THE CHARM
Armenouhi finished her studies in June. Although the rumor of Hassan’s
wooing had spread among the students, it did nothing more than arouse
the pity of her friends. Nobody could do aught for her. The school
could no longer shelter her; no foreign government could prevent one
Turkish subject from marrying another; and her own government would not
protect her. Singly and alone she might resist the pasha for a time,
but at last she would be forced to yield.
Hoping that the pasha had forgotten his fancy, Armenouhi returned to
her aunt Vartouhi. While standing in the doorway, as the driver lifted
her box from the carriage, she saw the spy watching her from the
opposite side of the street. Her heart sank, and hurrying within, she
closed and bolted the door, as if to shut out her fears.
Not again that day did the spy appear; nor did Hassan make himself
conspicuous by staring across from his window; and the aunt expressed
the opinion that his affection had probably reverted to his wives.
Armenouhi’s peace of mind, however, was of brief duration; for on
the next day, the pasha, unannounced, was ushered by the Armenian
servant into the room where she and her aunt were sitting. As on his
former visit, he was dressed as if to attend a ceremony of state, and
bowing politely, moved to a seat. Whatever coldness appeared in the
conversation of the two women was removed by his extreme affability.
With diplomatic skill he worked his way to the subject foremost in his
mind, until it seemed to the aunt that he had come to dispell the harsh
impressions which his previous visit had occasioned, when he suddenly
asked if she had reconsidered his proposal. The question, though
occasioning no great surprise, was put so unexpectedly that Vartouhi
hesitated. Her face reddened, and her nervous fingers dug their nails
into the palms of her clenched hands. When she finally spoke, she
repeated what she had said before. Hassan listened politely, and smiled.
“You are in my way, are you?” he asked, as he arose; and bowing
courteously, he left the room.
The Oriental mind is prolific when devising methods to remove an
obstacle that interferes with the accomplishment of a purpose.
Principle, conscience, and justice are not to be considered; deceit,
theft, and even murder, are regarded legitimate means. The pasha found
Aunt Vartouhi an obstacle in his way. Why should he not remove that
obstacle, and at once? A little powdered glass in a cup of coffee, or,
better still, the old aristocratic way, a pulverized diamond, would
accomplish the end. Such methods, though sure, were too slow; a few
drops of a tasteless drug were far more speedy.
Following the Armenian servant to the market, the pasha’s spy placed
a big mejidieh and a small vial in his hand. The boy looked at them,
grinned at the mejidieh, bound it in the corner of his girdle, and then
looked inquiringly at the vial.
“It is a charm for your old mistress,” said the spy.
“A charm?” asked the credulous boy.
“It will make her kind to you and to me, and she will treat us better
after she has drunk it.”
The boy hesitated.
“If you don’t wish to give her the charm, let me have the mejidieh,”
and he held out his hand for the money.
“I will give it to her,” came the quick reply, for the lad feared he
should lose the silver piece.
“It is only for the old woman,” whispered the spy; “not for the girl;
if you give it to her, the charm will be broken. Pour it all into the
old woman’s coffee, but the girl must not touch it. Here is another
mejidieh.”
He bound the second coin with the first, and purchasing a few
vegetables for the evening meal, returned home to work the charm which
would transform the occasional impatient words of his mistress into
words of perpetual kindness and love.
“Oh, what pain, what pain!” groaned the aunt, when Armenouhi entered
her room the next morning.
Hot poultices and massage were applied, but her distress steadily
increased. The servant boy was sent to a neighboring house for a
physician. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, and an hour,
yet neither the boy nor the physician appeared, and the poor aunt was
no longer able to speak. There was one more agonizing groan, one last
spasm, and the contracted muscles of her distorted face relaxed. The
charm had worked; Aunt Vartouhi was dead. Horrified at the suspicion
that she had been poisoned, Armenouhi was leaning silently over the
body when the boy entered.
“We could not find a doctor.”
“Where have you been?”
“Everywhere. The pasha’s servant knows all the doctors, but he could
not find any of them at home.”
He walked over to the motionless form on the bed.
“She is dead,” said Armenouhi. “She must have been poisoned.”
With terror stamped on his ashen face, the boy staggered to the door,
and left the room and the house to lose himself in the great city; he
had learned the meaning of the charm.
The funeral took place that very day, for in Turkey the dead may not
remain unburied after sundown.
“Shall you return to that house to-night?” asked the priest, when the
brief service was ended.
“I must,” replied Armenouhi, “for I have nowhere else to go.”
“Then you shall come with me,” and he led her to his waiting carriage.