I
As the caique glided up to the garden gate the three boatmen rose from
their sheepskins and caught hold of iron clamps set into the marble of
the quay. Shaban, the grizzled gatekeeper, who was standing at the top
of the water-steps with his hands folded respectfully in front of him,
came salaaming down to help his master out.
'Shall we wait, my Pasha?' asked the head _kaikji_.
The Pasha turned to Shaban, as if to put a question. And as if to answer
it, Shaban said,--
'The madama is up in the wood, in the kiosque. She sent down word to ask
if you would go up too.'
'Then don't wait.' Returning the boatmen's salaam, the Pasha stepped
into his garden. 'Is there company in the kiosque or is madama alone?'
he inquired.
'I think no one is there--except Zuembuel Agha,' replied Shaban, following
his master up the long central path of black and white pebbles.
'Zuembuel Agha!' exclaimed the Pasha. But if it had been in his mind to
say anything else he stopped instead to sniff at a rosebud. And then he
asked, 'Are we dining up there, do you know?'
'I don't know, my Pasha, but I will find out.'
'Tell them to send up dinner anyway, Shaban. It is such an evening! And
just ask Mustafa to bring me a coffee at the fountain, will you? I will
rest a little before climbing that hill.'
'On my head!' said the Albanian, turning off to the house.
The Pasha kept on to the end of the walk. Two big horse-chestnut trees,
their candles just starting alight in the April air, stood there at the
foot of a terrace, guarding a fountain that dripped in the ivied wall. A
thread of water started mysteriously out of the top of a tall marble
niche into a little marble basin, from which it overflowed by two flat
bronze spouts into two smaller basins below. From them the water dripped
back into a single basin still lower down, and so tinkled its broken
way, past graceful arabesques and reliefs of fruit and flowers, into a
crescent-shaped pool at the foot of the niche.
The Pasha sank down into one of the wicker chairs scattered hospitably
beneath the horse-chestnut trees, and thought how happy a man he was to
have a fountain of the period of Sultan Ahmed III, and a garden so full
of April freshness, and a view of the bright Bosphorus and the opposite
hills of Europe and the firing West. How definitely he thought it, I
cannot say, for the Pasha was not greatly given to thought. Why should
he be, as he possessed without that trouble a goodly share of what men
acquire by taking thought? If he had been lapped in ease and security
all his days, they numbered many more, did those days, than the Pasha
would have chosen. Still, they had touched him but lightly, merely
increasing the dignity of his handsome presence and taking away nothing
of his power to enjoy his little walled world.
So he sat there, breathing in the air of the place and the hour, while
gardeners came and went with their watering-pots, and birds twittered
among the branches, and the fountain plashed beside him, until Shaban
reappeared carrying a glass of water and a cup of coffee in a swinging
tray.
'Eh, Shaban! It is not your business to carry coffee!' protested the
Pasha, reaching for a stand that stood near him.
'What is your business is my business, my Pasha. Have I not eaten your
bread and your father's for thirty years?'
'No! Is it as long as that? We are getting old, Shaban.'
'We are getting old,' assented the Albanian simply.
The Pasha thought, as he took out his silver cigarette-case, of another
pasha who had complimented him that afternoon on his youthfulness. And,
choosing a cigarette, he handed the case to his gatekeeper. Shaban
accepted the cigarette and produced matches from his gay girdle.
'How long is it since you have been to your country, Shaban?'
The Pasha, lifting his little cup by its silver zarf, realized that he
would not sip his coffee quite so noisily had his French wife been
sitting with him under the horse-chestnuts. But with his old Shaban he
could still be a Turk.
'Eighteen months, my Pasha.'
'And when are you going again?'
'It is not apparent. Perhaps in Ramazan, if God wills. Or perhaps next
Ramazan. We shall see.'
'Allah Allah! How many times have I told you to bring your people here,
Shaban? We have plenty of room to build you a house somewhere, and you
could see your wife and children every day instead of once in two or
three years.'
'Wives, wives--a man will not die if he does not see them every day!
Besides, it would not be good for the children. In Constantinople they
become rascals. There are too many Christians.' And he added hastily,
'It is better for a boy to grow up in the mountains.'
'But we have a mountain here, behind the house,' laughed the Pasha.
'Your mountain is not like our mountains,' objected Shaban gravely,
hunting in his mind for the difference he felt but could not express.
'And that new wife of yours,' went on the Pasha. 'Is it good to leave a
young woman like that? Are you not afraid?'
'No, my Pasha. I am not afraid. We all live together, you know. My
brothers watch, and the other women. She is safer than yours. Besides,
in my country it is not as it is here.'
'I don't know why I have never been to see this wonderful country of
yours, Shaban. I have so long intended to, and I never have been. But I
must climb my mountain or they will think that I have become a rascal
too.' And, rising from his chair, he gave the Albanian a friendly pat.
'Shall I come too, my Pasha? Zuembuel Agha sent word--'
'Zuembuel Agha!' interrupted the Pasha irritably. 'No, you needn't come. I
will explain to Zuembuel Agha.'
With which he left Shaban to pick up the empty coffee cup.