THE PADISHAH
Herant was at home when they returned from the Sweet Waters of Europe.
He was delighted to see Armenouhi, and she pleased them all by her
recital of the events of the afternoon. Badiark, now Hassan Bey, was
mentioned, and as if she saw some reference to him in the story of the
gypsy, she spread a handful of pistachio nuts in her lap, and repeated
what the fortune teller had said.
“Gypsies often say strange things, Armenouhi,” said Herant, “but they
seldom refuse money. How should you like to see the Padishah?” he
asked, changing the conversation to dispel from her mind the unpleasant
thought of Hassan and the gypsy.
“Oh, may we?”
Like other high officials who wish to retain the favor of the Sultan,
Herant frequently attended Salamlik on Fridays, when His Majesty
leaves Yildiz and goes to the mosque of the Hamidieh, adjoining the
palace grounds, to witness the weekly prayer in his behalf. To please
Armenouhi, it was decided that on the morrow they should all attend the
ceremony.
When Herant and his little party neared the Galata bridge, they found
long lines of powerfully built soldiers, headed by wildly screeching
buglers and a military band, flying the sacred green flag of Islam,
marching toward Yildiz. At Dolma Bachtche the streets were crowded
with carriages conveying tourists, closely veiled Turkish ladies, or
gorgeously decorated officials, all of whom were ascending the hill to
Yildiz.
Herant found a place in the front row of carriages, facing the street
that leads from the palace to the mosque. Column after column of
cavalry and infantry came marching in from every direction. The crowd
of spectators was rapidly increasing, and occasionally a carriage
with a picturesque kavass perched on the high seat with the driver,
approached the stand opposite the mosque to leave an ambassador and
his family. Shabbily dressed spies worked their way among the crowded
people, peering about to confiscate any opera glasses or cameras;
for they are not allowed at the ceremony. The hurrying workmen were
sprinkling sand along the street over which the Sultan would drive, and
the soldiers were packing themselves more tightly together, to protect
His Majesty, as by a solid wall, from those who had gathered there to
see him.
When the sun approached the zenith, the spectators stood up in their
carriages to obtain a better view. The soldiers cast their eyes to the
ground, forbidden as they were to glance at the face of the “Shadow of
Allah” as he passed. Takvor and Armenouhi, from the driver’s box, were
straining their eyes to see every detail, while Herant and Yester were
standing on the seat behind them.
“Here they come,” said Takvor in a whisper, when the great white gate
at the end of the street swung open.
Horsemen appeared, followed by a carriage. Shrinking back as if hiding
from the eyes of his subjects, was a small dark figure. Only once did
it lean forward to bow as it passed the ambassadors’ stand. It was a
slight, hollow-chested, round-shouldered form; the great, round fez
was jammed down over the head to the ears; the eyes were deeply sunk;
the under lip protruded; the immense hooked nose pointed to Armenian
ancestry; the cheeks were hollow, and the skin sallow; and the beard,
dyed brown with henna, was long and unkempt.
“Can that shriveled old man be the great Padishah?” thought Armenouhi.
“Why should he seem so timid when so many of his soldiers are here to
protect him? And I thought he was handsome and brave!”
“Should you not like to be a houri in the Padishah’s paradise?”
whispered Herant, as he noticed her expression of surprise.
Armenouhi shuddered.
The Sultan’s carriage passed quickly through the gateway into the yard,
stopped before the entrance to the mosque, and the slight, stooping
figure quickly disappeared within, not to pray, but to sit by a little
latticed window, whence unseen he might observe the multitude gathered
without, while others prayed for him.
The week following their visit to Salamlik passed all too quickly for
Takvor. Late in the afternoon of the day preceding his departure,
he was strolling with Armenouhi over the height of the Ok Meidan.
Everywhere, as usual, little groups of Jews were gathered on the
hilltop. In the distance, two Englishmen, followed by their caddies,
were playing golf. The girls from the Scotch mission school were
removing their tennis net, preparing to return. Takvor and Armenouhi,
wishing to be alone, went to the farthest slope of the hill.
“There is the Wishing Stone,” and Takvor pointed to a marble column
enclosed by four other columns. “The Moslems say that if you can kiss
the inner column, your wish will be fulfilled. Do you want to try it?”
“Yes, indeed;” and they took their way to the spot.
Armenouhi sought in vain to press her face between the outer columns
and kiss the one within, and she gave it up in despair. They were about
to pass on when Takvor noticed that the outer columns tapered toward
the top. He climbed the pedestal and was able to touch the inner column
with his lips. Armenouhi’s wish should also come to pass; climbing on
his back, she too kissed the stone. Without either asking the other
what had been wished, they ascended the height overlooking the Golden
Horn. The glorious rays of the setting sun cast their brilliant hue
over the beautiful landscape at their feet, and myriads of birds were
flying in the valley.
“To-morrow, Armenouhi, I am to leave all this; will you write to me
often?”
“As often as you write to me.”
He put his arms about her and drew her to him, and their lips met for
the first time. He then took her hand, and they went silently down the
hill.