Death in the Revel—Marriage of the Princess Mihirmàh—The
Imperial Victim—The First Lover—Court Cabal—Policy of the
Seraskier—The Second Suitor—The Miniature—The Last
Gift—Interview between the Sultan and Mustapha Pasha.
It is strange how often events, which to the crowd appear redolent of
joy and happiness, are to the principal actors replete with heartburning
and misery—how what is a pageant to the many may be a penance to the
few—and how the triumphant acclaim of the multitude may be hollowly
echoed back in bitterness from the depths of a bereaved and stricken
spirit. The price of greatness must be paid, even although it should be
in the coinage of despair, wrung slowly, through a long life, like
blood-drops from the heart; and it is well for the shouting,
holyday-seeking crowd, that the gaunt spectre of reality is not
permitted, like the skeleton of the Egyptian banquets, to take its seat
at the feast, and startle them into a knowledge of the heavy price paid
for the “funeral-baked meats” of their empoisoned revel!
Only a few weeks had elapsed since Constantinople had held a general
holyday; since her joy had been written in characters of fire; and her
tens of thousands had collected together like one vast family, to
celebrate the same happy event. Who that looked around and about him
during the marriage festivities of the Imperial Bride of Saïd Pasha—the
young, the fair, the high-born maiden, descended from a long-line of
Emperors, “born in the purple,” and on whom no sunbeam had been suffered
to rest, lest it should mar the brightness of her beauty—Who could have
guessed, amid the flashing of jewels, the echo of compliments, and the
lavish congratulation by which he was surrounded, that the idol to whom
all this incense was offered up was already lying shivered at the foot
of the altar on which it had been reared?—That the roses of the bridal
wreath had fallen leaf by leaf, withered by the burning of the brow they
cinctured?—and that the victim of an Empire’s holyday was seated
heart-stricken and despairing in her latticed apartment, weeping hot
tears over her compulsatory sacrifice?
And yet thus it was:—even I myself, when the rumour reached me, that
had the Princess been free to chuse from among the many who sighed for,
without venturing to aspire to her hand, she would have made another
selection—even I, remembering only that she was an Oriental, and
forgetting that she was also a woman, never doubted for an instant that
she would resign herself to her fate with true Turkish philosophy, and
find consolation for a passing disappointment in the gaud and glitter of
her new state. But it was not so: the arrow had been driven home, and
the wound was mortal!
Two long years had elapsed since the Sultan had announced to her his
intention of bestowing her hand on Mustapha Pasha of Adrianople; and she
had received with indifference the intimation of a resolve which made
the heart of the Sultana-Mother throb with maternal pride. But ere long
the fair Princess herself learnt to believe that her constellation had
been a happy one; and to listen with smiling attention to the flattering
accounts which the ladies of the Imperial Harem failed not to pour into
her willing ears of the Pasha’s wealth, influence, and great personal
beauty. The singing-women improvised in his honour, with all the
gorgeous hyperbole of the East—the massaldjhes[1] told tales of his
wisdom and valour that brought a brighter light to the dark eyes of
their listener—and ultimately the Sultan forwarded to his daughter a
miniature likeness of her intended bridegroom.
Then it was that the Princess became convinced that the personal
qualifications of the Pasha had been by no means exaggerated even by
his most partial chroniclers; and the young beauty sat for hours amid
her embroidered cushions, silently gazing on the portrait which she held
in her hand, and marvelling whether she should look as fair in the eyes
of her destined lord as he already seemed in her own. She was not long
to remain in doubt; for the Pasha, to whom his good fortune had been
communicated by his Imperial Master, obeyed the summons that called him
to the capital, and forwarded to his high-born mistress his first costly
offering.
The heart of the Princess beat high. He was in Stamboul! The wife of the
meanest _camal_[2] might look on him as his shadow fell upon her in the
streets of the city; while she, his affianced bride, could only picture
him to her fancy by gazing on the cold inanimate ivory. She turned from
the diamonds that her slaves had officiously displayed upon the sofa on
which she sat; they came from him, it was true, but they told no tale of
love—they were the offering of ceremony—the tribute of the honoured
Pasha to his honouring bride—they had pleased her fancy, but they had
not touched her heart.
Night spread her sable robe upon the waters—the channel lay hushed,
for the soft wind failed to disturb the ripple over which it lightly
skimmed—the Sultana-mother and the affianced Princess were dwelling
in the gilded saloons of the Asiatic Harem—in the fairy palace of
Beglierbey, and the slaves had long been hushed in sleep—and it was
at this still hour that the dark-eyed daughter of the Sultan, who
had been leaning against the lattices of an open window, listening
to the nightingales, and weaving sweet fancies into a graceful web
of thought, turned from the casement to seek the rest which she had
hitherto neglected to secure; when as she moved away, a sound of distant
oars fell on her ear, and with a vague feeling of curiosity she paused
and listened.
A solitary caïque neared the palace, and stopped beneath the terrace of
the Harem: there was no moon; and the clear stars, which were dropped in
silver over the purple mantle of the sky, did not betray the secret of
the bold midnight visiter. The Princess bent her ear eagerly against the
lattice: her brow flushed, and her breath came quick—her heart had not
deceived her—it was indeed the Pasha; and soon a soft strain of music
swelled upon the air; and words of passion blending with the melody,
taught her that this was his first spirit-offering to his bright young
love.
Oh! how, as she stood beside the casement, did she sigh for moonlight,
when, despite the envious lattices, she might have looked upon her
princely lover, and written his image on her heart! But the song
ceased, and the caïque slowly dropped down with the current, and she
scarcely knew, when she at length withdrew to the innermost recesses of
her chamber, whether all had not been a dream.
Time passed on, and the wish of the fair Princess was accomplished. She
had looked upon the Pasha, as his gilded boat passed lingeringly beneath
the Imperial terrace—she had seen him as his proud steed curvetted
gracefully under the palace windows—she had beheld him by the light of
a bright moon when no eye save her’s was on him, and his low, soft
accents came sweetly to her ear on the evening wind—and she had learnt
to love him with all the fervour of a first affection. Now, indeed, she
valued every gift which came to her from him, not because he made the
world pay tribute to charm her fancy, but because he had first seen and
approved the offering.
And the Pasha learned that he was loved—the rose withering in the hot
sun amid the lattice-work of the Princess’s window—the long lock of
dark hair waving in the wind beside it—the little flower which
sometimes fell into the water beside the caïque during his midnight and
solitary visit, told him the tale that he most wished to hear. It is
even said that on one occasion he actually beheld by accident the face
of his betrothed wife: be this as it may, however, it is certain that
Mustapha Pasha returned to his Pashalik at Adrianople with his mind and
thoughts full of the Princess Mihirmàh, and with little taste for the
delay which was yet to take place ere his marriage.
The departure of the Pasha was the signal for court intrigue and court
cabal, for the determination of the Sultan had spread dismay among the
most influential of the nobles, who could ill brook the prospect of so
dangerous a rival near the throne as the powerful and popular Mustapha
Pasha. At the head of this party was the Seraskier, whose influence over
the Sultan had long been unbounded, whose wealth had purchased friends,
and whose favour had silenced enemies. He it was who first taught the
light of Imperial favour to shine on Halil Pasha, who had originally
been a groom in his own stables; and who ultimately determined Mahmoud
to receive his _protégé_ as the husband of his eldest daughter; a subtle
stroke of policy which secured to him a firm adherent, knit to his cause
by every bond of self-interest and gratitude; for the husband of the
Princess Salihè was the adopted son of the Seraskier, the object of his
munificence, and the sharer in his fortunes.
Thus, in lieu of a rival, whom his connexion with the Imperial family
might have rendered dangerous, the old and wily courtier secured a new
and influential ally, prompt to adopt his views and to further his
ambition. The proposed marriage of the younger Princess involved the
same risks, and demanded the same precautions; and it was consequently
not without emotion that the Seraskier learnt from the lips of the
Sultan that Mustapha Pasha was to be the new bridegroom.
He smiled as he heard it, and uttered the usual empty and meaningless
compliment of congratulation; but his heart obeyed not the prompting of
his words; and, as he left the Presence, he vowed a voiceless vow, that
with the help of Allah, the Governor of Adrianople should never be the
husband of the Princess Mihirmàh; for the more he reflected on the
subject, the more he felt the necessity of exerting all his energies to
prevent the domestication of Mustapha Pasha at court.
Young and handsome, he would be all powerful with his Imperial bride.
Wealthy and high-spirited, he would neither from necessity nor
inclination be amenable to his own dictation. Proverbially amiable, and
chivalrously generous, he was already the idol of his province, and
would soon become that of the capital; while his grasp of intellect and
soundness of judgment, would render it equally impossible to degrade him
into a dupe, or to use him as a tool.
Thus, then, the experienced courtier, whose career has been perhaps
without parallel in Turkish history—whose beard has grown grey under
the shadow of the Imperial throne—who has seen a hundred favourites
rise into greatness, flourish for a brief season, and finally leave
their dishonoured heads to bleach beneath a fierce sun, impaled above
the fatal Orta Kapoussi, or Middle Gate of the Seraglio, or niched in
gory grandeur beside the gilded entrance of the Sublime Porte; who
throughout his long career has never failed in any important undertaking
—the experienced courtier at once decided that Mustapha Pasha must not
be permitted to fill a station, which would invest him with the
privelege of thwarting his own plans, or of opposing his own party.[3]
Every Bey of the Imperial Household was in the interest of the
Seraskier. It could not well be otherwise; for, during the long years of
unchecked prosperity and unfailing favour which I have described, it
will be readily conceived that there was not an individual among them
who was not indebted to him for some benefit, which could be repaid only
by devotion to his wishes.
Nor were there wanting many among the Pashas themselves who were easily
taught to look with distrust and suspicion on the threatened rivalry of
the young and high-spirited Mustapha; and who readily enlisted in the
adverse party. Suffice it that the intrigue prospered: the Sultan first
insisted—then wavered—and finally, driven, despite himself, to a
compromise with the nobles in immediate contact with his person,
ultimately proposed the extraordinary expedient to which I have already
alluded; and with a weakness of purpose for which it were difficult to
account in a despotic monarch, determined to cast the obloquy of
irresolution from his own shoulders by leaving the fortunes of his
daughter in the hands of Fate—that blind divinity in whom the Turks put
such implicit trust, and on whom they philosophically fling the odium of
every untoward circumstance.
One stipulation he, however, made; that the name of Mustapha Pasha
should be among the seven chosen ones from whom the _felech_ of the
Princess was to select her a husband; and, having thus quieted his
Imperial conscience, he made his _namaz_ with all proper solemnity, ere
he calmly drew from beneath his prayer-carpet the name of Mohammed Saïd
Pasha!
But the affections cannot change so lightly as the will; and when it was
announced to the young Princess that she was to receive a new suitor,
and to banish all memory of him whom she had so long learnt to love, she
sank beneath the tidings; and rejected the consolations which were
officiously poured forth by her attendants. The Sultana-mother wept and
entreated; but for the first time her tears and her entreaties were
alike vain: the Princess only turned aside in despairing silence, or
bade them leave her to die alone, since death was all that remained to
her. Hours passed away; hours of dull, aching anguish that wrung and
withered her young heart; and they brought her food, but she put it
aside with loathing—and darkness came; but it yielded no rest to her;
and on the morrow her dim eyes and haggard cheek so terrified the
Sultana that she at once decided on communicating to her Imperial
partner the effect of his decision.
The Sultan came, and used every blandishment that could win, and every
threat that could terrify; but he failed to wrench the young fond heart
from its allegiance. The same trite commonplaces which rise
instinctively to the lips of all domestic despots, be they Christians or
Islamites, were duly set forth; but love spurns at argument; and the
Princess only replied by falling senseless into the arms of her slaves.
Days of suffering followed, during which she lay like a blighted flower
upon her cushions; hoping one moment against reason; and the next
resigning herself without a struggle to the deepest anguish of despair.
Time wore on, and at length she learnt that her destined husband had
arrived in the capital! Then came the gifts of the new suitor, and the
ceremonies of the betrothal; and she knew and felt that there was indeed
no longer any hope. The conviction was too much for her young strength;
and the courtiers were pouring forth their offerings, and the Pashas of
the provinces were pressing forward with their congratulations, while
the victim of state policy was lying on a sick bed, surrounded by tears
and lamentations.
And thus they decked her for the bridal, and carried her forth in her
gilded carriage to her new home; and she submitted passively, for she
knew that it was in vain to oppose her destiny. But when the proud and
happy Saïd Pasha had borne her in his arms to the state saloon of the
harem, preceded by dancing-girls, and fair slaves glittering with
jewels, and swinging censers of costly incense upon her path, and had
seated her on the brocaded divan only to throw himself at her feet, and
to vow himself to an existence of fond and grateful obedience to her
every wish; then did the woman-heart of the Princess flash forth as she
sternly commanded him to leave her. The Pasha obeyed not; he believed
this coldness to be only a caprice of his Imperial bride, and he lost
himself in all the lover-like hyperbole which he doubted not would be
expected from him.
But the young bridegroom was not long suffered to be deluded by so
flattering a deceit, for the reply of the Princess to his protestations
was too direct and convincing, to admit of his indulging the faintest
doubt of his misfortune. Around her neck she wore a slight chain,
wrought in dark silk, similar to those to which the Turkish ladies
commonly attach an amulet; and for all answer she withdrew this chain,
and revealed to the heart-stricken Pasha the portrait of her first
suitor.
“It was the Sultan’s gift;” she said firmly, “I was told that he was to
be my husband, and they taught me to love him—I loved him ere I knew
that such a being as Saïd Pasha lived—I shall love him so long as this
heart has power to beat against his likeness. I will not deceive you; I
can look on you only with loathing: my fate is sealed; I shall soon lie
in the tomb of my fathers. Inshallàh—I trust in God—life is not
eternal, and the broken heart ceases at last to suffer.”
Saïd Pasha had triumphed: he had won an Imperial bride; but he was a
blighted man. He had seen Mustapha Pasha ride in the marriage train
which did honour to his own nuptials; but a few hours only had elapsed
ere he envied his discomfited rival the comparative happiness of
freedom.
That rival was, however, far from being reconciled to his fate,
irrevocable as it was. He forgot that he had lost a proud bride in the
memory of her youth, her beauty, and her affection. He lingered near her
regal dwelling at midnight to catch the reflection of a taper through
the lattices of one of its many windows, trusting that he might chance
to look upon the light which beamed on her. His marriage gift was the
most costly of all that glittered in her _trousseau_—and he saw the
different Pashas who had been called to court to swell the pageant,
depart to their provinces, without possessing the courage to follow
their example.
Many wondered why Mustapha Pasha, who was supreme at Adrianople,
remained in comparative subserviency at Stamboul; and all whispered
mysteriously of the change which had come over his nature. He was still
urbane and courteous, with a gracious word and a ready smile for all;
but the words came less freely, and the smiles were fainter, and even
wore at times a tinge of bitterness.
It was about three weeks subsequent to the Imperial marriage that an
Armenian jeweller completed one of the most costly brilliant ornaments
which had ever been seen, even in the Bezenstein of Constantinople. A
mass of immense diamonds were clustered together in its centre in the
form of a taper, at whose extremity a flame was burning brightly; and
this device was surrounded by a wreath of ivy leaves, amid which a moth
was nestled, mounted upon an elastic spring, that at the slightest
motion threw the insect upon the flame.
This noble jewel was, immediately on its completion, carried to the
palace of Mustapha Pasha, whence it was transported to the harem of the
Princess by a trusty messenger. No written Word accompanied the gift—it
told its own tale—and four-and-twenty hours had not elapsed from the
time in which the “mourning bride” clasped it in her turban, ere it was
intimated to Mustapha Pasha that he had the permission of his Sublime
Highness to return to his Pashalik with all convenient speed.
On the morrow he requested his parting audience of the Sultan, when
Mahmoud, probably regretting, as he looked upon the noble-minded
Mustapha, the wrong which he had been compelled to do him, prevented him
as he was in the act of kissing his foot, and, extending towards him his
Imperial hand, said blandly:—“Forget the past—it was not the will of
Allah that my intention in your favour should be fulfilled; but bear
with you my assurance that the esteem which I have long felt for you is
undiminished. Your presence is required at Adrianople—I am perfectly
content with your government—and two years hence I shall recall you to
Stamboul, to bestow on you the hand of my youngest daughter.”
The Pasha relinquished his hold of the Imperial fingers: the blood
mounted to his brow, and settled there, and the tone was proud, even to
haughtiness, with which he answered: “I obey the orders of your
Highness: by tomorrow’s dawn I shall be on my way to my Pashalik; while
I have life I will do my duty to my Sultan and to my province; but I
shall never again aspire to make the happiness of an Imperial
Princess—were I ten times more worthy than I am, still should I be no
meet husband for a Sultan’s daughter. May the blessing of Allah rest on
the representative of the Prophet; and may the hour not be far distant
when Mustapha Pasha may lay down in the service of his sovereign a life
which has now become valueless!”
The high-hearted noble departed from the court, bearing with him the
memory of his passion and of his wrong. The Seraskier sought to console
the disappointed bridegroom by heaping upon him the most munificent
gifts; and the Princess, in the solitude of her harem, yet wastes her
hours in tears, gazing upon the portrait of her lost lover, and
imploring of the Prophet an early deliverance from the anguish of a
breaking heart.