Next morning Iskender was disturbed at daybreak by the movements of his
mother in the house. With her black locks all dishevelled, she was
putting out his grandest clothes and dusting them in the feeble
lamp-light.
"Though shalt wear this sweet suit which thy father left thee," she
croaked out when she knew he was awake. "That and thy new tarbûsh and
the great umbrella. Wallah, thou wilt fill men's eyes. Now rise, and
make haste with thy washing."
He rose accordingly and, having dedicated his works to God, dipped a
hand-bowl in the earthen jar which served as cistern, and carried it
out on to the sand before the threshold. There the rising colour of
the dawn bewitched him; he was reminded of a certain trumpet-flower
which bloomed at Easter on the Mission walls--a flower with purple
petals and the gleam of gold in its heart; and, all on fire to register
the rare impression, he left his bowl of water on the sand and
re-entered the house to fetch his book and paint-box. But his mother
tried to wrest them from him, cursing him for a maniac, and before he
could shake her off the colours of the sky had changed completely. The
little disappointment made life vain. In a pet, he overturned the
basin of water, robbed of the heart to wash his face and hands. Then,
as his mother still kept screaming for him, he went indoors and donned
the clothes which she had laid ready. Even then she would not let him
be, but pulled and patted at the garments till he lost his temper, and
made a rush for the door. A horrified shriek recalled him. The
umbrella! He had forgotten that! His mother thrust it on him.
Gathered up into a bunch and tied, not folded, it in shape resembled a
charged distaff of unusual size. With it tucked beneath his arm, the
youth escaped at last into the rosy sunlight.
Up on the well-marked road which runs out to the Mission from the town
he encountered Costantîn, the missionary's servant, driving a donkey
burdened with two jars of water up towards the house. Costantîn
remarked upon his finery, and asked where he was going. He showed an
amiable inclination to stop and talk. But Iskender hurried on, merely
explaining that he was going to be a great painter in the land of the
English. Costantîn stood scratching his head and staring after him.
The road soon left the sandhills and meandered through thick
orange-groves, full of shade and perfume and the hum of bees. Here he
advanced with circumspection, and at a turn of the way stood still to
reconnoitre.
From that point he could see a Christian village, dignified in the
distance by two palm-trees put up like sunshades over its squat mud
hovels. The tiny church stood apart, quite overshadowed by an ancient
ilex. It was there that he had been pelted yesterday; but at present
all looked safe. Only two human beings were in sight--the priest, one
Mîtri, eminent in black robe and tower-like headdress, sat in thought
beneath the oak-tree, and a child in a sky-blue kirtle sprawled at play
upon the threshold of one of the houses. The coo of doves and cluck of
hens, the only voices, sounded peaceful in the sun-filled air.
Iskender moved on, trusting hard in Allah to save his Sunday clothes
from base defilement.
The priest Mîtri, seated in the shade, was playing an innocent game
with two pebbles, which he threw into the air and caught alternately,
when Iskender, approaching humbly, wished him a happy day. He returned
the greeting mechanically, then, seeing who it was, let fall his
playthings and stared solemnly at the disturber. Iskender became
uncomfortably conscious of his festive raiment, more especially of the
umbrella, which seemed to fascinate Mîtri.
For release from the embarrassment of being silently devoured by eyes
as fierce and prominent as a bull's, he paused before the priest and
asked his blessing. At that the staring orbs betrayed amazement; their
owner raised a hand to stroke his long black beard. The child in the
sky-blue shift had left its play to observe the encounter. Standing up
against the darkness of the doorway it revealed the figure of a slim
young girl.
Still gazing fixedly at the suppliant, who stood trembling before him,
the priest seemed to ponder the request. Then suddenly he sprang to
his feet, crying: "Come with me!" and, seizing Iskender's arm, dragged
the terrified youth into the church, of which the door stood open. In
there the sudden gloom, combined with a stale smell of incense,
overpowered the victim.
"Prostrate thy sinful self!" the priest enjoined.
Iskender fell upon his face obediently. To perform the prostration he
was obliged to discard for a moment the great umbrella. When he rose
from his knees the priest had hold of it.
"Wherefore dost thou require a blessing of me?"
Iskender confessed that he was about to present himself before a
certain great one, in the hope of patronage, and felt the need of
Heaven's favour to support his worthlessness.
"What is his name, this great one?"
"That I know not. The man in question is the young Inklîzi who honours
the hotel of Mûsa el Barûdi. I know only that he is a great Emîr, and
hates the missionaries."
"Then he must be of the High Church of that land, which yet holds
faithful, christening by immersion, and scorning the interpolation of
the swine of Rome. May he be a guide to thee, poor unbaptized one.
Now, for the blessing, give me ten piasters!"
"Ten piasters!" gasped Iskender.
The enraged ecclesiastic pinched the objector's ear, and twisted it
until its owner writhed in anguish. "For a heretic like thee it should
be thrice as much. Remember I have power to bind as well as to loose.
Insult this place again with heathen haggling, and by the keys of
heaven and of hell, I curse thee leprous."
Iskender fell on his knees and howled for mercy.
"I have no money with me," he explained most piteously.
"Is that in truth the case?" The priest let go his ear, and seemed to
meditate. Iskender was aware of the girl in the sky-blue robe gazing
in at the doorway. Her presence added to his ignominy. "No matter!
Thou shalt pay the price another time, and in the meanwhile I shall
keep this fine umbrella."
"Alas, it is not mine!" Iskender wrung his hands.
But Mîtri had already withdrawn into the inner darkness of the
sanctuary, whence he emerged directly, but without the umbrella.
Something white and glittering now adorned his shoulders.
As he came towards Iskender, the light from the doorway picking him out
from the surrounding gloom, he seemed to bear with him a mystic
radiance. The young man knelt instinctively and pressed his forehead
to the ground; while the voice of the priest, now grown tender and
melodious, seemed to warble far above him like a voice from heaven. An
angel stood in the place of his late tormentor.
"It is not thy fault that thou art a Brûtestânt," said Mîtri kindly,
when the blessing was concluded. "Come to me sometimes; let us talk
things over. I discern in thee some mind to know the truth."
"Is he indeed a Brûtestânt, my father?" The girl in the sky-blue shirt
had stolen close to them. "Ah, woe is me that one so goodly should go
the way of everlasting punishment!"
She wore no garment but the long straight kirtle. Her hair, brought
low round either temple to be plaited in a tail behind, increased the
shadow of her eyes--great thoughtful eyes, which made the childish face
divine. Iskender, smitten dumb with admiration, at that moment thought
of Protestantism as a foul crone.
"May thy house be destroyed, O Nesîbeh, shameless girl!" the priest
rebuked her. "What have this youth's looks to do with thee? Thou art
grown too big to be allowed such freedom. It is time thou didst assume
the veil, and with it modesty." He took his daughter's hand and
fondled it, none the less, adding: "Whence this religious fervour, soul
of mischief?"
It was with a sigh that Iskender parted from them and he went slowly,
often turning to look back at the little church beneath the oak-tree,
till his road debouched into a crowded highway, where the long intent
procession of the fellâhîn conveying the produce of their fields to
market on the backs of camels, mules and asses, on the heads of women,
reminded him of his own errand. He then made haste to the hotel of
Mûsa el Barûdi.
The two sons of Mûsa, Daûd and Selîm, clad in robes of striped silk,
and high red fezzes, sat out on stools, one on either side of the
doorway, to feel the morning sun and chat with wayfarers. Behind them,
against the doorpost, leaned a tall negro in white robe and turban, who
held a broom in his hand, but seemed to have done with sweeping.
Iskender approached this group with low obeisance.
"Is his Highness the Emîr within?"
The black alone condescended to heed the inquiry. He replied with the
broadest of grins:
"May Allah heal thy intelligence. Art possessed with a devil, or a
joker merely?"
"I mean the young khawâjah who resides here all alone," Iskender
explained, replying to the negro, though his eyes kept looking from
Daûd to Selîm, whose perfect impassivity surprised him. He grieved for
the loss of his umbrella, which would have compelled more respect.
"Ah," grinned the negro, seeing light. "He is at breakfast."
"Then with permission, I will wait till he comes forth."
"What is this youth?" cried Daûd irritably, without looking.
"Bid him depart!" said Selîm, moving impatiently in his seat as though
a fly annoyed him.
Of a sudden both the brothers rose and bowed profoundly, laying hand to
breast, and lips, and brow, as a Muslim notable passed up the street on
horseback. Then they sank down again, and the obsequious smile died
away on their faces, leaving them cold and haughty as before.
"The great khawâjah is my very good friend. He loves me dearly,"
proffered Iskender in his own excuse. "By Allah, he is the nicest of
men! He will be overjoyed to find me here this morning."
The scornful eyes of Daûd glanced on him for a brief moment, while
Selîm, in his turn, questioned:
"Who is this?"
"Is it not the son of one Yâcûb, a muleteer, who sold his soul years
ago to the English missionaries. It seems such renegades are well
paid, for behold the raiment of this youth. What wouldst thou here, O
dog, son of a dog?"
"I ask but to see my friend the Emîr, who loves me dearly--by Allah, I
speak but the truth!" pleaded Iskender, near to tears.
"Now by the sword of St. George," vociferated Daûd, roused at last,
"none of thy species enters my father's door. Ours is an honourable
house, respected far and near. If any of our clients needs a guide or
servant, we know where to send for one who may be trusted. We tolerate
no lickspittle-rogues, no beggars. Remember the abominations of thy
father and the extraordinary unchastity of thy mother, and take thy
shameful face elsewhere away from us."
"O my kind lords!" Iskender began to protest; but just then Selîm, who
had been silently working himself into a fury while his brother spoke,
sprang up, and snatching the broom from the black servant's hand,
discharged it at Iskender's head with all his strength. The son of
Yâcûb, by a lucky move, escaped the missile; but seeing the negro
stepping forth to recover his broom, stayed to make no retort.
Having retired to the opposite side of the street, which was in shadow,
he sat down on the doorstep of a Frankish shop, and waited. He saw his
friend of yesterday come forth at last, Selîm and Daûd rising for his
passage. As he paused upon the steps to taste the sunny air, Iskender
caught his eye and ran to greet him. The Emîr was gracious, asking how
he did, and at once proposing they should walk together. Iskender gave
the sons of Mûsa a triumphant glance.
"Where are your sketching things?" the Frank inquired; and hearing they
were left behind, would go and fetch them. They sauntered together
through the gardens out on to the sandhills, till within a
stone's-throw of Iskender's home; when the Englishman lay down on a
patch of withered herbage, saying he would wait there till his friend
returned.
Iskender passed the broken hedge at a bound and stood before his mother
in the doorway. She screamed to Allah for protection, in the first
surprise.
"Come, O my mother! Come and look!" he cried, and dragged her to a
point whence they could see the young Emîr, lying flat on his back, his
straw hat covering his face, for the sun was strong. "It is himself,"
Iskender whispered, dashing on into the house; while his mother made
wild reverence in the Frank's direction, quite oblivious of the fact
that the object of her bows and servile gestures could not, from the
circumstances of his position, see them.
"Make all speed, O beloved!" she implored Iskender. "It is not well
that his Highness should remain extended in the hot sun. Allah forbid
that he should get a sunstroke, for his life is precious. May our Lord
preserve him for a blessing to us!" But while she spoke her son was
out of hearing.
Returning towards the town, the two friends had to pass the Christian
village by the ilex-tree, and the Emîr, who had seen Iskender stoned
there, insisted on his sketching the small church, vowing to punish all
who dared molest him. Remembering the priest's daughter, he was fain,
and went to Mîtri's house to ask for water. The girl herself appeared
in answer to his call, but, seeing who it was, ran back in terror,
crying: "O mother, help! It is the Brûtestânt." Whereat a slattern
dame came forth instead of her, and filled his can for him, with every
blessing.
Soon after, as he sat at work beneath the oak, the priest himself
appeared. Iskender rose and presented the Emîr, who welcomed the
introduction with his ready smile.
"So the blessing worked, the praise to Allah!" was Mîtri's comment. He
made the Englishman enter his house and drink coffee, then took him
into the church. The door stood open. Iskender caught some fragments
of the priest's discourse, from which it appeared that he was
displaying vestments and a holy relic. When they emerged, the Frank
was thrusting money on the priest, who declined to take it, till
Iskender shouted:
"It is for the poor."
"For the poor, it is well." Mîtri smiled and accepted the offering.
Then, with a knowing glance at the son of Yâcûb, he once more vanished
into the church, to reappear next minute with the great umbrella.
"Thou hast redeemed the pledge, my son," he said, as he restored it to
its lord, and winked discreetly. "But what have we here? By Allah,
thou art a complete painter, a professor of the art! There am I, like
life. There is my house, the church, the palm-trees. O young man,
thou art a devil at this work. A pity thou art a Brûtestânt, else thou
couldst make a trade of it, and make us pictures of the Blessed for our
churches. Come, O Nesîbeh, see the pretty picture."
Iskender fixed his gaze upon the sketch. He dared not look up, for the
girl was at his shoulder. The whole population of the place, his foes
but yesterday, now gathered round him, praising Allah for his wondrous
talent; while the Emîr denounced the bad quality of the paint-box, gift
of the Sitt Hilda, and swore to have a proper one sent out from
England. Iskender's heart was like to burst with pride and happiness.