilliance the green and turquoise hues of the tiles with which
the domes of the mosques were inlaid, and the gilded casing of the
minarets; while other buildings, ordinarily most prosaic and unlovely,
looked mysterious and beautiful rising from the sea of foliage which
everywhere surrounded them. Palm, orange, and pomegranate trees filled
the gardens which spread over the flat country as far as eye could
reach, and even the ruined walls of the city, emerging here and there
from the expanse of green, lost their meanness and looked imposing.
“This is really Baghdad!” said Cecil, with a sigh of contentment.
“And I am sure you are longing to walk through the enchanted streets,”
said Charlie.
“Of course,” said Cecil. “When do we land, Lady Haigh? Is it soon?”
“Naturally, the steamer will stop opposite the Residency for us to
land,” said Lady Haigh with dignity. “Don’t worry about your things,
my dear child. Um Yusuf will see to them, and if you really like to
look at Baghdad, it’s a pity you shouldn’t.”
They had reached the city now, and were passing between terraced
gardens, with elaborate gateways leading to the water, and queer,
brightly-painted boats bobbing about in the current. There were
fanciful summer-houses in some of the gardens, and Cecil strained her
eyes to catch a glimpse of the veiled beauties who ought to be
reclining gracefully in the shade. Then came a more crowded quarter,
with old mansions of brown brick overhanging the water, coffee-houses
with highly decorated gables and terraces where companies of men were
sitting smoking and talking, newer-looking dwellings with latticed
balconies, and trees--trees everywhere. Cecil gazed on in breathless
admiration, but her raptures were suddenly interrupted.
“There’s the dear old rag!” cried Lady Haigh, in an ecstasy of mingled
patriotism and affection, and Charlie Egerton took off his hat to the
Union-Jack which floated over the Residency. Cecil awoke from her
dream with a start. The steamer was slowing down as it approached a
great house, standing at the end of a long garden, with a terrace
overlooking the water, and an avenue of aged orange-trees. The flag
scarcely fluttered in the light breeze, and all the garden looked
dreamlike and peaceful. Only on the terrace was there a certain amount
of bustle, and presently a boat put forth from the steps and shot
towards the steamer. From the pomp and circumstance which
characterised this embarkation, Cecil divined that the boat carried
Sir Dugald Haigh, and she began to feel rather nervous. It would be
idle to deny that Charlie’s conversation had infected her with a
certain amount of prejudice against her Majesty’s Consul-General at
Baghdad. For this very reason she had resolved to meet him with an
exaggeratedly open mind, and to look very carefully for his good
points. After all, Lady Haigh’s early devotion and long affection
ought to weigh more than Dr Egerton’s dislike, especially since he was
so notoriously addicted to disagreeing with his superiors.
With this in her mind, Cecil stood observant in the background while
Sir Dugald gained the deck and greeted his wife. She saw a thin,
almost insignificant-looking man, with a skin like parchment, and a
small, carefully-trimmed grey moustache. In his dress there was
visible a precision so extreme as almost to appear affectation, and
his manners were the perfection of elaborate politeness. Sir Dugald
Haigh at Baghdad was eminently the right man in the right place. The
Indian authorities who appointed him knew that he would never wantonly
or ignorantly outrage the prejudices nor shock the susceptibilities of
the most jealous and sensitive oriental; but they knew also, and
rejoiced in the knowledge, that under the silken glove the iron hand
was always ready. Sir Dugald could insist and threaten when it was
necessary--nay, he could even bluster, in a dignified and most
effective way--and the Pashas and Sheikhs with whom he had to deal
knew that, when he had once put his foot down, they might as well try
to shake the Great Pyramid as to move him.
Something of all this Cecil read in her cursory observation of him,
but she had only time to hear Charlie’s muttered remark, “The very
incarnation of red tape!” before she found herself summoned forward by
Lady Haigh.
“And this is Miss Anstruther!” said Sir Dugald, as he bowed and shook
hands. There was nothing offensive about the remark--it expressed a
kindly interest, possibly admiration--but Cecil saw Sir Dugald raise
his eyebrows very slightly as he uttered it. Before long she was to
learn to watch his eyebrows narrowly, for they were the most
expressive feature of his face, betraying all the feelings of worry,
impatience, amusement, or concern, which the rest of his visage was
under much too good control to show. Now they said, “Far too young!
Not nearly backbone enough for such a place!” while Sir Dugald’s lips
were saying--
“Welcome to Baghdad, Miss Anstruther! It is a long time since we have
had the honour of a young lady’s company at the Residency.”
Then he greeted Charlie, with a courteous ease of manner, and a kindly
expression of a hope that he had come to stay this time, which made
Cecil decide that if the hope should not be fulfilled, the provocation
would come from Charlie’s side and not from Sir Dugald’s; and then
they went on shore. The Residency proved to be a fine old house, built
round two courtyards, which, as Charlie told Cecil, corresponded to
the account he had given her of the special functions of Sir Dugald
and Lady Haigh, since one was devoted to business and the other to
social purposes. The ground-floor rooms in the family courtyard were
low and dark, but those on the floor above them large and airy, with
broad verandahs supported on curiously carved wooden pillars. Cecil,
casting a hurried glance in at the various doors as Lady Haigh took
her to her room, carried away a confused memory of fretted ceilings
inlaid with coloured marbles, walls panelled with looking-glasses, and
gilded mouldings, and again she sighed with satisfaction. The Baghdad
of good Haroun-al-Raschid had not quite disappeared yet.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Cecil was summoned to
the drawing-room to receive a messenger from the Pasha. This proved to
be Ovannes Effendi, his Excellency’s secretary, a clever-looking young
Armenian with a marvellous gift of tongues. He proffered his
employer’s felicitations on mademoiselle’s safe arrival, inquired
anxiously whether she had an agreeable journey, and concluded by
entreating that she would take up her abode in the Palace at her
earliest convenience.
“Let me see,” said Lady Haigh--“this is Saturday. We can’t let you go
before Monday morning, Cecil, but you and I will go and pay our
respects to the Palace ladies this afternoon.”
Having received his answer, Ovannes Effendi retired, after formally
presenting Lady Haigh and Cecil, in the Pasha’s name, with several
trays of fruit and sweetmeats which had been carried after him by a
corresponding number of porters. The idea was so thoroughly oriental
that Cecil forgot the untempting nature of the sweetmeats to a Western
taste, and noted the little attention joyfully in her diary. It was
evident that the Pasha, at any rate, was anxious to do all in his
power to show her that she was a welcome guest; but when they prepared
for their visit to the harem that afternoon, she found that Lady Haigh
entertained distinct misgivings as to their reception by the ladies.
“It is our duty to pay them a formal call, my dear,” she said,
vigorously completing an elaborate toilet the while. “I have no doubt
that that horrid woman, the Um-ul-Pasha, will give us a bad half-hour,
but it is better that I should be there to help you to face her.”
To get to the Palace it was necessary to mount ridiculously small
donkeys, which picked their way carefully among the inequalities and
mud-heaps of the narrow winding streets; while a small army of
servants, headed by two gorgeous cavasses in gold-embroidered
liveries, who kept back the crowd with whips, gave the occasion the
dignity which would otherwise have been sorely wanting to it. It was
irritating, if not exactly disappointing, to find on reaching the
Palace that all this grandeur had been wasted, since the answer
returned to their inquiries by the stout negro who kept the door of
the harem, after long colloquies with an invisible maid-servant
within, who was apparently displaying an undue eagerness to catch a
glimpse of the Frangi ladies, was that the Um-ul-Pasha was indisposed,
and that visitors were therefore not received in the harem that day.
“That is all her spite,” said Lady Haigh, as they picked their way
back to their donkeys. “She is no more ill than I am. If she had been
indisposed this morning, Ovannes Effendi would have known it, and told
us not to come, but now she thinks she has slighted you, and given me
a slap in the face. Very well, Nazleh Khanum, we shall see!”
But here, just as they were about to mount, Ovannes Effendi overtook
them, and after expressing the Pasha’s sorrow that their trouble
should have been in vain, begged them to honour his Excellency’s poor
abode by deigning to rest for a few minutes, assuring them that his
employer would be much hurt if they did not. On Lady Haigh’s
acquiescence, he ushered them into a large room furnished in European
style, where they found their old acquaintance, Denarien Bey, talking
to a very stout gentleman in a very tight frock-coat and a fez. Lady
Haigh’s salaam warned Cecil that this was Ahmed Khémi Pasha himself,
and she imitated her friend’s reverence as faithfully as she could
when she was brought forward and presented. The Pasha was all
politeness, evidently anxious to atone for his mother’s incivility,
and insisted on sending for coffee and sherbet at once. While the
refreshments were being consumed, he kept up a slow and stately
conversation with Lady Haigh respecting the journey, pausing with
special care to compose each sentence before uttering it. It was
evident that he had had a purpose in view in inviting them in, for
presently he nodded to Denarien Bey, who took up the conversation in
his turn. Lady Haigh told Cecil afterwards that this was because the
Pasha now disliked intensely speaking French, and was by no means a
master of English, which he was yet too proud to speak badly.
“His Excellency’s heart is much rejoiced by this happy meeting,
mademoiselle,” said Denarien Bey; “since he can now impress upon you
certain cautions which you will find all-important in your new
sphere.”
“I will do my best to conform to his Excellency’s wishes,” murmured
Cecil, nervously.
“First, as regards your own position, mademoiselle. You are aware that
the state of public opinion here obliges you and your pupil always to
remain in the harem while you are at the Palace, while yet it is from
the harem that the gravest dangers threaten the life of Azim Bey.” He
glanced rather fearfully at the Pasha as he said this, but meeting
only a nod of acquiescence, went on. “It has therefore been arranged,
mademoiselle, that the quarters occupied by yourself, the Bey, and
your attendants, shall be in a separate courtyard, to which none but
yourselves shall have access. Thus, while technically in the harem,
you will in reality be separated from it, and the door will be guarded
by a negro called Aga Masûd, who was the faithful attendant of the
Bey’s late mother. His special duty will be to prevent the entrance of
emissaries from the harem. It is his Excellency’s most earnest wish
that Azim Bey should never cross the threshold of the harem but in
your charge, and that while there you should never let him out of your
sight. The slaves are not to be trusted.”
He said this apologetically, and as if in explanation, but Cecil knew
that he was pointing at much more exalted persons than the slaves. It
was the Um-ul-Pasha and his Excellency’s wives who were not to be
trusted with the life of the boy so nearly related to them, and she
began to feel more than ever the great responsibility of her post.
After a few more unimportant remarks, Lady Haigh rose to go, but the
Pasha detained her, begging Cecil also to remain.
“I have sent for my son,” he said, “and I hear him coming.”
As he spoke, there appeared in the doorway a small thin boy, looking
like a miniature edition of the Pasha in his long black coat, with his
dark, solemn, old little face surmounted by the usual tasselled cap.
When he saw Cecil, his expression brightened suddenly.
“_C’est enfin Mdlle. Antaza!_” he cried, in an ecstasy of delight, and
he ran forward and salaamed, raising her hand to her lips. The Pasha
interposed, and reminded him to salute Lady Haigh, which he did, and
then retired behind his father’s chair, watching Cecil all the while
with grave, unchildlike eyes.
“You will come soon, mademoiselle?” he said entreatingly as they took
their leave. “When my father is busy I have no one now.”
“Mademoiselle is coming on Monday, Bey,” said Lady Haigh kindly, and
the boy looked somewhat comforted. With his father and Denarien Bey he
escorted the two ladies to the gate, and they rode home quietly, Cecil
pondering over what she had seen of the Pasha and his little son. But
it was strange how completely the Residency was like home to her
already. It seemed to be a bit of England, and when once she had
crossed its threshold again, the Palace and its occupants were like
the fabric of a dream, while Sir Dugald, Charlie Egerton, and one or
two Englishmen who happened to be passing through Baghdad, and were
staying at the Residency, took their places.
“Well, what do you think of our friend Sir Hector Stubble?” Charlie
asked her that evening, when they were sitting out on the verandah
after dinner.
“I suppose you mean Sir Dugald,” said Cecil, “and I don’t like the
name. I think Lord Stratford de Redcliffe was a splendid man, and I
never can forgive Grenville Murray for drawing him so unfairly. I
suppose the fact is that he saw him in the light of his own
grievances, just as you look at Sir Dugald through the medium of your
prejudice.”
“Not a prejudice, Miss Anstruther, honestly not,” said Charlie. “We
are antagonistic by nature, and we rub each other the wrong way
already. You would scarcely think we had had time to have words
together yet, would you?”
“Already?” said Cecil. “It’s absurd!”
“Well,” said Charlie, “I told him that the hospital was quite behind
the times, and horribly short of stores, and he as good as refused to
do anything to it.”
“Possibly,” said Cecil, “he did not relish the stores being demanded
in a your-money-or-your-life sort of tone.” Charlie laughed
uncomfortably.
“You always contrive to put me in the wrong, Miss Anstruther. The fact
is, he said one ought to be very careful with public money, and that
he was not prepared to sanction the expenditure of any more at
present. Then the prison, it is not in a particularly sanitary
condition----”
“But that can’t be Sir Dugald’s fault,” objected Cecil.
“Oh, I don’t mean the town prison; I haven’t been poaching on the
Pasha’s preserves just yet. I mean our private prison here, in the
Residency. Now, Miss Anstruther, don’t say that you will never be able
to dine here again in peace, on account of the shrieks of tortured
victims ringing in your ears in the pauses in the conversation. The
place isn’t so bad as all that. In fact, I daresay it’s a model jail,
as things are here.”
“And you forget that you are in your beloved unchanging East, where no
one makes any reforms,” said Cecil. “I am very sorry that you have
taken this prejudice against Sir Dugald. I think he is a delightful
man, and so kind.”
“How could he be otherwise than kind to you?” Charlie wished to know.
“It is to his unfortunate subordinates that he shows his other side.”
“And I have no doubt they deserve it,” retorted Cecil, crushingly. “I
do hope you will try to get on with him, and not start with the idea
that you are bound to quarrel with him, because you have got on badly
with your superiors before. If you are determined to bring about a
dispute, I suppose it will certainly come, no matter how forbearing
Sir Dugald may be, but that is not a very wise spirit in which to set
to work. Surely you must see it yourself, don’t you? This is really an
excellent chance for you, you know, and Lady Haigh will be dreadfully
disappointed if you throw it away.”
“Oh, I mean to stick to the place,” said Charlie eagerly, somewhat to
Cecil’s surprise. “I do really intend to stay on, unless I am driven
away. But you must let me have the privilege of telling my woes to
you, Miss Anstruther, and getting a lecture in return. I take to
lectures as a duck takes to water; you ask Cousin Elma.”
Cecil laughed, and as Lady Haigh came just then to ask her to sing,
she had no more talk with Charlie. The next day was her first Sunday
in Baghdad, the prototype of nearly all her Sundays for five years.
There was an English service, conducted by Mr Schad, the colleague of
Dr Yehudi in his mission-work among the Jews, and Cecil felt that she
had never fully appreciated the beauty of the Liturgy until she heard
it read, with a strong German accent, in this far land. It took her
back to her father’s beautiful church at Whitcliffe, and to the dingy
and ornate edifice in a city street, which she had attended in her
school-days, and it linked her with the services held in both places
to-day. She treasured every hour of that Sunday, which slipped by all
too quickly, and left her to face the duties and responsibilities of
her new position.
On the Monday morning she dressed herself, with great reluctance, in
her official costume, lamenting that she could not wear European
dress, as she might have done without difficulty in Constantinople or
Smyrna. But, after all, the long loose gown, falling straight from the
shoulders, and only caught in at the waist with a striped sash, would
be very comfortable in the hot weather, though the wide, trailing
sleeves would be dreadfully in the way. What Cecil disliked most in
the costume was the head-dress, a little round cap, with a gauze veil,
which could be brought over the face in case of need, depending from
it behind. To wear this it was necessary that the hair should be
plaited in a number of little tails, and allowed to hang down, since
any arrangement of coils must interfere either with the cap or with
the flow of the veil. For outdoor wear there was provided a huge linen
wrapper, which enveloped the wearer from head to foot, but Cecil had
resolutely refused to don the hideous horse-hair mask worn under this
by the Baghdadi ladies. The absurdity of her appearance so overcame
her while dressing, that she projected a caricature of herself for the
benefit of the children at home; but even then she did not realise the
difficulty of shuffling through the courtyard in her yellow slippers,
and of mounting the donkey which was waiting for her. Lady Haigh had
mercifully got all the gentlemen out of the way; but her own mirth was
contagious, and she and Cecil relapsed into little explosions of
laughter several times in the street.
Arrived at the Palace, they were conducted to a miniature courtyard,
the buildings around which bore traces of having been lately painted
and done up. The gate occupied the greater part of one side, guarded
by the faithful Masûd, a gigantic and particularly ugly negro. The
rooms on the other three sides were like those at the Residency, low
and mean-looking on the ground-floor, but large and lofty above.
“The apartments of Azim Bey,” said their guide, a tall Circassian
woman who spoke French, with a wave of her hand towards the rooms on
the right; “the apartments of mademoiselle,” indicating those on the
left; “the Bey Effendi’s study and reception-room,” showing that in
the middle.
“We will look at your rooms, Cecil,” said Lady Haigh, and they mounted
the stairs leading to the verandah. The “apartments” were three in
number, and comprised a bedroom and sitting-room for Cecil, and a
bedroom for Um Yusuf, opening out of her mistress’s. Another staircase
led from the verandah to the roof, which was flat and surrounded by a
parapet, with several orange-trees in great pots to give shade in hot
weather.
“But you won’t be able to stay up here when it is really hot, Cecil,”
said Lady Haigh, “except just at night. You will have to spend the day
in the cellars. We do it ourselves--every one does in Baghdad--and
it’s not often that the thermometer is more than 88° down there.”
They descended from the roof and entered the rooms. The bedroom
furniture was evidently a “complete suite,” of the most
highly-polished mahogany, imported from Europe at some trouble and
expense. The things in the sitting-room were of the same style, but
one or two chairs seemed not to have survived the journey, for their
places were filled by a common Windsor arm-chair, and a very ornate
Louis XV. _fauteuil_, with gilded and twisted legs. On a side-table
was a gorgeous gilt clock, which did not go, and the walls were
decorated with fearful oleographs, and one or two theatrical
portraits, which the guide pointed out with great pride.
“Well, Cecil, my dear,” said Lady Haigh, sitting down in the gilt
chair, while the two servants retired into the verandah. “I think you
will be very comfortable here. I see that they have forgotten one or
two things, but I will send you those from the Residency. I am very
glad that you have Basmeh Kalfa to superintend your little household.
She was head _kalfa_ (which means an upper slave) to Azim Bey’s
mother, so she will look after you well. You will have to be careful
just at first, until you get into the ways of the place. Be sure if
you ever come to the Residency in European dress to put on that sheet
over it. It will pass muster in the streets. And do mind never to go
outside your own courtyard without the sheet on. This place is your
castle, you know, and not even the Pasha dare put his nose in without
your consent. If you should hear rather a commotion at the gate, and
Masûd comes striding along, shouting _Dastûr! Dastûr!_ at the top
of his voice, pull your veil over your face at once. _Dastûr_ means
“custom,” and is the warning that a man is coming. It will probably be
the Pasha coming to see how the Bey is getting on with his lessons, or
some old man who comes to teach him the Koran, but be sure you
remember. And, my dearest child, you must never go anywhere without Um
Yusuf. She must be always with you--in lesson-time, recreation, coming
to us, everything. You must never be impatient, and think she is
spying upon you. It is her duty to keep you always in sight, and she
knows it. And now I must be going. Basmeh Kalfa, I leave Mademoiselle
Antaza and her nurse in your charge. Take care of them.”
“Upon my head be it, O my lady,” responded Basmeh Kalfa, impassively.