CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XIXNever in her life had Barakah seen so many strange old women. There were always four or five of them within her chamber, squatting on mats along the wall, conversing in low tones, ready at a breath to rearrange her pillows, or fetch some posset that was ordered for her. They were all of apelike ugliness, and, going barefoot, moved as noiselessly as ghosts.The Frankish doctor—an Italian—had pronounced her much too frail to nurse her baby—a decision which excited such dependants of the house as were eligible for the post of foster-mother. This was a great prize, kinship by milk, among the Muslims, being esteemed as genuine and binding as by blood. The wet-nurse thus became a near relation of the family, and all her race had claims upon its bounty. Barakah felt jealous of the woman who usurped her function, till she heard from Fitnah Khânum that the choice had fallen on the wife of her old friend Ghandûr. The girl, a former slave of the harîm, was then presented to her, the baby in her arms; and won her heart by her excessive gratitude. She wastouched, too, by the transports of Ghandûr, who sang thanksgiving to her lattice in his simple way. His chant was something in this manner:“The sun is in my eyes! O happy day!I grope as one half-blind. Behold the bounty of my lord!I, the poor slave of Allah,Am now the father of his son Abdallah,My wife the mother of his son, by leave of Allah,My little boy the brother of a child most blest, in sh´Allah!The gracious consort of my lord, istaghfar Allah!Has granted to our lowliness a share in her good gift from Allah.May Allah bless my lord and lady in their noble offspring, and preserve his life to be the luminary of our future days.”She liked to hear him, his voice so near at hand produced a sense of true devotion and security. Missing his chant upon the following day, she inquired what had become of him. She was informed that, consequent upon his wife’s preferment, he had been appointed to a small position in the Government. It made her sad.Her son was given over to the harîm midwives to fulfil no end of ceremonies destined to frustrate the powers of evil. For a week he was not left alone or in the dark a single second. They carried him in a procession through the house, his future kingdom, and as each door was opened, sprinkled salt mixed with the seven seeds to exorcize the jinn who lurked within. Soon after birth his face had been defiled with certain powders, whichBarakah could not persuade the women to wash off. It was a necessary precaution, they assured her, against jealous powers of darkness who, if they had an inkling of his beauty, would destroy him. Chief among these was the discarded wife of Adam, alluded to as El Carînah (the companion), the cause of man’s first fall, who hates Eve’s daughters and resents their great fertility. Where a child seems lovely and the mother shows delight in its appearance, she attacks them both; if, on the contrary, she sees it ugly and hears words of disappointment, she lets it live to spite the seed of Adam. For one so powerful, she must be very stupid to be taken in by such pretences, Barakah remarked; but they cried out that such was not the case, but Allah in His mercy had set limits to her sight and hearing. Each day the infant was the central figure in some ancient rite believed essential to its welfare.As Barakah lay in bed and watched the pattern of the lattice, her whole existence passing like a dream before her, she sought to reconcile her former English with her present Eastern life. Her son was a fine boy, they all assured her. It saddened her that she had no relations of her own to take a pride in him. In this mood she asked Yûsuf to write a little note to Mrs. Cameron entreating her to come one day and see the baby. He did so, and the answer was that she would come with pleasure.Elated by the prospect of this visit, Barakah wished to have her offspring made presentable; but when she gave command to wash his face and wrap him in nice clothes, the goodies screamed aloud, and fetched the lady Fitnah to remonstrate with her. She gave way, perforce; and Mrs. Cameron beheld the infant at his worst.The visitor was very kind in her address to Barakah; but, when she held the baby for a minute, looking down at it, the latter, watching keenly, saw upon her face a quiver of extreme disfavour mixed with pity. The whiteness of her hands and face showed the child yellow; Barakah had thought him white as snow till then. A flush of anger and humiliation reached her brain.“His face is dirty, the poor little one! Our Lord preserve him!” the visitor remarked in Arabic as she returned the baby to his nurse; at which there was an outburst of applause from the onlookers. They called down blessings on the lady’s head, desiring she might have herself a thousand children, not like this one, puny and unpleasant, but most beautiful.Barakah, consumed with rage, murmured hoarsely in response to Mrs. Cameron’s farewell. The moment she was gone she burst out weeping.“She did not like the child! She scorned my son, because he is not altogether white as she is.”“Thou mistakest, O my dear! Be comforted!” cried Fitnah Khânum, while the other women round her exchanged pitying glances.“Thou art not yet perfect in our prudent customs; but thy friend, though not a Muslimah, has learnt them, having been much longer in the land. Hast thou forgotten my instructions touching El Carînah? Nor is she alone to be redoubted, since Allah Himself abhors a boastful spirit, and dishonours those who make too much of any creature....”“O Lord! I know all that!” wailed Barakah. “But she disliked my child, despised him! I—I saw it!”Conviction that the portion of the human race from which she sprang beheld her son as little better than a monkey, tortured Barakah. She had looked upon him as a mediator, but now sought revenge. Hot, feverish dreams of hate disturbed her rest; and when a spell of khamsîn weather robbed the world of energy she grew as weak and fretful as her thoughts were wild.Already Barakah had kept her bed a fortnight longer than any Eastern woman would have dreamt of doing after childbirth. The lady Fitnah, seeing she did not gain strength, believed that some debilitating vile afrît was in her. The Frankish doctor said there was no cause for fear. She called him fool and worse, in her own circle; since by his disregard or ignorance of pious formulas he had left the door ajar for evil spirits. Resolvedto stop the mischief, when no man was by she hung a plant of garlic in the room, burnt potent odours till its air grew suffocating, and dosed the patient with a paste compounded of the dust of mummies mixed with human milk. When these means failed to drive away the enemy, she sat down in despair among her cronies, and braced herself to try the last resort of all.This was the “zâr”—a very awful ceremony, of which she was exceedingly afraid. Her wish to hold it in the house—risking the Pasha’s favour, and her life through terror—was proof of her devoted love for Barakah. The dear one must be healed at any price.Accordingly, she summoned negresses of those who hold familiar intercourse with demons, bought a kid and several fowls alive, and made arrangements to secure the sick-room to herself and her confederates for two good hours upon a certain afternoon.Barakah was roused out of a troubled sleep by women moving out the furniture from both bedchamber and salon, and covering the floor with worn-out linen and the cheapest matting. They went, and she lay wondering, when Fitnah Khânum came and bade her have no fear. The ceremony she was going to witness was a potent medicine, well calculated to restore her health completely. Many servants, female children, and familiars of the household trooped in with noiseless feet andsquatted down along the wall. Then came a group of half a dozen negresses, fantastically dressed in rags of finery, with ringing anklets; one of whom embraced a struggling little goat, while the others bore live chickens by the feet. Bold-eyed and with a swaggering gait, they marched up to the bed, and seemed to offer up the fowls and kid to Barakah, who could not understand the words they uttered in a screeching chant. They then danced back to the adjoining room, of which the door stood open. Upon the threshold madness seemed to seize them. They fell upon the kid with cries of glee. The creature, bleating piteously, was flung into an earthen bowl placed there in readiness. Amid mad laughter knives were brandished and brought down, hands helping to extract the creature’s life. The fowls were likewise gashed and torn asunder; the matting round grew foul with steaming entrails. Another minute and the slayers reappeared, their black arms purpled to the elbow, dripping blood, their faces and their lips defiled with it; and then began a devilish dance of self-abandonment, all the more horrible for its approach to beauty. The sleek skin of the dancers caught blue lights; their fixed eyes gleamed enormous, like those painted on the lids of mummies. Barakah believed herself in hell, for ever lost; it was as if an iron hand compressed her throat. Her heart beat wildly. One of the women, the most shameless, lurchedtowards her, stretching out a blood-stained hand. Her heart gave one tremendous beat and then stood still.When she recovered consciousness it was to find the lady Fitnah bending over her. The negresses had gone, the room was cleansed, the furniture replaced exactly as before. She might have thought she had been dreaming had not Yûsuf’s mother whispered eagerly:“Breathe not a word to Yûsuf or our lord the Pasha. Deny by Allah that thou sawest anything. If not, the afrît which we have with pains extracted will return and kill thee.”In her weak state of mind, oppressed with dreadful and disgusting images, Barakah believed the words and shuddered. She was ill for weeks.

Never in her life had Barakah seen so many strange old women. There were always four or five of them within her chamber, squatting on mats along the wall, conversing in low tones, ready at a breath to rearrange her pillows, or fetch some posset that was ordered for her. They were all of apelike ugliness, and, going barefoot, moved as noiselessly as ghosts.

The Frankish doctor—an Italian—had pronounced her much too frail to nurse her baby—a decision which excited such dependants of the house as were eligible for the post of foster-mother. This was a great prize, kinship by milk, among the Muslims, being esteemed as genuine and binding as by blood. The wet-nurse thus became a near relation of the family, and all her race had claims upon its bounty. Barakah felt jealous of the woman who usurped her function, till she heard from Fitnah Khânum that the choice had fallen on the wife of her old friend Ghandûr. The girl, a former slave of the harîm, was then presented to her, the baby in her arms; and won her heart by her excessive gratitude. She wastouched, too, by the transports of Ghandûr, who sang thanksgiving to her lattice in his simple way. His chant was something in this manner:

“The sun is in my eyes! O happy day!I grope as one half-blind. Behold the bounty of my lord!I, the poor slave of Allah,Am now the father of his son Abdallah,My wife the mother of his son, by leave of Allah,My little boy the brother of a child most blest, in sh´Allah!The gracious consort of my lord, istaghfar Allah!Has granted to our lowliness a share in her good gift from Allah.May Allah bless my lord and lady in their noble offspring, and preserve his life to be the luminary of our future days.”

“The sun is in my eyes! O happy day!

I grope as one half-blind. Behold the bounty of my lord!

I, the poor slave of Allah,

Am now the father of his son Abdallah,

My wife the mother of his son, by leave of Allah,

My little boy the brother of a child most blest, in sh´Allah!

The gracious consort of my lord, istaghfar Allah!

Has granted to our lowliness a share in her good gift from Allah.

May Allah bless my lord and lady in their noble offspring, and preserve his life to be the luminary of our future days.”

She liked to hear him, his voice so near at hand produced a sense of true devotion and security. Missing his chant upon the following day, she inquired what had become of him. She was informed that, consequent upon his wife’s preferment, he had been appointed to a small position in the Government. It made her sad.

Her son was given over to the harîm midwives to fulfil no end of ceremonies destined to frustrate the powers of evil. For a week he was not left alone or in the dark a single second. They carried him in a procession through the house, his future kingdom, and as each door was opened, sprinkled salt mixed with the seven seeds to exorcize the jinn who lurked within. Soon after birth his face had been defiled with certain powders, whichBarakah could not persuade the women to wash off. It was a necessary precaution, they assured her, against jealous powers of darkness who, if they had an inkling of his beauty, would destroy him. Chief among these was the discarded wife of Adam, alluded to as El Carînah (the companion), the cause of man’s first fall, who hates Eve’s daughters and resents their great fertility. Where a child seems lovely and the mother shows delight in its appearance, she attacks them both; if, on the contrary, she sees it ugly and hears words of disappointment, she lets it live to spite the seed of Adam. For one so powerful, she must be very stupid to be taken in by such pretences, Barakah remarked; but they cried out that such was not the case, but Allah in His mercy had set limits to her sight and hearing. Each day the infant was the central figure in some ancient rite believed essential to its welfare.

As Barakah lay in bed and watched the pattern of the lattice, her whole existence passing like a dream before her, she sought to reconcile her former English with her present Eastern life. Her son was a fine boy, they all assured her. It saddened her that she had no relations of her own to take a pride in him. In this mood she asked Yûsuf to write a little note to Mrs. Cameron entreating her to come one day and see the baby. He did so, and the answer was that she would come with pleasure.

Elated by the prospect of this visit, Barakah wished to have her offspring made presentable; but when she gave command to wash his face and wrap him in nice clothes, the goodies screamed aloud, and fetched the lady Fitnah to remonstrate with her. She gave way, perforce; and Mrs. Cameron beheld the infant at his worst.

The visitor was very kind in her address to Barakah; but, when she held the baby for a minute, looking down at it, the latter, watching keenly, saw upon her face a quiver of extreme disfavour mixed with pity. The whiteness of her hands and face showed the child yellow; Barakah had thought him white as snow till then. A flush of anger and humiliation reached her brain.

“His face is dirty, the poor little one! Our Lord preserve him!” the visitor remarked in Arabic as she returned the baby to his nurse; at which there was an outburst of applause from the onlookers. They called down blessings on the lady’s head, desiring she might have herself a thousand children, not like this one, puny and unpleasant, but most beautiful.

Barakah, consumed with rage, murmured hoarsely in response to Mrs. Cameron’s farewell. The moment she was gone she burst out weeping.

“She did not like the child! She scorned my son, because he is not altogether white as she is.”

“Thou mistakest, O my dear! Be comforted!” cried Fitnah Khânum, while the other women round her exchanged pitying glances.

“Thou art not yet perfect in our prudent customs; but thy friend, though not a Muslimah, has learnt them, having been much longer in the land. Hast thou forgotten my instructions touching El Carînah? Nor is she alone to be redoubted, since Allah Himself abhors a boastful spirit, and dishonours those who make too much of any creature....”

“O Lord! I know all that!” wailed Barakah. “But she disliked my child, despised him! I—I saw it!”

Conviction that the portion of the human race from which she sprang beheld her son as little better than a monkey, tortured Barakah. She had looked upon him as a mediator, but now sought revenge. Hot, feverish dreams of hate disturbed her rest; and when a spell of khamsîn weather robbed the world of energy she grew as weak and fretful as her thoughts were wild.

Already Barakah had kept her bed a fortnight longer than any Eastern woman would have dreamt of doing after childbirth. The lady Fitnah, seeing she did not gain strength, believed that some debilitating vile afrît was in her. The Frankish doctor said there was no cause for fear. She called him fool and worse, in her own circle; since by his disregard or ignorance of pious formulas he had left the door ajar for evil spirits. Resolvedto stop the mischief, when no man was by she hung a plant of garlic in the room, burnt potent odours till its air grew suffocating, and dosed the patient with a paste compounded of the dust of mummies mixed with human milk. When these means failed to drive away the enemy, she sat down in despair among her cronies, and braced herself to try the last resort of all.

This was the “zâr”—a very awful ceremony, of which she was exceedingly afraid. Her wish to hold it in the house—risking the Pasha’s favour, and her life through terror—was proof of her devoted love for Barakah. The dear one must be healed at any price.

Accordingly, she summoned negresses of those who hold familiar intercourse with demons, bought a kid and several fowls alive, and made arrangements to secure the sick-room to herself and her confederates for two good hours upon a certain afternoon.

Barakah was roused out of a troubled sleep by women moving out the furniture from both bedchamber and salon, and covering the floor with worn-out linen and the cheapest matting. They went, and she lay wondering, when Fitnah Khânum came and bade her have no fear. The ceremony she was going to witness was a potent medicine, well calculated to restore her health completely. Many servants, female children, and familiars of the household trooped in with noiseless feet andsquatted down along the wall. Then came a group of half a dozen negresses, fantastically dressed in rags of finery, with ringing anklets; one of whom embraced a struggling little goat, while the others bore live chickens by the feet. Bold-eyed and with a swaggering gait, they marched up to the bed, and seemed to offer up the fowls and kid to Barakah, who could not understand the words they uttered in a screeching chant. They then danced back to the adjoining room, of which the door stood open. Upon the threshold madness seemed to seize them. They fell upon the kid with cries of glee. The creature, bleating piteously, was flung into an earthen bowl placed there in readiness. Amid mad laughter knives were brandished and brought down, hands helping to extract the creature’s life. The fowls were likewise gashed and torn asunder; the matting round grew foul with steaming entrails. Another minute and the slayers reappeared, their black arms purpled to the elbow, dripping blood, their faces and their lips defiled with it; and then began a devilish dance of self-abandonment, all the more horrible for its approach to beauty. The sleek skin of the dancers caught blue lights; their fixed eyes gleamed enormous, like those painted on the lids of mummies. Barakah believed herself in hell, for ever lost; it was as if an iron hand compressed her throat. Her heart beat wildly. One of the women, the most shameless, lurchedtowards her, stretching out a blood-stained hand. Her heart gave one tremendous beat and then stood still.

When she recovered consciousness it was to find the lady Fitnah bending over her. The negresses had gone, the room was cleansed, the furniture replaced exactly as before. She might have thought she had been dreaming had not Yûsuf’s mother whispered eagerly:

“Breathe not a word to Yûsuf or our lord the Pasha. Deny by Allah that thou sawest anything. If not, the afrît which we have with pains extracted will return and kill thee.”

In her weak state of mind, oppressed with dreadful and disgusting images, Barakah believed the words and shuddered. She was ill for weeks.

CHAPTER XXDuring the heat of summer, part of the harîm, consisting of the ladies Barakah and Fitnah, with their children and attendants, stayed at a farm belonging to the Pasha, on the banks of the Nile, near Benha. The journey thither was performed on donkeys in a long procession with a eunuch at its head and tail, a eunuch boy leading the donkey of each lady, that she might have freedom to hold up her sunshade and munch nuts and sweetstuff. The slave-girls, some of them, rode two together; they waxed hilarious, exchanging jests with all who passed them on the dyke. Their going raised a goodly cloud of dust. The house to which they went was large and formal, none too clean, though very sparsely furnished. Behind it was a filthy yard hemmed in by hovels, where dwelt the fellâhîn who worked the farm. Before it was a garden of fruit trees, and beyond that a plantation of young date-palms. There was also a big tree beside a water-wheel, where the ladies took their pleasure in the shade. The land was absolutely flat in all directions, but diversified in hue by divers crops, broken here and there by clumps of trees and squat mud villages.Here manners were relaxed; for all the peasant women went unveiled, and their example made the slaves less strict than in the city. The lady Fitnah, being of the country, took delight in talking with the villagers, both men and women, and thus, though most correct in her apparel, set the fashion of unbending. Yûsuf, who had now a Government appointment, and the Pasha came to see them when they had the leisure; and Ghandûr also travelled down to see his wife.To please the lady Fitnah, Barakah gave French and English lessons to the children in the mornings under the great tree, when many of the servants also gathered round and tried to learn. She was begged to be particularly strict with Hamdi, whom the lady Fitnah seemed to think the soul of wickedness, as indeed did everybody else, making his life a burden with perpetual scolding.This boy, her husband’s younger brother, was attached to Barakah as the only one who never shook him by the neck or cursed him. He told her all his woes, and brought her offerings of curious things he found in his illicit rambles. He was always straying, though with no worse object, he asserted, than the wish to be alone. His lady mother called him “stupid Turk,” vowing that he was all his father’s child, and she herself had neither part nor lot in him; though Hamdi was the true Egyptian adolescent, still but half awake, a slave to every breeze, to every odour, and fascinated bythe sight of gleaming objects. He would sit still for hours in contemplation of a sunlit blade of grass; at other times he would walk miles, drawn on invisibly, with great brown eyes which seemed to harbour visions. Barakah found him gentle and obedient. In truth, his only wickedness that she could see consisted in resentment of shrill interruptions. At such times he would battle blindly with assailants, cursing them, and crying out, in his despair:“Am I not a man full-grown? Do I not sleep in the selamlik? Then let me be, or it shall be the worse for you, by Allah!”“A man full-grown, thou sayest?” screamed the lady Fitnah one evening when he came home soaked in mud from head to foot. “Listen, O child of dogs, O malefactor! Knowest thou what I shall do on our return to town? I shall marry thee at once to Na’imah, thy uncle’s child. Thy clothes are in a filthy state, thy tassel gone. Thou hast been sprawling in some ditch, O piggish boy! By the Prophet, I shall do as I have said. Sure, matrimony is the only cure for one like thee. Thou shalt wed Na’imah.”“Allah forbid!” exclaimed the lad with fervour; whereat the ladies and the servants burst out laughing; for Na’imah, Leylah Khânum’s youngest daughter, had been Hamdi’s chief tormentor there at home, disturbing his still dreams with impish glee, and quick to vanish.“Is it not cruel thus to hound me?” the unlucky boy asked Barakah. “I do no wrong; they interfere with me. And now my mother threatens to unite me to the most hateful daughter of a dog that ever yelped and bit.”The month of Ramadan came on them in their country life; and the long hours of heat without a bite or sup made everybody irritable except Barakah and the wife of Ghandûr, who were both exempt from fasting—the former as an invalid, the latter as a nursing-mother. The slave-girls lost their usual delight in birds and greenery. A gun fired in the distant market-town announced the moment of release in the first bloom of night; but the party failed to hear it sometimes, and looked out for the lighting of the lamps around a village mosque across the plain. At once arose vast sighs of praise to Allah; cigarettes, prepared in readiness, were seized and lighted; water was handed round and food set out.It was at that blest hour upon a certain evening of the sacred month that a rapturous surprise befell the party. A little cavalcade was seen approaching on the dyke. It consisted of two donkeys and a baggage mule. A woman sat upon the foremost donkey; on the second rode two children, boy and girl; while the mule was led by a black-bearded, turbaned man of noble presence. The ladies, sitting in the garden, peered, then shouted:“Tâhir! It is Tâhir! Tâhir, the great singer! O most blessed day! Enter, O son of honour! Deign to favour us!”Learning that the master of the house was absent, Tâhir would not enter, but sought a lodging in the hovels of the fellâhîn, whither a rich meal was sent to him. But after supper he came up into the garden with his lute, followed timidly by all the population of the hamlet; and his wife and children stole into the room where all the women sat with windows open, looking forward to the concert. Once more his little daughter drew to Barakah, and, having kissed her hand, sat down and leaned against her. “I love thee,” she explained, with a soft look; and then with a wide yawn exclaimed: “I am so tired!” Barakah put her arm about her, and the child seemed happy. She did not go to sleep this time, however, but lay still, fondling her protector’s hand, and gazing up at the great stars.“See, what a man he is!” exclaimed the Galla slave, Fatûmah, her hand upon the shoulder of her mistress, all respect forgotten in intense excitement. “He does not even stay to tune his lute. All that is for the common singers. He is much above it. By Allah, he would sing to a dog’s howl and make it musical.”One twang of the lute, and then the magic voice arose from out the shadow of the trees. It gave a living spirit to the starlight, a soul to all thenights that ever were or would be. It seemed illumination, yet was all of mystery; it gave the listener a sense of floating disembodied.Once when Tâhir paused to rest, the voice of Hamdi was heard in the garden, begging for leave to hold his lute and play it.“That boy again! Cut short his life!” cried Fitnah Khânum. “Devoid of manners as of sensibility. Remove him quickly!”But Tâhir answered pleasantly: “Here, O my son! Take it and play for me. Observe the measure. Strike loudly in the pauses, softly while I sing.” And Fatûmah, quite beside herself, exclaimed:“Behold the man he is! He can dispense with all things. That which would ruin the performance of another singer is a joy to him.”Hamdi acquitted himself fairly well of the task of accompaniment and won a word of praise from Tâhir, which so moved him that when the singer was departing the next morning early, he stole out to him, and, looking round to ascertain that he was heard of none save Barakah, entreated:“Take me with thee, O my uncle. Instruct me, let me play for thee for ever. This girl, thy daughter, this little sugar-plum, shall be my bride. Then we can all live happily together.”“The honour is too high for us, O my small lord!” the singer answered, with his charmingsmile. “Thy lot in life is better far, in sh´Allah, than that of us poor players.”“But they say that thou canst earn a hundred pounds a night.”“Seldom as much as that, beloved. And my living is at Allah’s pleasure. It is a gift from Him, to whom be praise. Come to me four years hence, and we will think about it.”With a dignified salute he started off; the children, on their donkey, waved their hands and screamed farewell. Hamdi was left standing disappointed and a trifle injured.“O my misfortune!” he exclaimed to Barakah. “I would have given my right hand to go with him. Like that I could escape from persecution and accursed Na’imah, and dwell for ever in the sound of music which transports my soul. Allah is greatest!”And he heaved a mighty sigh.When the month of fasting ended, there were mild rejoicings. The fellâhîn fired guns and let off fireworks. The women smoked too much and over-ate themselves, and felt aggrieved at being far from Cairo, where the means of satisfaction were more varied and abundant.Then Yûsuf and the Pasha came and stayed a week; delighted, coming fresh to it, with the unoccupied existence over which the others had begun to yawn. At the end of the week they all returned to Cairo, the procession of the ladieskeeping half a mile behind their lords. The first view of the citadel on one hand, the pyramids of Gîzah on the other, called forth thankful shouts. The coloured, noisy streets, the odours sweet and foul, the atmosphere of teeming life, excited Barakah. She joined in exclamations of delight.While she gazed with strange eyes at her gilded salon, superintending the disposal of her baggage, a letter was presented to her by Fatûmah. It had been given to the latter that same minute by Sawwâb the eunuch, who had had it in safe keeping for two months. It was from Mrs. Cameron.Barakah, frowning, opened it and read:“It grieves me much to learn that you have been seriously ill. I heard of this quite by accident from Doctor Torranelli, whom I chanced to meet at a friend’s house. In some anxiety, I tried to call upon you yesterday, but learnt that you are absent in the country. I trust that the dear baby flourishes. He must be a great comfort and delight to you. Please never forget that I am your sincere friend.”With an exclamation of annoyance, she tore up the note.

During the heat of summer, part of the harîm, consisting of the ladies Barakah and Fitnah, with their children and attendants, stayed at a farm belonging to the Pasha, on the banks of the Nile, near Benha. The journey thither was performed on donkeys in a long procession with a eunuch at its head and tail, a eunuch boy leading the donkey of each lady, that she might have freedom to hold up her sunshade and munch nuts and sweetstuff. The slave-girls, some of them, rode two together; they waxed hilarious, exchanging jests with all who passed them on the dyke. Their going raised a goodly cloud of dust. The house to which they went was large and formal, none too clean, though very sparsely furnished. Behind it was a filthy yard hemmed in by hovels, where dwelt the fellâhîn who worked the farm. Before it was a garden of fruit trees, and beyond that a plantation of young date-palms. There was also a big tree beside a water-wheel, where the ladies took their pleasure in the shade. The land was absolutely flat in all directions, but diversified in hue by divers crops, broken here and there by clumps of trees and squat mud villages.

Here manners were relaxed; for all the peasant women went unveiled, and their example made the slaves less strict than in the city. The lady Fitnah, being of the country, took delight in talking with the villagers, both men and women, and thus, though most correct in her apparel, set the fashion of unbending. Yûsuf, who had now a Government appointment, and the Pasha came to see them when they had the leisure; and Ghandûr also travelled down to see his wife.

To please the lady Fitnah, Barakah gave French and English lessons to the children in the mornings under the great tree, when many of the servants also gathered round and tried to learn. She was begged to be particularly strict with Hamdi, whom the lady Fitnah seemed to think the soul of wickedness, as indeed did everybody else, making his life a burden with perpetual scolding.

This boy, her husband’s younger brother, was attached to Barakah as the only one who never shook him by the neck or cursed him. He told her all his woes, and brought her offerings of curious things he found in his illicit rambles. He was always straying, though with no worse object, he asserted, than the wish to be alone. His lady mother called him “stupid Turk,” vowing that he was all his father’s child, and she herself had neither part nor lot in him; though Hamdi was the true Egyptian adolescent, still but half awake, a slave to every breeze, to every odour, and fascinated bythe sight of gleaming objects. He would sit still for hours in contemplation of a sunlit blade of grass; at other times he would walk miles, drawn on invisibly, with great brown eyes which seemed to harbour visions. Barakah found him gentle and obedient. In truth, his only wickedness that she could see consisted in resentment of shrill interruptions. At such times he would battle blindly with assailants, cursing them, and crying out, in his despair:

“Am I not a man full-grown? Do I not sleep in the selamlik? Then let me be, or it shall be the worse for you, by Allah!”

“A man full-grown, thou sayest?” screamed the lady Fitnah one evening when he came home soaked in mud from head to foot. “Listen, O child of dogs, O malefactor! Knowest thou what I shall do on our return to town? I shall marry thee at once to Na’imah, thy uncle’s child. Thy clothes are in a filthy state, thy tassel gone. Thou hast been sprawling in some ditch, O piggish boy! By the Prophet, I shall do as I have said. Sure, matrimony is the only cure for one like thee. Thou shalt wed Na’imah.”

“Allah forbid!” exclaimed the lad with fervour; whereat the ladies and the servants burst out laughing; for Na’imah, Leylah Khânum’s youngest daughter, had been Hamdi’s chief tormentor there at home, disturbing his still dreams with impish glee, and quick to vanish.

“Is it not cruel thus to hound me?” the unlucky boy asked Barakah. “I do no wrong; they interfere with me. And now my mother threatens to unite me to the most hateful daughter of a dog that ever yelped and bit.”

The month of Ramadan came on them in their country life; and the long hours of heat without a bite or sup made everybody irritable except Barakah and the wife of Ghandûr, who were both exempt from fasting—the former as an invalid, the latter as a nursing-mother. The slave-girls lost their usual delight in birds and greenery. A gun fired in the distant market-town announced the moment of release in the first bloom of night; but the party failed to hear it sometimes, and looked out for the lighting of the lamps around a village mosque across the plain. At once arose vast sighs of praise to Allah; cigarettes, prepared in readiness, were seized and lighted; water was handed round and food set out.

It was at that blest hour upon a certain evening of the sacred month that a rapturous surprise befell the party. A little cavalcade was seen approaching on the dyke. It consisted of two donkeys and a baggage mule. A woman sat upon the foremost donkey; on the second rode two children, boy and girl; while the mule was led by a black-bearded, turbaned man of noble presence. The ladies, sitting in the garden, peered, then shouted:

“Tâhir! It is Tâhir! Tâhir, the great singer! O most blessed day! Enter, O son of honour! Deign to favour us!”

Learning that the master of the house was absent, Tâhir would not enter, but sought a lodging in the hovels of the fellâhîn, whither a rich meal was sent to him. But after supper he came up into the garden with his lute, followed timidly by all the population of the hamlet; and his wife and children stole into the room where all the women sat with windows open, looking forward to the concert. Once more his little daughter drew to Barakah, and, having kissed her hand, sat down and leaned against her. “I love thee,” she explained, with a soft look; and then with a wide yawn exclaimed: “I am so tired!” Barakah put her arm about her, and the child seemed happy. She did not go to sleep this time, however, but lay still, fondling her protector’s hand, and gazing up at the great stars.

“See, what a man he is!” exclaimed the Galla slave, Fatûmah, her hand upon the shoulder of her mistress, all respect forgotten in intense excitement. “He does not even stay to tune his lute. All that is for the common singers. He is much above it. By Allah, he would sing to a dog’s howl and make it musical.”

One twang of the lute, and then the magic voice arose from out the shadow of the trees. It gave a living spirit to the starlight, a soul to all thenights that ever were or would be. It seemed illumination, yet was all of mystery; it gave the listener a sense of floating disembodied.

Once when Tâhir paused to rest, the voice of Hamdi was heard in the garden, begging for leave to hold his lute and play it.

“That boy again! Cut short his life!” cried Fitnah Khânum. “Devoid of manners as of sensibility. Remove him quickly!”

But Tâhir answered pleasantly: “Here, O my son! Take it and play for me. Observe the measure. Strike loudly in the pauses, softly while I sing.” And Fatûmah, quite beside herself, exclaimed:

“Behold the man he is! He can dispense with all things. That which would ruin the performance of another singer is a joy to him.”

Hamdi acquitted himself fairly well of the task of accompaniment and won a word of praise from Tâhir, which so moved him that when the singer was departing the next morning early, he stole out to him, and, looking round to ascertain that he was heard of none save Barakah, entreated:

“Take me with thee, O my uncle. Instruct me, let me play for thee for ever. This girl, thy daughter, this little sugar-plum, shall be my bride. Then we can all live happily together.”

“The honour is too high for us, O my small lord!” the singer answered, with his charmingsmile. “Thy lot in life is better far, in sh´Allah, than that of us poor players.”

“But they say that thou canst earn a hundred pounds a night.”

“Seldom as much as that, beloved. And my living is at Allah’s pleasure. It is a gift from Him, to whom be praise. Come to me four years hence, and we will think about it.”

With a dignified salute he started off; the children, on their donkey, waved their hands and screamed farewell. Hamdi was left standing disappointed and a trifle injured.

“O my misfortune!” he exclaimed to Barakah. “I would have given my right hand to go with him. Like that I could escape from persecution and accursed Na’imah, and dwell for ever in the sound of music which transports my soul. Allah is greatest!”

And he heaved a mighty sigh.

When the month of fasting ended, there were mild rejoicings. The fellâhîn fired guns and let off fireworks. The women smoked too much and over-ate themselves, and felt aggrieved at being far from Cairo, where the means of satisfaction were more varied and abundant.

Then Yûsuf and the Pasha came and stayed a week; delighted, coming fresh to it, with the unoccupied existence over which the others had begun to yawn. At the end of the week they all returned to Cairo, the procession of the ladieskeeping half a mile behind their lords. The first view of the citadel on one hand, the pyramids of Gîzah on the other, called forth thankful shouts. The coloured, noisy streets, the odours sweet and foul, the atmosphere of teeming life, excited Barakah. She joined in exclamations of delight.

While she gazed with strange eyes at her gilded salon, superintending the disposal of her baggage, a letter was presented to her by Fatûmah. It had been given to the latter that same minute by Sawwâb the eunuch, who had had it in safe keeping for two months. It was from Mrs. Cameron.

Barakah, frowning, opened it and read:

“It grieves me much to learn that you have been seriously ill. I heard of this quite by accident from Doctor Torranelli, whom I chanced to meet at a friend’s house. In some anxiety, I tried to call upon you yesterday, but learnt that you are absent in the country. I trust that the dear baby flourishes. He must be a great comfort and delight to you. Please never forget that I am your sincere friend.”

With an exclamation of annoyance, she tore up the note.

CHAPTER XXIThe idea of seeing Mrs. Cameron again was quite intolerable. She therefore wrote that lady a brief note, an asp for venom, designed to terminate acquaintance and to rankle, and plunged into the harîm pleasures with sensations of defiance.One morning, as she lounged upon her cushioned window-seat, smoking her narghileh and listening to the voices wafted with the sunlight through her lattice, Fatûmah came and with a grin announced that Hamdi Bey desired an audience of her Honour. She gave the word, and in came Hamdi, knuckling his two eyes.“O day of pitch!” he cried. “O vile nefarious day! O my beloved sister, hide me, save me! My father has enforced my mother’s harsh command. I am to be married to-day to that unholy child of dogs—against my will. I wished to wait a thousand years. Ghandûr is waiting at this minute to conduct me to the bath.”As if in confirmation of his words, the voice of Ghandûr shouted in the street without: “Make haste, O Hamdi! Lo, the sun is high! The shadow is already on the stone thou fixedst for a limit when I let thee enter.”“Thou hearest,” snuffled Hamdi, “how they hound me? He has my wedding garments in a bundle—O my hatred! Guests have been bidden—may their fathers perish! Go to my mother (she will hear thee); plead that I may be allowed a few months’ respite. It is Na’imah who, through her mother, hastens on the match. She would destroy my new-found freedom and torment me.”Barakah could not help laughing, though she uttered words of comfort. Na’imah was a very pretty girl, she pointed out, and not ill-natured, though a great coquette. He would have none of it, but shook his head with ominous frowns.“I hate her!” he declared. “And knowest thou? I have a mind to drown myself this morning at the bath.”Then, as Ghandûr’s calls became insistent, he left the room with slow, reluctant steps.The wedding was a small affair, the parties being children of one house, and their betrothal (which is legal marriage) having taken place in infancy. The bride, enthroned, showed none of the reluctance felt by Hamdi. A bright-eyed and determined little maiden, she was wreathed in smiles; and when Barakah inquired if she were truly happy, replied, “The praise to Allah!” with decision.Next day the house was full of smothered laughter. Hamdi was completely changed. He and his bride were now the fondest pair. The lady Fitnah, who had always held that matrimonywas a panacea for the crotchets of young people, male and female, rendered praise where praise was due. For many days, through shame, the bridegroom hid from Barakah, and from every one else to whom he had proclaimed his dread of marriage.When she told Gulbeyzah of the case as of a kind of miracle, the Circassian answered:“I perceive no cause for wonder. The bridegroom had not thought of her before in that relation, had not truly known her—that is all. Love is a blessing that brings gratitude as surely as the Nile makes plants to grow.”Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr—nay, all her friends—viewed love, apart from any individual man, as a material boon. Bred up to it and ripened for it cunningly, they were ready to adore the man who gave it, however unattractive from a European standpoint. This view of love, when realized, explained to Barakah the happiness which every girl of her acquaintance seemed to find in marriage, even where, as in Gulbeyzah’s case, the husband was a greybeard thrice her age. Those who possessed it were content and virtuous. In those who had it not, or were deprived of it, all amorous crime was reckoned pardonable.Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr explained all this to Barakah in thrilling tones, as if they uttered truths divine.“Behold the wisdom of our Faith,” they said, “which grants to every woman this delight insecret. Women can never truly be the friends of men; their soul is different. If thrown with men for long, they feel fatigue. They ask of men one thing—the gift of love. Here we consort with women, true companions, all day long; and in the night the bridegroom comes, and we are blest. Is not this better than the way of Europe, which sets at nought apparent truths—as that most men love more than one of us, whereas most women need but love itself, the hope of children?”That was one of the occasions when Barakah would have given anything to have an Englishwoman present, and to watch her face. Another came a few days later when she called upon Gulbeyzah. Alighting from her carriage at the palace door, she saw a baby’s coffin being carried out, and thought at once of turning home again. But already smiling eunuchs stood before her bidding welcome, beseeching her to deign to follow them to the haramlik. Gulbeyzah met her with a kiss on either cheek.“Come, help us to console Nasîbah,” she exclaimed. “Her baby died this night. She is distracted.”She drew her friend into a chamber where the childless mother lay, face downward, moaning, while the others tried to soothe her.“It is no matter,” was the burden of their consolations. “It is not as if thou wert left altogether desolate. Are we not one, we four? Thou hasttwo children left, since ours are thine, and in a day or two Gulbeyzah will present thee with a third, in sh´Allah!”“In sh´Allah!” cried Gulbeyzah. “And it shall be thine entirely. Directly it is born it shall be sent to thee to nurse. I will forget it. And when it is thy turn again, thou wilt repay me. Is not that a good idea?”Oh that English people, who regard polygamy as something dreadful, could have witnessed that small scene! The wish, escaping Barakah at unawares, begot a heartache, as she realized that all she saw and heard for their instruction was thwarted of its natural vent for evermore.She told herself that she was happy in this life; and so she was upon the surface, where she kept her thoughts, not daring to pry down into the depths. In the early days she had desired more knowledge of the Muslim faith, and a woman learned in religion had been hired to teach her. But the fury of that faith, the scathing nature of its truths, appalled her, awaking recollections of a creed more sentimental, with distressing doubts. She very soon gave up her lessons, closed the eyes of her intelligence, and resolutely sought her pleasure in the passing hour.Still there were moments when vague fears oppressed her. When, in the third year of her marriage, she brought forth a still-born child, frightful abysses seemed to yawn around her, andfor days she was afflicted with a kind of nightmare of misgiving, derived from recollection of the “zâr” and other horrors.The Eastern ladies were so calm and strong compared with her; they flinched at nothing except impropriety. The slaughter of a thousand sheep at Curban Bairam, turning the kitchen court into a shambles, caused them no disgust. It was ordained of God, they told her, and it fed the poor. They had no horror of disease or death or filthy persons, and, though most cleanly, looked on vermin philosophically. The Turks and the Circassians, with their grand ideals, appeared more dreadful than the Africans, whose faith was childlike. Barakah preferred the latter. Her pleasure was in feasts and little outings, in story-tellers, dancers, and musicians who beguile the time; her only rapture was in adoration of her small Muhammad.Her hidden yearnings and beliefs clung round the boy. She dwelt in longing for the days when he should be her friend. He was her hope, the product of both parts of her divided life; giving it sense and sequence, and, in the end perhaps, if Allah willed, consistency. She dreamt of a great future for him, to astonish Europe. But in the meanwhile, being sometimes dull, she felt the need of an intelligent, discreet companion.

The idea of seeing Mrs. Cameron again was quite intolerable. She therefore wrote that lady a brief note, an asp for venom, designed to terminate acquaintance and to rankle, and plunged into the harîm pleasures with sensations of defiance.

One morning, as she lounged upon her cushioned window-seat, smoking her narghileh and listening to the voices wafted with the sunlight through her lattice, Fatûmah came and with a grin announced that Hamdi Bey desired an audience of her Honour. She gave the word, and in came Hamdi, knuckling his two eyes.

“O day of pitch!” he cried. “O vile nefarious day! O my beloved sister, hide me, save me! My father has enforced my mother’s harsh command. I am to be married to-day to that unholy child of dogs—against my will. I wished to wait a thousand years. Ghandûr is waiting at this minute to conduct me to the bath.”

As if in confirmation of his words, the voice of Ghandûr shouted in the street without: “Make haste, O Hamdi! Lo, the sun is high! The shadow is already on the stone thou fixedst for a limit when I let thee enter.”

“Thou hearest,” snuffled Hamdi, “how they hound me? He has my wedding garments in a bundle—O my hatred! Guests have been bidden—may their fathers perish! Go to my mother (she will hear thee); plead that I may be allowed a few months’ respite. It is Na’imah who, through her mother, hastens on the match. She would destroy my new-found freedom and torment me.”

Barakah could not help laughing, though she uttered words of comfort. Na’imah was a very pretty girl, she pointed out, and not ill-natured, though a great coquette. He would have none of it, but shook his head with ominous frowns.

“I hate her!” he declared. “And knowest thou? I have a mind to drown myself this morning at the bath.”

Then, as Ghandûr’s calls became insistent, he left the room with slow, reluctant steps.

The wedding was a small affair, the parties being children of one house, and their betrothal (which is legal marriage) having taken place in infancy. The bride, enthroned, showed none of the reluctance felt by Hamdi. A bright-eyed and determined little maiden, she was wreathed in smiles; and when Barakah inquired if she were truly happy, replied, “The praise to Allah!” with decision.

Next day the house was full of smothered laughter. Hamdi was completely changed. He and his bride were now the fondest pair. The lady Fitnah, who had always held that matrimonywas a panacea for the crotchets of young people, male and female, rendered praise where praise was due. For many days, through shame, the bridegroom hid from Barakah, and from every one else to whom he had proclaimed his dread of marriage.

When she told Gulbeyzah of the case as of a kind of miracle, the Circassian answered:

“I perceive no cause for wonder. The bridegroom had not thought of her before in that relation, had not truly known her—that is all. Love is a blessing that brings gratitude as surely as the Nile makes plants to grow.”

Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr—nay, all her friends—viewed love, apart from any individual man, as a material boon. Bred up to it and ripened for it cunningly, they were ready to adore the man who gave it, however unattractive from a European standpoint. This view of love, when realized, explained to Barakah the happiness which every girl of her acquaintance seemed to find in marriage, even where, as in Gulbeyzah’s case, the husband was a greybeard thrice her age. Those who possessed it were content and virtuous. In those who had it not, or were deprived of it, all amorous crime was reckoned pardonable.

Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr explained all this to Barakah in thrilling tones, as if they uttered truths divine.

“Behold the wisdom of our Faith,” they said, “which grants to every woman this delight insecret. Women can never truly be the friends of men; their soul is different. If thrown with men for long, they feel fatigue. They ask of men one thing—the gift of love. Here we consort with women, true companions, all day long; and in the night the bridegroom comes, and we are blest. Is not this better than the way of Europe, which sets at nought apparent truths—as that most men love more than one of us, whereas most women need but love itself, the hope of children?”

That was one of the occasions when Barakah would have given anything to have an Englishwoman present, and to watch her face. Another came a few days later when she called upon Gulbeyzah. Alighting from her carriage at the palace door, she saw a baby’s coffin being carried out, and thought at once of turning home again. But already smiling eunuchs stood before her bidding welcome, beseeching her to deign to follow them to the haramlik. Gulbeyzah met her with a kiss on either cheek.

“Come, help us to console Nasîbah,” she exclaimed. “Her baby died this night. She is distracted.”

She drew her friend into a chamber where the childless mother lay, face downward, moaning, while the others tried to soothe her.

“It is no matter,” was the burden of their consolations. “It is not as if thou wert left altogether desolate. Are we not one, we four? Thou hasttwo children left, since ours are thine, and in a day or two Gulbeyzah will present thee with a third, in sh´Allah!”

“In sh´Allah!” cried Gulbeyzah. “And it shall be thine entirely. Directly it is born it shall be sent to thee to nurse. I will forget it. And when it is thy turn again, thou wilt repay me. Is not that a good idea?”

Oh that English people, who regard polygamy as something dreadful, could have witnessed that small scene! The wish, escaping Barakah at unawares, begot a heartache, as she realized that all she saw and heard for their instruction was thwarted of its natural vent for evermore.

She told herself that she was happy in this life; and so she was upon the surface, where she kept her thoughts, not daring to pry down into the depths. In the early days she had desired more knowledge of the Muslim faith, and a woman learned in religion had been hired to teach her. But the fury of that faith, the scathing nature of its truths, appalled her, awaking recollections of a creed more sentimental, with distressing doubts. She very soon gave up her lessons, closed the eyes of her intelligence, and resolutely sought her pleasure in the passing hour.

Still there were moments when vague fears oppressed her. When, in the third year of her marriage, she brought forth a still-born child, frightful abysses seemed to yawn around her, andfor days she was afflicted with a kind of nightmare of misgiving, derived from recollection of the “zâr” and other horrors.

The Eastern ladies were so calm and strong compared with her; they flinched at nothing except impropriety. The slaughter of a thousand sheep at Curban Bairam, turning the kitchen court into a shambles, caused them no disgust. It was ordained of God, they told her, and it fed the poor. They had no horror of disease or death or filthy persons, and, though most cleanly, looked on vermin philosophically. The Turks and the Circassians, with their grand ideals, appeared more dreadful than the Africans, whose faith was childlike. Barakah preferred the latter. Her pleasure was in feasts and little outings, in story-tellers, dancers, and musicians who beguile the time; her only rapture was in adoration of her small Muhammad.

Her hidden yearnings and beliefs clung round the boy. She dwelt in longing for the days when he should be her friend. He was her hope, the product of both parts of her divided life; giving it sense and sequence, and, in the end perhaps, if Allah willed, consistency. She dreamt of a great future for him, to astonish Europe. But in the meanwhile, being sometimes dull, she felt the need of an intelligent, discreet companion.

CHAPTER XXIIOn the recurrence of certain anniversaries, at the two Bairams and in the month of Ragab, all Muslim Cairo left the city of the living for the cities of the dead adjoining it upon the east and south. Mothers of sorrow like Murjânah Khânum, whose heart was with her children in the grave, inhabited the mausoleums for a week or more; but the majority performed a one-day visit.Blue night alive with stars was at her lattice when Barakah was softly roused by her attendants and arrayed in proper garb. She found Leylah Khânum and her daughters waiting for her by the mabeyn screen, where the eunuch had a heap of roses and of henna-flowers to give them, as well as branches of palm and sweet basil. With these they made their way out to the carriage.The principal streets were thronged with people going in the same direction: men in clean robes, who yawned, still half asleep; women, black-shrouded, bearing palm-branches, with trays of eatables upon their heads; small girls in tinselled gauze of divers colours, and boys in stiff new clothing—all with earnest faces, pressing outtowards the cemeteries. Barakah kept peeping through the shutter at the solemn crowd, to which the fitful gleam of swinging lanterns added weirdness. The concourse gave forth a dull clatter, above which was heard the rumble of the carriage wheels upon the stones, the shouts the coachman raised to clear a way. Then suddenly all noise of going ceased, although their wheels still rolled and the besetting throng was even denser than before. They were on sand. The people murmured like a shell. The desert hill rose imminent against the stars. On all sides spread a wilderness of humble graves, each with its family group encamped beside the headstone. Then came a steep incline, up which the horses struggled under whip and cursing; and lo! they were once more in city streets. On every hand rose shadowy buildings, domes, and minarets. A swarm of beggars went from door to door with sacks and trays collecting doles of food.Alighting at the gate of a large mosque-like building, Barakah and her companions were conducted through a courtyard to the women’s quarters. Fitnah and Murjânah, who had spent the night there with attendants, made them welcome; after which they paid a visit to the mausoleum proper, or the women’s side of it—for the house of death itself was subdivided by a harîm screen. Here, in a gloom made spectral by the hanging lamps, women of repute for sanctity, hired mourners, were reciting the Corân, andthrough the screen some male professors could be heard performing the same office in strong nasal tones. The visitors bestowed their flowers and bits of palm among the graves, and, having said some prayers, returned to the apartment, where preparations for a feast were being made.Already the muezzin’s chant announced the dawn. Murjânah Khânum was at her devotions on a corner of the dais. The other ladies, who deemed prayer the man’s affair, helped in the work of setting out the breakfast. While this was going on, a woman and three children rushed in from the twilight court, and with loud blessings began kissing hands.“It is the wife and children of the guardian of this place, who makes the graves,” Na’imah, her nearest neighbour, informed Barakah. “They come for their accustomed gifts of food and raiment. See, Fitnah Khânum is just going to bestow them in the name of all of us.”A minute later the grave-digger’s wife and children were at Barakah, kissing her hand repeatedly and crying, “May it be many a year ere we receive thee here, O queen of charms.”The Englishwoman shivered at this form of compliment; and then a strange old woman, who had been observing her, sidled across the room and squatted at her feet.“O Umm ed-Dahak, welcome!” exclaimed Na’imah. “Where hast thou been this longwhile, that we have not seen thee? There has been no fun at all in life without thee. How is thy health? What new jests dost thou bring us?”But the old woman had not come, it seemed, to talk to Na’imah; for, replying to these questions in the briefest manner possible, she addressed herself to Barakah in coaxing whispers.“Art thou not happy, O my pearl? I could see from over there that something ailed thee. Is it the thought of death, the air of tombs? The spectacle of graves should rather cheer the living. Give praise to God that thou art still alive; enjoy existence! Allah is merciful! It is certain that He has made provision for our sex hereafter—a finer paradise than that of men, in sh´Allah! Ha, ha! What faces, thinkest thou, the men would wear if they knew that we had heavenly youths for our enjoyment, in our place apart? By Allah, it would spoil their pleasure in the black-eyed maids! I see them sulking even in the home of bliss.... The air is chill thus early; the end of night is always a sad hour. A delicate soft flower like thee is dashed by it. Come, let me talk to warm thee. I am called the Mother of Laughter, thou hast heard!...“Knowest thou what my daughter said in her soul when first her spouse unveiled her? She said (and be the saying far from thee), the while she stood with eyes downcast and bosom rising, falling, ‘May Allah strike me blind this minute if I amhalf so innocent as thou art, O my knowing lord!’ And she managed him, I can assure thee. Ah, she fooled him perfectly—exclaiming ever at his wisdom, bowing to his lightest word. It is thus we subtle ones beguile the world—the great strong simpleton!—never opposing, lest he knock us down. By Allah, I must ask thy pardon for thus prattling; but ladies condescend to find my talk amusing. I can recount the origin of all that is, being most learned in religious matters. If I chose, I could be howling with those cats in there,”—she nodded towards the hired performers in the tomb,—“but they are hypocrites and gloomy. I love merriment. It has long been my desire to meet a foreign lady, to whom I might impart my knowledge of this land. The Franks have great intelligence, and would admire my lore. All the stories of the harîm I can teach thee....“Thou knowest the three wives of Ali Bey El Halebi. The red-haired one—the former slave—was killed last night. I had it but an hour ago from a sure source. Her sin, though great, was pardonable, Allah knows. Her husband had neglected her disgracefully: the fact is known. She turned for comfort to a street musician. She lost her wit, it seems, and made confession. I could have saved her, with the help of Allah, had she come to me. The eunuchs held her so—and, click! her neck was severed. Her corpse is floating down the Nile, dismembered, or buried inthe garden—Allah knows! Ah! I could keep thee interested for a year together.”The old creature’s flattery, more subtle in the tone and manner than the words convey, was irresistible; her twinkling eyes and ever-shifting wrinkles aroused the Englishwoman’s sense of humour, which had long been dormant.“Praise be to Allah, thou art better!” smiled the crone.The sun had risen now; the lamps were useless; the city of the dead was blushing like the rose; the chanting of the readers in the tomb had lost its sadness. Barakah was staring at the strange old woman’s face, now plainly visible. Where had she known it? Feature for feature, it resembled one which had been long imprinted in her memory. Umm ed-Dahak grinned when she became aware of this perplexity. With a very roguish look for one so old, she laid her cheek upon her open palm and whispered, “Yûsuf! Come!” It was the same old creature who, luring the future bride of Yûsuf from her chamber in Muhammad Pasha’s house, had been seized and beaten by the eunuchs in the hall, and never seen again until this day.“Rememberest thou?” she slyly asked. “Allah witness, I was tempted with a bribe. Young men are devils! Never ask me to explain. I cannot bear to be reminded of it, may Our Lord forgive me! We are all weak creatures andsuccumb occasionally; but Fitnah Khânum will assure thee I am to be trusted.”With that and a most friendly smile, she edged away, repairing straight to Fitnah Khânum, with whom she held some animated conversation in low tones. The lady, at her instance, shortly came across to Barakah and whispered:“That old woman seeks thy patronage. I myself have found her useful and obliging. To thee, a foreigner, she could afford much help. Thou needest some one. Umm ed-Dahak is the best I know.”“Umm ed-Dahak!” cried out Na’imah. “Why, there is no creature in the world to match her for facetiousness. She was the rapture of our life as children. Nobody could be dull or sad with Umm ed-Dahak. She is like a monkey and a clever servant and a mother all in one!”This joyful cry was overheard by Leylah Khânum, who frowned upon her daughter and rebuked her sharply. In that place conversation must be held in whispers and only ritual words pronounced aloud. The party breakfasted in solemn silence, to the sound of chanting from the tomb. But the aged Mother of Laughter smiled and nodded—even winked—at Barakah whenever their eyes met, which was not seldom; and the Englishwoman had a new sensation of relief and sympathy. At last she had found somebody who understood her.

On the recurrence of certain anniversaries, at the two Bairams and in the month of Ragab, all Muslim Cairo left the city of the living for the cities of the dead adjoining it upon the east and south. Mothers of sorrow like Murjânah Khânum, whose heart was with her children in the grave, inhabited the mausoleums for a week or more; but the majority performed a one-day visit.

Blue night alive with stars was at her lattice when Barakah was softly roused by her attendants and arrayed in proper garb. She found Leylah Khânum and her daughters waiting for her by the mabeyn screen, where the eunuch had a heap of roses and of henna-flowers to give them, as well as branches of palm and sweet basil. With these they made their way out to the carriage.

The principal streets were thronged with people going in the same direction: men in clean robes, who yawned, still half asleep; women, black-shrouded, bearing palm-branches, with trays of eatables upon their heads; small girls in tinselled gauze of divers colours, and boys in stiff new clothing—all with earnest faces, pressing outtowards the cemeteries. Barakah kept peeping through the shutter at the solemn crowd, to which the fitful gleam of swinging lanterns added weirdness. The concourse gave forth a dull clatter, above which was heard the rumble of the carriage wheels upon the stones, the shouts the coachman raised to clear a way. Then suddenly all noise of going ceased, although their wheels still rolled and the besetting throng was even denser than before. They were on sand. The people murmured like a shell. The desert hill rose imminent against the stars. On all sides spread a wilderness of humble graves, each with its family group encamped beside the headstone. Then came a steep incline, up which the horses struggled under whip and cursing; and lo! they were once more in city streets. On every hand rose shadowy buildings, domes, and minarets. A swarm of beggars went from door to door with sacks and trays collecting doles of food.

Alighting at the gate of a large mosque-like building, Barakah and her companions were conducted through a courtyard to the women’s quarters. Fitnah and Murjânah, who had spent the night there with attendants, made them welcome; after which they paid a visit to the mausoleum proper, or the women’s side of it—for the house of death itself was subdivided by a harîm screen. Here, in a gloom made spectral by the hanging lamps, women of repute for sanctity, hired mourners, were reciting the Corân, andthrough the screen some male professors could be heard performing the same office in strong nasal tones. The visitors bestowed their flowers and bits of palm among the graves, and, having said some prayers, returned to the apartment, where preparations for a feast were being made.

Already the muezzin’s chant announced the dawn. Murjânah Khânum was at her devotions on a corner of the dais. The other ladies, who deemed prayer the man’s affair, helped in the work of setting out the breakfast. While this was going on, a woman and three children rushed in from the twilight court, and with loud blessings began kissing hands.

“It is the wife and children of the guardian of this place, who makes the graves,” Na’imah, her nearest neighbour, informed Barakah. “They come for their accustomed gifts of food and raiment. See, Fitnah Khânum is just going to bestow them in the name of all of us.”

A minute later the grave-digger’s wife and children were at Barakah, kissing her hand repeatedly and crying, “May it be many a year ere we receive thee here, O queen of charms.”

The Englishwoman shivered at this form of compliment; and then a strange old woman, who had been observing her, sidled across the room and squatted at her feet.

“O Umm ed-Dahak, welcome!” exclaimed Na’imah. “Where hast thou been this longwhile, that we have not seen thee? There has been no fun at all in life without thee. How is thy health? What new jests dost thou bring us?”

But the old woman had not come, it seemed, to talk to Na’imah; for, replying to these questions in the briefest manner possible, she addressed herself to Barakah in coaxing whispers.

“Art thou not happy, O my pearl? I could see from over there that something ailed thee. Is it the thought of death, the air of tombs? The spectacle of graves should rather cheer the living. Give praise to God that thou art still alive; enjoy existence! Allah is merciful! It is certain that He has made provision for our sex hereafter—a finer paradise than that of men, in sh´Allah! Ha, ha! What faces, thinkest thou, the men would wear if they knew that we had heavenly youths for our enjoyment, in our place apart? By Allah, it would spoil their pleasure in the black-eyed maids! I see them sulking even in the home of bliss.... The air is chill thus early; the end of night is always a sad hour. A delicate soft flower like thee is dashed by it. Come, let me talk to warm thee. I am called the Mother of Laughter, thou hast heard!...

“Knowest thou what my daughter said in her soul when first her spouse unveiled her? She said (and be the saying far from thee), the while she stood with eyes downcast and bosom rising, falling, ‘May Allah strike me blind this minute if I amhalf so innocent as thou art, O my knowing lord!’ And she managed him, I can assure thee. Ah, she fooled him perfectly—exclaiming ever at his wisdom, bowing to his lightest word. It is thus we subtle ones beguile the world—the great strong simpleton!—never opposing, lest he knock us down. By Allah, I must ask thy pardon for thus prattling; but ladies condescend to find my talk amusing. I can recount the origin of all that is, being most learned in religious matters. If I chose, I could be howling with those cats in there,”—she nodded towards the hired performers in the tomb,—“but they are hypocrites and gloomy. I love merriment. It has long been my desire to meet a foreign lady, to whom I might impart my knowledge of this land. The Franks have great intelligence, and would admire my lore. All the stories of the harîm I can teach thee....

“Thou knowest the three wives of Ali Bey El Halebi. The red-haired one—the former slave—was killed last night. I had it but an hour ago from a sure source. Her sin, though great, was pardonable, Allah knows. Her husband had neglected her disgracefully: the fact is known. She turned for comfort to a street musician. She lost her wit, it seems, and made confession. I could have saved her, with the help of Allah, had she come to me. The eunuchs held her so—and, click! her neck was severed. Her corpse is floating down the Nile, dismembered, or buried inthe garden—Allah knows! Ah! I could keep thee interested for a year together.”

The old creature’s flattery, more subtle in the tone and manner than the words convey, was irresistible; her twinkling eyes and ever-shifting wrinkles aroused the Englishwoman’s sense of humour, which had long been dormant.

“Praise be to Allah, thou art better!” smiled the crone.

The sun had risen now; the lamps were useless; the city of the dead was blushing like the rose; the chanting of the readers in the tomb had lost its sadness. Barakah was staring at the strange old woman’s face, now plainly visible. Where had she known it? Feature for feature, it resembled one which had been long imprinted in her memory. Umm ed-Dahak grinned when she became aware of this perplexity. With a very roguish look for one so old, she laid her cheek upon her open palm and whispered, “Yûsuf! Come!” It was the same old creature who, luring the future bride of Yûsuf from her chamber in Muhammad Pasha’s house, had been seized and beaten by the eunuchs in the hall, and never seen again until this day.

“Rememberest thou?” she slyly asked. “Allah witness, I was tempted with a bribe. Young men are devils! Never ask me to explain. I cannot bear to be reminded of it, may Our Lord forgive me! We are all weak creatures andsuccumb occasionally; but Fitnah Khânum will assure thee I am to be trusted.”

With that and a most friendly smile, she edged away, repairing straight to Fitnah Khânum, with whom she held some animated conversation in low tones. The lady, at her instance, shortly came across to Barakah and whispered:

“That old woman seeks thy patronage. I myself have found her useful and obliging. To thee, a foreigner, she could afford much help. Thou needest some one. Umm ed-Dahak is the best I know.”

“Umm ed-Dahak!” cried out Na’imah. “Why, there is no creature in the world to match her for facetiousness. She was the rapture of our life as children. Nobody could be dull or sad with Umm ed-Dahak. She is like a monkey and a clever servant and a mother all in one!”

This joyful cry was overheard by Leylah Khânum, who frowned upon her daughter and rebuked her sharply. In that place conversation must be held in whispers and only ritual words pronounced aloud. The party breakfasted in solemn silence, to the sound of chanting from the tomb. But the aged Mother of Laughter smiled and nodded—even winked—at Barakah whenever their eyes met, which was not seldom; and the Englishwoman had a new sensation of relief and sympathy. At last she had found somebody who understood her.

CHAPTER XXIIIUpon the morrow Barakah had quite forgotten the old woman; she was lounging on a sofa, smoking after breakfast, watching the slave-girls dress Muhammad, when Umm ed-Dahak stole in barefoot, making reverence. The crone sank down before her as of right, and kissing her feet, asked how she did and praised her loveliness. Then, looking at the infant, she exclaimed in natural tones, “Ma sh´Allah! May Our Lord preserve him in all times and places!” and straightway began making baby noises.Barakah thought the moment opportune for getting at the secret of that incident which teased her memory. But Umm ed-Dahak, though she answered volubly, made no disclosure. Indeed, as Barakah soon learnt, that seeming reckless chatterer was in the habit of imparting only what she chose to tell.It was manifest that half her compliments were insincere, nor did she take the slightest trouble to disguise the fact; but in the intervals of soporific fiction and pure blandishment she spoke of things worth knowing in a tone of frank goodwill. She knew the why and how of every custom,the stories giving rise to every proverb, and was so acute a judge of human character that her gossip had the flavour of an intellectual game. Her wiles, it seemed, were worn to show her cleverness, or cynically, to travesty arts which flourish in this transitory world.She became a member of the household, but with privileges. Barakah was the sultan, she the grand vizier, it was agreed. No monarch ever had a more delightful minister. She made the slave-girls more attentive to their mistress, whose comfort she increased in a variety of ways. She knew where to lay her hands upon the leading story-tellers and musicians, and was herself the most accomplished female mountebank at that time living. She soon learnt every mood of her protectress, and its antidote. The latest scandal dwelt at her tongue’s tip.The whole harîm knew Umm ed-Dahak as a joker. Slaves from outside were always coining pretexts to enter the apartment, just to look at her; and the more frivolous among the ladies came to hear her stories.“I am for them a comical performance, not a child of Adam,” she told Barakah. “How different from thy kindness, O my sovereign lady! Thy gracious condescension feeds and clothes me.”Therewith she kissed the hand of Barakah, who was affected. By such small means did she confirm her sway.Her intelligence, her laughing view of life, were stimulating, and prevented Barakah from brooding upon hopeless problems.Without attempting to fatigue her mind in vain attempts to grasp the universe—as Europeans do, inviting pessimism—this old woman took her portion as it came, with relish and a very searching scrutiny. She likened herself sometimes to a fisher of the Nile, who all his life frequents one reach alone. He knows the currents and the mud-banks, marks the winds, and, without preoccupation with the river’s source or outlet, is cunning in the art of bringing fish to land. The soul of her philosophy was non-resistance; her morality held all means lawful to escape oppression.“God is gracious and all-knowing,” she would shrug. “He gives to all His creatures, great and small, the wherewithal to move in their appointed element—to birds wings, fins to fishes, guile to women.”In her time, she admitted, many sins had soiled her hands; shameful employments had defiled her countenance. They would be pardoned, being but a means to live. She held, against the world’s opinion, that Allah is indulgent to the faults of women and even has a secret fondness for them. Yet, with her guile, she had an admiration for pure virtue, a teardrop for true love, wherever found. And with all her common sense and her acuteness she was superstitious. As the fisher of the Nile,her chosen image, wears an amulet and names the name of power before he casts his net, so Umm ed-Dahak armed herself against malignant influences. Her belief in witchcraft, philtres, and all kinds of charms was quite beyond the reach of argument.The old woman never asked for any wages. She took what food she wanted, helped herself to cigarettes, and called for a narghileh when the fancy seized her. By the Pasha’s order, in accordance with a pious custom observed at that time in good Muslim houses, eatables, such as meat and milk and vegetables which might go bad, were not kept overnight, the remainder of each day’s provision being given in the evening to the poor dependants. Of this dole Umm ed-Dahak claimed her share. If she required a garment or a gift of money, she did not beg for it, but told some tortuous and lengthy story which ended in a present as snakes end in tails. When Barakah saw through the artifice, she was in no way disconcerted. She merely smiled and praised her quick intelligence.“Her need is real, for she is poor,” said Fitnah Khânum, when Barakah remarked on the old woman’s foibles. “But she loves subtlety far more than comfort, and would refuse high monthly wages, to obtain a lesser sum by stealth and coaxing, as occasion offered. She has had much money given to her, to my knowledge; but it is as dust to her. She is like the clever fellow in thestory, who, having earned much money by his ingenuity, scrambled it among the crowd; and in the end, when it was finished, sighed, ‘O Allah, would that I had all the gold on earth to go on flinging it and see men fight like dogs for its possession!’”Fitnah, though she scolded the old woman, had a liking for her company and waggish talk. And Umm ed-Dahak, being very diplomatic, paid her court. Indeed, she flattered all the ladies of the house with the assurance that she wished to be the spokesman of their will with Barakah, and went to them for orders every day.The only person whom she feared was Yûsuf Bey, though she had known him from a child. At the first hint of his approach she fled the house. In vain did Barakah assure her he had no objection to her presence—nay, had said more than once that he would like to see her. The old creature smiled and wriggled, “May our Lord preserve him!” but fled no less. It all came of her desire for surreptitiousness. She would not have felt well in a harîm of which the lord approved of her.Contentment grew in Barakah from day to day, and as the months wore on she lost the wish to go abroad. The young Muhammad could now run about, although he sometimes tumbled and set up a howl. He had been taught to testify to his religion in a piping voice and screamed at visitors, “There is no God but God. Muhammad is theapostle of God”; for which they blessed him. He had also learned to curse the infidels ferociously. A turbulent and wilful child, his mother and old Umm ed-Dahak thought him perfect. They never tired of watching him torment the slave-girls. “Ma sh´Allah!” the Mother of Laughter would croak rapturously. “A blusterer, by the Most High! A boy with all the signs of manhood on him! In sh´Allah, he will live to bully grown-up men!”Occasionally Barakah paid visits as in duty bound; but she much preferred to stay indoors, to smoke and dream and talk with Umm ed-Dahak. Her husband, by his father’s influence, obtained a post of some importance, necessitating their removal shortly to a proper house, with a selamlik of its own where he could see his courtiers. Barakah looked forward to the change with high indifference, though Umm ed-Dahak strove to waken her enthusiasm, crying:“Thou wilt now have eunuchs and a carriage of thy very own. In sh´Allah, Yûsuf Bey will go on rising till thy pomp excels the dignity of mighty queens.”Her life could hardly be more easy, she considered; she was quite content. The Pasha’s ladies would be grieved to lose her, and she would feel quite lost apart from them. She thought they all respected and admired her.It was therefore a great shock to her when oneafternoon Murjânah Khânum sent for her and read her a kind lecture on her way of life.“My pearl,” she said, “I am the head of this harîm and in some sort responsible for all its members. I do not see a slave degenerating without endeavouring to stop the process by a word of warning. How much greater is my duty towards a near relation! My flower, thou art an Englishwoman and we Turks of Europe and of Asia welcomed thee to El Islâm as our own sister. We looked to thee for force of character, for the light of education, for refinement. What has happened, on the contrary? Thou shunnest us for boon companions, persons of the country, who, however estimable, are inferior. Amînah Khânum yesterday complained that thou art growing a fellâhah both in speech and conduct. I do not hold with her, I only tell thee what she said—a thing I cannot bear to hear of my dear daughter. My child, I speak in tenderness. Give thought to higher things—our holy Faith, the dignity of life—and spend not all thy time in mere frivolity. Keep that old woman in her place; I say not shun her, since she is amusing. Frequent good houses, study holy books. To spend one’s whole life in the hot room of the bath is not existence.”Barakah was deeply hurt. To have her harmless pleasures so severely criticized was as cruel as to see a flower destroyed by hail. She could not take the lofty standpoint of the Turkish lady.Had she done so, viewing life in all its horror, she would have gone mad. How could she bear to look upon herself, the renegade? She was now glad that she was soon to leave that hateful house.When she told Umm ed-Dahak of her grief, expecting sympathy, the latter smiled and said:“The right is with her. We must not neglect the things divine. I will myself instruct thee in them, having some small learning. In sh´Allah, I will teach thee to endure those thoughts which now appal thee.”Instruction of that kind was needed two days later, when Barakah was driven to her new abode. As she alighted from her carriage at the door, some men in waiting cut the throat of a live buffalo by way of compliment. Blood spurted in her path across the threshold.

Upon the morrow Barakah had quite forgotten the old woman; she was lounging on a sofa, smoking after breakfast, watching the slave-girls dress Muhammad, when Umm ed-Dahak stole in barefoot, making reverence. The crone sank down before her as of right, and kissing her feet, asked how she did and praised her loveliness. Then, looking at the infant, she exclaimed in natural tones, “Ma sh´Allah! May Our Lord preserve him in all times and places!” and straightway began making baby noises.

Barakah thought the moment opportune for getting at the secret of that incident which teased her memory. But Umm ed-Dahak, though she answered volubly, made no disclosure. Indeed, as Barakah soon learnt, that seeming reckless chatterer was in the habit of imparting only what she chose to tell.

It was manifest that half her compliments were insincere, nor did she take the slightest trouble to disguise the fact; but in the intervals of soporific fiction and pure blandishment she spoke of things worth knowing in a tone of frank goodwill. She knew the why and how of every custom,the stories giving rise to every proverb, and was so acute a judge of human character that her gossip had the flavour of an intellectual game. Her wiles, it seemed, were worn to show her cleverness, or cynically, to travesty arts which flourish in this transitory world.

She became a member of the household, but with privileges. Barakah was the sultan, she the grand vizier, it was agreed. No monarch ever had a more delightful minister. She made the slave-girls more attentive to their mistress, whose comfort she increased in a variety of ways. She knew where to lay her hands upon the leading story-tellers and musicians, and was herself the most accomplished female mountebank at that time living. She soon learnt every mood of her protectress, and its antidote. The latest scandal dwelt at her tongue’s tip.

The whole harîm knew Umm ed-Dahak as a joker. Slaves from outside were always coining pretexts to enter the apartment, just to look at her; and the more frivolous among the ladies came to hear her stories.

“I am for them a comical performance, not a child of Adam,” she told Barakah. “How different from thy kindness, O my sovereign lady! Thy gracious condescension feeds and clothes me.”

Therewith she kissed the hand of Barakah, who was affected. By such small means did she confirm her sway.

Her intelligence, her laughing view of life, were stimulating, and prevented Barakah from brooding upon hopeless problems.

Without attempting to fatigue her mind in vain attempts to grasp the universe—as Europeans do, inviting pessimism—this old woman took her portion as it came, with relish and a very searching scrutiny. She likened herself sometimes to a fisher of the Nile, who all his life frequents one reach alone. He knows the currents and the mud-banks, marks the winds, and, without preoccupation with the river’s source or outlet, is cunning in the art of bringing fish to land. The soul of her philosophy was non-resistance; her morality held all means lawful to escape oppression.

“God is gracious and all-knowing,” she would shrug. “He gives to all His creatures, great and small, the wherewithal to move in their appointed element—to birds wings, fins to fishes, guile to women.”

In her time, she admitted, many sins had soiled her hands; shameful employments had defiled her countenance. They would be pardoned, being but a means to live. She held, against the world’s opinion, that Allah is indulgent to the faults of women and even has a secret fondness for them. Yet, with her guile, she had an admiration for pure virtue, a teardrop for true love, wherever found. And with all her common sense and her acuteness she was superstitious. As the fisher of the Nile,her chosen image, wears an amulet and names the name of power before he casts his net, so Umm ed-Dahak armed herself against malignant influences. Her belief in witchcraft, philtres, and all kinds of charms was quite beyond the reach of argument.

The old woman never asked for any wages. She took what food she wanted, helped herself to cigarettes, and called for a narghileh when the fancy seized her. By the Pasha’s order, in accordance with a pious custom observed at that time in good Muslim houses, eatables, such as meat and milk and vegetables which might go bad, were not kept overnight, the remainder of each day’s provision being given in the evening to the poor dependants. Of this dole Umm ed-Dahak claimed her share. If she required a garment or a gift of money, she did not beg for it, but told some tortuous and lengthy story which ended in a present as snakes end in tails. When Barakah saw through the artifice, she was in no way disconcerted. She merely smiled and praised her quick intelligence.

“Her need is real, for she is poor,” said Fitnah Khânum, when Barakah remarked on the old woman’s foibles. “But she loves subtlety far more than comfort, and would refuse high monthly wages, to obtain a lesser sum by stealth and coaxing, as occasion offered. She has had much money given to her, to my knowledge; but it is as dust to her. She is like the clever fellow in thestory, who, having earned much money by his ingenuity, scrambled it among the crowd; and in the end, when it was finished, sighed, ‘O Allah, would that I had all the gold on earth to go on flinging it and see men fight like dogs for its possession!’”

Fitnah, though she scolded the old woman, had a liking for her company and waggish talk. And Umm ed-Dahak, being very diplomatic, paid her court. Indeed, she flattered all the ladies of the house with the assurance that she wished to be the spokesman of their will with Barakah, and went to them for orders every day.

The only person whom she feared was Yûsuf Bey, though she had known him from a child. At the first hint of his approach she fled the house. In vain did Barakah assure her he had no objection to her presence—nay, had said more than once that he would like to see her. The old creature smiled and wriggled, “May our Lord preserve him!” but fled no less. It all came of her desire for surreptitiousness. She would not have felt well in a harîm of which the lord approved of her.

Contentment grew in Barakah from day to day, and as the months wore on she lost the wish to go abroad. The young Muhammad could now run about, although he sometimes tumbled and set up a howl. He had been taught to testify to his religion in a piping voice and screamed at visitors, “There is no God but God. Muhammad is theapostle of God”; for which they blessed him. He had also learned to curse the infidels ferociously. A turbulent and wilful child, his mother and old Umm ed-Dahak thought him perfect. They never tired of watching him torment the slave-girls. “Ma sh´Allah!” the Mother of Laughter would croak rapturously. “A blusterer, by the Most High! A boy with all the signs of manhood on him! In sh´Allah, he will live to bully grown-up men!”

Occasionally Barakah paid visits as in duty bound; but she much preferred to stay indoors, to smoke and dream and talk with Umm ed-Dahak. Her husband, by his father’s influence, obtained a post of some importance, necessitating their removal shortly to a proper house, with a selamlik of its own where he could see his courtiers. Barakah looked forward to the change with high indifference, though Umm ed-Dahak strove to waken her enthusiasm, crying:

“Thou wilt now have eunuchs and a carriage of thy very own. In sh´Allah, Yûsuf Bey will go on rising till thy pomp excels the dignity of mighty queens.”

Her life could hardly be more easy, she considered; she was quite content. The Pasha’s ladies would be grieved to lose her, and she would feel quite lost apart from them. She thought they all respected and admired her.

It was therefore a great shock to her when oneafternoon Murjânah Khânum sent for her and read her a kind lecture on her way of life.

“My pearl,” she said, “I am the head of this harîm and in some sort responsible for all its members. I do not see a slave degenerating without endeavouring to stop the process by a word of warning. How much greater is my duty towards a near relation! My flower, thou art an Englishwoman and we Turks of Europe and of Asia welcomed thee to El Islâm as our own sister. We looked to thee for force of character, for the light of education, for refinement. What has happened, on the contrary? Thou shunnest us for boon companions, persons of the country, who, however estimable, are inferior. Amînah Khânum yesterday complained that thou art growing a fellâhah both in speech and conduct. I do not hold with her, I only tell thee what she said—a thing I cannot bear to hear of my dear daughter. My child, I speak in tenderness. Give thought to higher things—our holy Faith, the dignity of life—and spend not all thy time in mere frivolity. Keep that old woman in her place; I say not shun her, since she is amusing. Frequent good houses, study holy books. To spend one’s whole life in the hot room of the bath is not existence.”

Barakah was deeply hurt. To have her harmless pleasures so severely criticized was as cruel as to see a flower destroyed by hail. She could not take the lofty standpoint of the Turkish lady.Had she done so, viewing life in all its horror, she would have gone mad. How could she bear to look upon herself, the renegade? She was now glad that she was soon to leave that hateful house.

When she told Umm ed-Dahak of her grief, expecting sympathy, the latter smiled and said:

“The right is with her. We must not neglect the things divine. I will myself instruct thee in them, having some small learning. In sh´Allah, I will teach thee to endure those thoughts which now appal thee.”

Instruction of that kind was needed two days later, when Barakah was driven to her new abode. As she alighted from her carriage at the door, some men in waiting cut the throat of a live buffalo by way of compliment. Blood spurted in her path across the threshold.

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