Dinner—The Persian's wife is poorly—The wonderful wet
paper—The _samovar_—The harem—Be not alarmed—She is in a
delicate state of health—Jaundice—She feels better already—No
medicine for your complaint—A mustard plaster would be
useless—Sons of the devil—My lord's baksheesh—Commotion
amongst the servants.
Later in the day dinner was brought in—a chicken surrounded by a huge
pile of rice. A Turk as rich as our Persian host would have provided
his guest with fifteen or twenty courses, but the Persians are
satisfied with one. I was not aware of the custom, and only tasted the
chicken. Presently it was taken away; instead of a fresh dish making
its appearance, some water was brought, in an ewer, for us to wash our
hands.
"You Englishmen are very temperate," said the host, rising.
I did not tell him what was passing through my mind. I was ravenously
hungry, and would gladly have had that chicken brought back again; but
it was already in the hands of the servants outside. They were devouring
the contents.
"You are a great hakim," now observed the proprietor.
"Who told you that?" I remarked, surprised that the reputation acquired
in the Kurd's house had thus preceded me.
"The Usebashe knows it. Mohammed, too, has told my servant. Praise be
to Allah who has sent you here!"
"I am not a hakim!" I hastily replied. "I am an officer."
"Do not say that," said the Persian, who spoke Turkish fluently. "Do
not deny the talents that Allah has given you. Your arrival has cast
a gleam of sunshine on our threshold, and you will not go away without
gladdening the hearts of my family."
"What do you want me to do?" I inquired.
"My wife is poorly: I ask you to cure her."
"But really I know very little about medicine. I have only a few simple
remedies with me."
"Simple remedies indeed!" said the Persian. "A man who can set a
person's shoulder on fire with a piece of wet paper!"
"What is the matter with your wife?"
"I do not know, but you will tell me."
"Well, I must see her," I replied.
"Impossible!" said the Persian. "She is in the harem. I cannot take you
there!"
"But how can I tell you what is the matter with her if I do not see her?"
"Give me a piece of that wonderful wet paper, perhaps it will cure her."
"Effendi," said the Usebashe, turning to the Persian, "you cannot tell
a horse's age without looking into his mouth. The Frank cannot tell your
wife's ailments without looking at her tongue."
A consultation took place between my host and some other Persian
visitors. It was at length agreed that, as a hakim, I might be admitted
into the harem.
In the meantime, a servant brought in a _samovar_ (tea-urn), which the
proprietor had purchased at Erivan; and whilst the Usebashe and myself
were drinking tea, with lemon-juice instead of cream—as is the custom
in Persia as well as in Russia—my host left the room and proceeded to
the harem to announce to his wife that I would see her.
Presently he returned, and, taking my hand, helped me to rise from the
ground. Then, going first, he led the way across a yard, surrounded by
a high wall and planted with fruit-trees, to a detached building, which
I had previously thought was a mosque.
"This is the harem," said the proprietor. We entered an outer room, he
drew a thick curtain which hung against one of the walls. An opening now
appeared: stooping low, I entered the inner apartment. It was furnished,
or rather unfurnished, like the one set apart for the Usebashe and
myself. A pan of live charcoal stood in one corner. In the other,
reclining on a quantity of silk cushions, was the wife of my host.
She was enveloped from head to foot in a sheet made of some gauze-like
material. There were so many folds that it was impossible to distinguish
her features or even divine the contour of her form. Her feet, which
were very small and stockingless, were exposed to view. She had taken
them out of two tiny white slippers which lay by the side of the
charcoal pan, and was nervously tapping the ground with her heel.
"She is alarmed," said my host. "Be not alarmed," he added, turning to
his wife. "It is the hakim who has come to make you well."
These remarks did not tranquillize the lady. Her heel tapped the
ground more quickly than before, the whole of her body shook like an
aspen-leaf.
"She has never seen any man save myself in the harem," said her husband;
"and you—you are a European."
"What is the nature of her illness?"
"She is in a delicate state of health."
"Can I look at her tongue?"
There was a whispered conversation with the lady. By this time she was
a little more calm. Removing the folds of her veil, she allowed the tip
of a very red little tongue to escape from her lips.
"Well, what do you think of it?" said my host, who was taking the
greatest interest in these proceedings.
"It is a nice tongue; but now I must see her eyes."
"Why her eyes?"
"Because she may have what is called jaundice, I must see if her eye is
yellow."
"Perhaps she had better expose the whole face," said the Persian.
"Perhaps she had," I remarked.
And the poor little lady, whose nerves were now less excited, slowly
unwound the folds of muslin from around her head. She was certainly
pretty, and had very regular features, whilst a pair of large black
eyes, which looked through me as I gazed on them, were twinkling with
an air of humour more than of fear.
She understood Turkish well, as she came from the border, and, looking
at me, said something in a low voice.
"She feels better already," said my host. "The sight of you has done
her good, when you have given her some medicine, she will doubtless be
quite well."
"What is the matter with you?" I said, turning to the patient.
She blushed. Her husband then remarked that she fancied strange dishes
at her meals, and in fact was delicate.
It gradually dawned upon me what the nature of her malady was, and
the more particularly as I was informed by my host that they had been
married but a very few months.
"I have no medicine for your complaint," I remarked.
"No medicine!" said the Persian indignantly. "Mohammed has shown me the
bottles and the little boxes. Besides that, you have the wet paper!"
"A mustard plaster would be useless."
"But she must have something!" said the husband.
Now, my medicine-chest was very limited in its contents. It merely
contained cholera medicine, pills, and a few ounces of quinine, besides
the prepared mustard plasters.
A pill, in the lady's condition, would not have been safe: I could not
have answered for the consequences. Cholera mixture might have been
equally disastrous in its effects. Quinine, I thought, could not do any
harm; it is exceedingly nasty, an infinitesimally small dose leaves a
very disagreeable taste in the mouth.
"You shall have some medicine," I observed. "Please God it will do you
good."
"Inshallah! Inshallah!" replied my host devoutly; and accompanying me to
the room prepared for the Usebashe and myself, I gave him three grains
of quinine, to be taken in three doses, one grain in each dose.
"Will it do her much good?" inquired the Persian.
"That depends upon Allah," I remarked.
"Of course it does," said my host, and taking the medicine, he returned
to his seraglio.
As we were leaving the house, I observed a great commotion amidst my
host's servants. Mohammed was some time before he joined our party.
"What was the matter?" I asked.
"Effendi, they are sons of the devil, these Persians!" vociferated my
man indignantly. "I waited behind to give them my lord's baksheesh,
but they were greedy creatures, and one—a strong man—snatched all the
paras out of my hand, and thrust the money in his waist-belt. The others
cursed and called him many dogs, but the fellow did not care. They then
wanted me to give them more money; I had none to bestow. They are like
jackals, these Persians. They would cut a man's throat as soon as eat
a pillaff!"