CHAPTER XXIV“Blood,” explained Umm ed-Dahak, “is but the juice of living creatures. Had they crushed a fruit before thee, would thy Grace have shrunk or fainted? Those servants sacrificed a thing of value in thy name and scattered blood upon the threshold to bring thee good luck. The flesh of the victim was distributed among the needy, as an almsdeed to the credit of the house of Yûsuf Bey. There are those among the learned who declare such practices to be against religion. Allah knows! Blood is the life of creatures, and a precious offering; and our traditions say that it is wise to shed it upon great occasions. Do but apply thy mind, and thou shalt learn to view such sacrifices with a sort of pleasure. It is true, by Allah! There is a thrill peculiar to the sight of blood.”To this and many kindred exhortations Barakah replied with shudders. She was downright ill. At last, perceiving her repugnance to be quite invincible, the old woman resigned that branch of her instruction to the Most High, and once more proffered only what she knew would pleaseher. Observing, also, her disgust at the sight of blind, diseased, or crippled persons, numbers of whom frequented the harîm in quest of alms, she prevented such from entering her presence.To gain some credit with Murjânah Khânum, Umm ed-Dahak went and told her, “My sweet lady is too frail. The weakness of the infidels still clings to her. She cannot put her trust in God as we do, but is harassed by the thought of pain and illness. I have tried in vain to win her to a better mind.”“Leave that to Allah!” was the saint’s reply. “All that I ask of her is to frequent her equals, and not seclude herself in low frivolity.”“To hear is to obey,” bowed Umm ed-Dahak.She forthwith set to work to school her mistress in all the courtesies expected of a noble lady. She coached her for her visits, teaching her the names of all the male relations, after whom it was the custom to inquire although she could not know them, together with the private history of each lady of the house.With such a commentator at her elbow, Barakah found amusement in her social duties. Amînah Khânum was as kind to her as ever, but made no secret of her disapproval of the life she led.“I know,” she said, “that thou must feel bewildered sometimes. Our life here is so different from that of Europe. It is natural for one who has left much behind to seek forgetfulnessin little pleasures. But why with vulgar natives of the country? Why not with us, who are more civilized and have a nobler view of El Islâm? Thou art not the only European to be found among us. I have asked some others here to meet thee, and rid thee of the sense of loneliness, which must be dreadful.”She had in truth collected half a dozen other European women who had married Muslims and assumed the veil. But Barakah, instead of being pleased to meet them, seemed annoyed. They came from Italy and Southern Austria. To be ranked with them aroused her English pride. When Amînah Khânum asked why she disdained them, she replied that they were women of the lowest class and doubtful character.“It is unlawful to say that,” the princess scolded. “Such scorn is not permitted here among us. A woman is invested with her husband’s honour. It is a sin to cast up what she did before her marriage. Thy boast is simply thou wast better guarded. Praise God for that, but do not scorn those others!”Barakah loved them none the more for this rebuke.In her new dwelling she had three reception-rooms. The gilt salon was kept for very ceremonious visitors. Her intimates were welcomed in a large apartment with cushioned dais and divans round the wall, where she herself waswont to sit with Umm ed-Dahak, though sometimes they would camp upon the housetop under sunshades.All kinds of suitors came to the selamlik to see Yûsuf; and most of these brought presents, some of which were left at the haramlik entrance to bespeak the intercession of the lady. Ghandûr was made the steward of the house; he and his wife, who still attended on Muhammad, inhabiting a room close by. Barakah was glad to hear his voice again. As a relative by milk, he was allowed sometimes to kiss her hand and raise his chant of honour in her presence.The winter following her change of residence Barakah was once more brought to bed. The whole household had been praying for another boy; Muhammad had been taught to lisp, “A boy, in sh´Allah!” every time he saw his mother. Umm ed-Dahak had desired her mistress might produce boys only, because, she said, some of the brood were sure to die, and were all boys there was less likelihood of being left with girls alone, like Leylah Khânum. But a girl it proved to be. Muhammad shook his little fist at the intruder, shouting, “Daughter of a dog, who bade thee enter?” There was little joy at her reception in the world, and that little raised to cheer the mother’s spirits.“It is no matter,” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, whose optimism triumphed over every obstacle.“A girl comes not amiss; she has her uses. Since some are bound to die in early childhood, it is as well in every family to have a few who can be spared. And Yûsuf Bey will thank thee for this gift. The fathers always like to have a girl or two.”“Why should some die? In sh´Allah, both of mine will be preserved!” wailed Barakah.“In sh´Allah! Yet if all the children born were to survive, there soon would not be room to move in our great houses. For example, take the palace of our lord the Pasha, thy good father. Let me see!” She sat in thought and counted on her fingers: “Murjânah Khânum bore him twenty at the least—all dead; Fitnah Khânum more than that—say thirty—of whom six alive. The mother of Ali—she that was a slave—ten at the least, three living. Then there was another concubine ...”“Stop, stop! It is not true! It cannot be,” cried Barakah, with a hysteric laugh.But Umm ed-Dahak answered, “True, wallahi. What dismays thee? A woman’s task is to produce. We leave the rest to Allah.”And to console her hearer she went on to tell of broods of thirty, even forty, reared successfully; when Barakah’s dismay was turned to laughter.In her moments of depression she was haunted by two terrors on her son’s account. One was ophthalmia, a disease so prevalent in Egypt that half the population was composed of blind and one-eyed persons. The other was the plague, ofwhich the women told grim stories with a strange complacency. Many of her friends had been through epidemics of the pestilence and, by their own report, had known no panic. It was a swift and cruel illness, by which they had lost dear ones in despite of careful nursing; it was from Allah; no one’s thinking could avert or cure it. The horror the mere thought of it inspired in Barakah, her futile worry, filled them with a placid wonder.She had made up her mind that, if the plague drew near, she would carry off her boy to Europe, having no doubt but she could win consent from Yûsuf. But she said nothing of this resolution to the women, knowing they would deem it godless. As a preventive against ophthalmia, she bathed her son’s eyes with cold water twice a day, and gave orders for the flies that settled on them to be brushed away—a thing the slaves would not have thought of doing on their own initiative.The plague did not come near her; and Muhammad’s eyes continued bright and liquid under long black lashes. An enemy, unfeared as unexpected, struck her joy.About the period when he was being weaned, Muhammad had a serious illness. An Armenian doctor was called in, who said, “It is the fever.” At that the women wailed and prayed to Allah. The foe was too well known, the scourge of children. There was no need to tell them what to do.“It carries off a host of infants every year,” said Umm ed-Dahak. “But be not downcast, O beloved. God is great! Many survive, and those who do recover are free from its malignancy for evermore.”The malady was typhoid fever, or so like it that Barakah could not detect the slightest difference. She had been often told that it did not attack the natives of the land, but only Europeans, who were thought more delicate. Here, then, was the reason. The natives who grew up were all inoculated, having been through the disease in infancy.Muhammad lived, for which his mother gave wild thanks to Allah, and performed a hundred alms-deeds she had vowed in her suspense. But a year later her small daughter died of the same scourge, and in the after years she lost five children by it.
“Blood,” explained Umm ed-Dahak, “is but the juice of living creatures. Had they crushed a fruit before thee, would thy Grace have shrunk or fainted? Those servants sacrificed a thing of value in thy name and scattered blood upon the threshold to bring thee good luck. The flesh of the victim was distributed among the needy, as an almsdeed to the credit of the house of Yûsuf Bey. There are those among the learned who declare such practices to be against religion. Allah knows! Blood is the life of creatures, and a precious offering; and our traditions say that it is wise to shed it upon great occasions. Do but apply thy mind, and thou shalt learn to view such sacrifices with a sort of pleasure. It is true, by Allah! There is a thrill peculiar to the sight of blood.”
To this and many kindred exhortations Barakah replied with shudders. She was downright ill. At last, perceiving her repugnance to be quite invincible, the old woman resigned that branch of her instruction to the Most High, and once more proffered only what she knew would pleaseher. Observing, also, her disgust at the sight of blind, diseased, or crippled persons, numbers of whom frequented the harîm in quest of alms, she prevented such from entering her presence.
To gain some credit with Murjânah Khânum, Umm ed-Dahak went and told her, “My sweet lady is too frail. The weakness of the infidels still clings to her. She cannot put her trust in God as we do, but is harassed by the thought of pain and illness. I have tried in vain to win her to a better mind.”
“Leave that to Allah!” was the saint’s reply. “All that I ask of her is to frequent her equals, and not seclude herself in low frivolity.”
“To hear is to obey,” bowed Umm ed-Dahak.
She forthwith set to work to school her mistress in all the courtesies expected of a noble lady. She coached her for her visits, teaching her the names of all the male relations, after whom it was the custom to inquire although she could not know them, together with the private history of each lady of the house.
With such a commentator at her elbow, Barakah found amusement in her social duties. Amînah Khânum was as kind to her as ever, but made no secret of her disapproval of the life she led.
“I know,” she said, “that thou must feel bewildered sometimes. Our life here is so different from that of Europe. It is natural for one who has left much behind to seek forgetfulnessin little pleasures. But why with vulgar natives of the country? Why not with us, who are more civilized and have a nobler view of El Islâm? Thou art not the only European to be found among us. I have asked some others here to meet thee, and rid thee of the sense of loneliness, which must be dreadful.”
She had in truth collected half a dozen other European women who had married Muslims and assumed the veil. But Barakah, instead of being pleased to meet them, seemed annoyed. They came from Italy and Southern Austria. To be ranked with them aroused her English pride. When Amînah Khânum asked why she disdained them, she replied that they were women of the lowest class and doubtful character.
“It is unlawful to say that,” the princess scolded. “Such scorn is not permitted here among us. A woman is invested with her husband’s honour. It is a sin to cast up what she did before her marriage. Thy boast is simply thou wast better guarded. Praise God for that, but do not scorn those others!”
Barakah loved them none the more for this rebuke.
In her new dwelling she had three reception-rooms. The gilt salon was kept for very ceremonious visitors. Her intimates were welcomed in a large apartment with cushioned dais and divans round the wall, where she herself waswont to sit with Umm ed-Dahak, though sometimes they would camp upon the housetop under sunshades.
All kinds of suitors came to the selamlik to see Yûsuf; and most of these brought presents, some of which were left at the haramlik entrance to bespeak the intercession of the lady. Ghandûr was made the steward of the house; he and his wife, who still attended on Muhammad, inhabiting a room close by. Barakah was glad to hear his voice again. As a relative by milk, he was allowed sometimes to kiss her hand and raise his chant of honour in her presence.
The winter following her change of residence Barakah was once more brought to bed. The whole household had been praying for another boy; Muhammad had been taught to lisp, “A boy, in sh´Allah!” every time he saw his mother. Umm ed-Dahak had desired her mistress might produce boys only, because, she said, some of the brood were sure to die, and were all boys there was less likelihood of being left with girls alone, like Leylah Khânum. But a girl it proved to be. Muhammad shook his little fist at the intruder, shouting, “Daughter of a dog, who bade thee enter?” There was little joy at her reception in the world, and that little raised to cheer the mother’s spirits.
“It is no matter,” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, whose optimism triumphed over every obstacle.
“A girl comes not amiss; she has her uses. Since some are bound to die in early childhood, it is as well in every family to have a few who can be spared. And Yûsuf Bey will thank thee for this gift. The fathers always like to have a girl or two.”
“Why should some die? In sh´Allah, both of mine will be preserved!” wailed Barakah.
“In sh´Allah! Yet if all the children born were to survive, there soon would not be room to move in our great houses. For example, take the palace of our lord the Pasha, thy good father. Let me see!” She sat in thought and counted on her fingers: “Murjânah Khânum bore him twenty at the least—all dead; Fitnah Khânum more than that—say thirty—of whom six alive. The mother of Ali—she that was a slave—ten at the least, three living. Then there was another concubine ...”
“Stop, stop! It is not true! It cannot be,” cried Barakah, with a hysteric laugh.
But Umm ed-Dahak answered, “True, wallahi. What dismays thee? A woman’s task is to produce. We leave the rest to Allah.”
And to console her hearer she went on to tell of broods of thirty, even forty, reared successfully; when Barakah’s dismay was turned to laughter.
In her moments of depression she was haunted by two terrors on her son’s account. One was ophthalmia, a disease so prevalent in Egypt that half the population was composed of blind and one-eyed persons. The other was the plague, ofwhich the women told grim stories with a strange complacency. Many of her friends had been through epidemics of the pestilence and, by their own report, had known no panic. It was a swift and cruel illness, by which they had lost dear ones in despite of careful nursing; it was from Allah; no one’s thinking could avert or cure it. The horror the mere thought of it inspired in Barakah, her futile worry, filled them with a placid wonder.
She had made up her mind that, if the plague drew near, she would carry off her boy to Europe, having no doubt but she could win consent from Yûsuf. But she said nothing of this resolution to the women, knowing they would deem it godless. As a preventive against ophthalmia, she bathed her son’s eyes with cold water twice a day, and gave orders for the flies that settled on them to be brushed away—a thing the slaves would not have thought of doing on their own initiative.
The plague did not come near her; and Muhammad’s eyes continued bright and liquid under long black lashes. An enemy, unfeared as unexpected, struck her joy.
About the period when he was being weaned, Muhammad had a serious illness. An Armenian doctor was called in, who said, “It is the fever.” At that the women wailed and prayed to Allah. The foe was too well known, the scourge of children. There was no need to tell them what to do.
“It carries off a host of infants every year,” said Umm ed-Dahak. “But be not downcast, O beloved. God is great! Many survive, and those who do recover are free from its malignancy for evermore.”
The malady was typhoid fever, or so like it that Barakah could not detect the slightest difference. She had been often told that it did not attack the natives of the land, but only Europeans, who were thought more delicate. Here, then, was the reason. The natives who grew up were all inoculated, having been through the disease in infancy.
Muhammad lived, for which his mother gave wild thanks to Allah, and performed a hundred alms-deeds she had vowed in her suspense. But a year later her small daughter died of the same scourge, and in the after years she lost five children by it.
CHAPTER XXVHer boy was her delight in life. No other woman was allowed to scold him. When Yûsuf slapped him in the cause of order, which happened often, for the child was naughty, she made it up to him with sugar-plums and fond caresses. In his father’s absence Muhammad was the lord of the harîm; all vied to please him. His foster-mother and the servants told him fairy stories in which good children killed all kinds of monsters. One, which he never tired of hearing, ended thus:“Then little Hâfiz took a sword and reaped the head of the atrocious ghoul; and beat to death the hag who had ill-used him, and with the help of all the neighbours, who acclaimed his goodness, burnt all his wicked little cousins in a cheerful fire.”He knew that tale by heart and went about repeating it. He had a lot of toys, but none which gave him so much pleasure as a little cane. With this he beat the slave-girls, uttering terrific curses. The victims, for his satisfaction, made believe to cry, and assured him they were seriously injured. His mother and old Umm ed-Dahak praised his manly spirit.Fitnah Khânum sometimes shook her head and spoke of necessary discipline. Barakah only smiled; as she did also, when young Na’imah, puffed up with pride of her new motherhood, exclaimed: “By Allah, I will bring up my son otherwise.” But when the prim and dainty Turkish ladies looked fastidious, glancing around her room where toys lay scattered, she felt angry. The salons of those ladies were maintained in spotless cleanliness; their children, though untidy to avert ill-fortune, were as courtly as small chamberlains towards their elders.“It is strange! Thou art an Englishwoman, yet thou likest these things!” Amînah Khânum exclaimed once, remarking her affection for a certain sweetstuff, common in the markets but unknown in decent houses—a taste she had acquired through Umm ed-Dahak. “Thou art too much with the women of the country. Be more discerning in the choice of friends.”But Barakah was happy as she was; or, if not altogether happy, chose to seem so from a blend of pride and indolence. Against the condescension of the Turkish ladies she armed her dignity with the reflection that she was born above all Eastern women. Yet she dared not let remembrance dwell on England for fear of terrible misgivings she had sworn to banish. Her boy, she thought, should be her vindication. He was visibly superior to other children of the land.To him, clasped tightly to her breast, she poured out all her secret and tormenting thoughts.The English had ill-treated her most shamefully. Her son must hate the English for her sake. And yet he must remember he was half an Englishman, a being of a different order from the children round him. And when he prayed he must ask Allah to increase his strength and wisdom, so that he might prove a match for any Englishman he might encounter in the course of life. The child, with bright eyes, drank in all she said, but God alone knew what his mind could make of it; for Barakah’s opinions were a tangle as of angry serpents, their utterance as incoherent as the cries of battle. She heard him once hurl “Englishwoman!” at a slave who had enraged him. The girl laughed back: “Thy mother is an Englishwoman,” when he replied: “A noble race and warlike—the Muslimîn among them, like my mother. But thou art a low Christian of that race, a filthy harlot!”Outside her own house and her husband’s family Barakah’s chief friends were Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr. With them she laid aside the pride which had become her usual armour in society. Yet Gulbeyzah said one day when Barakah was calling on her: “How thou art changed! Rememberest thou the days when we talked French together? Then thou wast as timid and demure as mice are; and so good andwise! Now thou art a high and mighty Arab lady. I am half afraid!”“Thou too art greatly changed, O wicked joker!” cried Barakah, impounding the Circassian’s hand. “Rememberest thou the little window in the passage?”“Hush!” said Gulbeyzah, with uplifted finger. “By Allah, thou art owner of a shameless memory. But come with me!”She led her friend away from the reception-room, upstairs, and showed her such another little window as that they both remembered, looking out on distant roofs. “I come and dream here sometimes as of old—I, the mother of two children!” sighed Gulbeyzah. “There is a roof well fitted for a hopeless lover, but no one ever comes. Now thou knowest that I have not changed my foolish nature, although in motherhood I have acquired a soul.”That the Turkish ladies rather wondered at her preference for Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr, two former slaves, made Barakah the more enamoured of their friendship. Muhammad was allowed to visit them, and play games with their children, a transcendent favour; and it was with a horror as of treason and of base ingratitude that she heard them, too, declare that he was sadly spoilt.It was at the wedding-feast which Tâhir, the great singer, gave his daughter. The ladies of the grand harîms flocked thither eagerly, for it wasknown that Tâhir would perform. The two Circassians found out Barakah amid the throng, and went and sat with her in a deserted corner. Muhammad had that day been playing with the children of Gulbeyzah’s house.“He is a little tyrant!” said his hostess, laughing. “A young savage. He attacked my little girl as if to kill her, because she tried to get back her own doll. I had to shake him. I told him that his mother would be very angry at his conduct. He cursed my religion and then spat at me. By our lady Zeynab, thou shouldst beat him sometimes, O my soul!”“His spirit is too high and needs restraining. Every one says so,” said Bedr-ul-Budûr.“You must have thwarted him. He is not used to it. He has the noblest, the most generous nature,” answered Barakah.“By Allah, it is difficult not to thwart a boy who claims the eyes from out one’s face as his to play with! He must be denied, and when denied he grows infuriated,” said Gulbeyzah mildly.Barakah was on the point of making a fierce answer, when the glorious voice of Tâhir rose, compelling silence. She had heard a hundred singers, male and female, since she came to Cairo; but Tâhir’s voice alone had power to move her. The others mouthed and shrieked to individual passions; but Tâhir took the soul and soared with it, producing exaltation and a sense of peace. Hesang from the pure heart of El Islâm, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the song died she had forgotten anger.That wedding-feast became for ever memorable by reason of a shocking tragedy at its conclusion. Barakah and her friends were led by Umm ed-Dahak, who was a relative of Tâhir’s wife, to view the nuptial chamber. It was full of flowering plants; the bed, with silken coverings, was quite embowered. In addition to the odour of so many blossoms the air was thick with perfumes burnt and sprinkled. The room, they were informed, had been arranged, the flowers provided, by rich admirers of the singer’s talent.“By Allah, pretty! But I should not like to sleep there!” had been Gulbeyzah’s comment, little guessing what would happen. For next morning it was known to high and low, through all the city, that the bridegroom and the bride had died of suffocation. When people went to rouse them in the morning they found corpses. The news was brought to Barakah by Umm ed-Dahak, who had herself been present at the sad discovery. She told the story with an artist’s relish.“What did Tâhir do? The poor demented father? What did he? He took his lute and struck the chords and sang a song more mournful than was ever heard on earth till now. Many present had to leave the room in grievous pains. And then, with the last note—C-r-r-a-c-k!—he brokethe lute, and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. In sh´Allah he will change his mind,” said Umm ed-Dahak, in her ordinary tone. “The world would lack a soul without his singing. His oath has spread despair through all the town.”For months the news of Tâhir was demanded eagerly. After his daughter’s death he went to Tantah for a while. Returning to the capital, prepared to keep his vow, he took a shop and furnished it with goods, intending to become a merchant. He thought to work out bargains over cups of coffee, by way of pastime only, for he was a wealthy man. But the people, his admirers, would not have it. They thronged his shop directly it was opened, and bought up all his goods in a few hours, paying the price first asked without a protest. He stocked his shop again; the same thing happened, till, finding himself debarred from occupation, he cursed the day when he was born; and in the end repaired to the Grand Câdi, and asked for liberation from his vow. The reverend judge released him with a grin and “Praise to Allah!” It was what his Honour and the whole of Egypt had been wanting. Enormous crowds assembled to hear Tâhir call to noonday prayer at the great mosque El Azhar—the first occasion of his singing since his daughter’s death.“The praise to Allah, we possess him once again,” said Umm ed-Dahak, when reporting hisdefeat. “It has cost us trouble to regain him, Allah knows. He did wrong to swear that oath; which was as impious as swearing to cut off his hand or foot, the work of God; and so the Câdi told him in his judgment yesterday. He brought the grief upon himself by doting on the girl above her merits, calling her his soul of music, neglecting the son who is still with him—a fine lad. By the Prophet, it was courting sorrow to make all that fuss about a daughter. Now had it been his son, his source of honour——”Barakah interrupted with a prayer to Allah to avert the omen of her stabbing fear. She clutched Muhammad to her bosom; but he, intent on playthings, kicked and struggled, even swore at her. And at that moment Fitnah Khânum was announced.
Her boy was her delight in life. No other woman was allowed to scold him. When Yûsuf slapped him in the cause of order, which happened often, for the child was naughty, she made it up to him with sugar-plums and fond caresses. In his father’s absence Muhammad was the lord of the harîm; all vied to please him. His foster-mother and the servants told him fairy stories in which good children killed all kinds of monsters. One, which he never tired of hearing, ended thus:
“Then little Hâfiz took a sword and reaped the head of the atrocious ghoul; and beat to death the hag who had ill-used him, and with the help of all the neighbours, who acclaimed his goodness, burnt all his wicked little cousins in a cheerful fire.”
He knew that tale by heart and went about repeating it. He had a lot of toys, but none which gave him so much pleasure as a little cane. With this he beat the slave-girls, uttering terrific curses. The victims, for his satisfaction, made believe to cry, and assured him they were seriously injured. His mother and old Umm ed-Dahak praised his manly spirit.
Fitnah Khânum sometimes shook her head and spoke of necessary discipline. Barakah only smiled; as she did also, when young Na’imah, puffed up with pride of her new motherhood, exclaimed: “By Allah, I will bring up my son otherwise.” But when the prim and dainty Turkish ladies looked fastidious, glancing around her room where toys lay scattered, she felt angry. The salons of those ladies were maintained in spotless cleanliness; their children, though untidy to avert ill-fortune, were as courtly as small chamberlains towards their elders.
“It is strange! Thou art an Englishwoman, yet thou likest these things!” Amînah Khânum exclaimed once, remarking her affection for a certain sweetstuff, common in the markets but unknown in decent houses—a taste she had acquired through Umm ed-Dahak. “Thou art too much with the women of the country. Be more discerning in the choice of friends.”
But Barakah was happy as she was; or, if not altogether happy, chose to seem so from a blend of pride and indolence. Against the condescension of the Turkish ladies she armed her dignity with the reflection that she was born above all Eastern women. Yet she dared not let remembrance dwell on England for fear of terrible misgivings she had sworn to banish. Her boy, she thought, should be her vindication. He was visibly superior to other children of the land.
To him, clasped tightly to her breast, she poured out all her secret and tormenting thoughts.
The English had ill-treated her most shamefully. Her son must hate the English for her sake. And yet he must remember he was half an Englishman, a being of a different order from the children round him. And when he prayed he must ask Allah to increase his strength and wisdom, so that he might prove a match for any Englishman he might encounter in the course of life. The child, with bright eyes, drank in all she said, but God alone knew what his mind could make of it; for Barakah’s opinions were a tangle as of angry serpents, their utterance as incoherent as the cries of battle. She heard him once hurl “Englishwoman!” at a slave who had enraged him. The girl laughed back: “Thy mother is an Englishwoman,” when he replied: “A noble race and warlike—the Muslimîn among them, like my mother. But thou art a low Christian of that race, a filthy harlot!”
Outside her own house and her husband’s family Barakah’s chief friends were Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr. With them she laid aside the pride which had become her usual armour in society. Yet Gulbeyzah said one day when Barakah was calling on her: “How thou art changed! Rememberest thou the days when we talked French together? Then thou wast as timid and demure as mice are; and so good andwise! Now thou art a high and mighty Arab lady. I am half afraid!”
“Thou too art greatly changed, O wicked joker!” cried Barakah, impounding the Circassian’s hand. “Rememberest thou the little window in the passage?”
“Hush!” said Gulbeyzah, with uplifted finger. “By Allah, thou art owner of a shameless memory. But come with me!”
She led her friend away from the reception-room, upstairs, and showed her such another little window as that they both remembered, looking out on distant roofs. “I come and dream here sometimes as of old—I, the mother of two children!” sighed Gulbeyzah. “There is a roof well fitted for a hopeless lover, but no one ever comes. Now thou knowest that I have not changed my foolish nature, although in motherhood I have acquired a soul.”
That the Turkish ladies rather wondered at her preference for Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr, two former slaves, made Barakah the more enamoured of their friendship. Muhammad was allowed to visit them, and play games with their children, a transcendent favour; and it was with a horror as of treason and of base ingratitude that she heard them, too, declare that he was sadly spoilt.
It was at the wedding-feast which Tâhir, the great singer, gave his daughter. The ladies of the grand harîms flocked thither eagerly, for it wasknown that Tâhir would perform. The two Circassians found out Barakah amid the throng, and went and sat with her in a deserted corner. Muhammad had that day been playing with the children of Gulbeyzah’s house.
“He is a little tyrant!” said his hostess, laughing. “A young savage. He attacked my little girl as if to kill her, because she tried to get back her own doll. I had to shake him. I told him that his mother would be very angry at his conduct. He cursed my religion and then spat at me. By our lady Zeynab, thou shouldst beat him sometimes, O my soul!”
“His spirit is too high and needs restraining. Every one says so,” said Bedr-ul-Budûr.
“You must have thwarted him. He is not used to it. He has the noblest, the most generous nature,” answered Barakah.
“By Allah, it is difficult not to thwart a boy who claims the eyes from out one’s face as his to play with! He must be denied, and when denied he grows infuriated,” said Gulbeyzah mildly.
Barakah was on the point of making a fierce answer, when the glorious voice of Tâhir rose, compelling silence. She had heard a hundred singers, male and female, since she came to Cairo; but Tâhir’s voice alone had power to move her. The others mouthed and shrieked to individual passions; but Tâhir took the soul and soared with it, producing exaltation and a sense of peace. Hesang from the pure heart of El Islâm, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the song died she had forgotten anger.
That wedding-feast became for ever memorable by reason of a shocking tragedy at its conclusion. Barakah and her friends were led by Umm ed-Dahak, who was a relative of Tâhir’s wife, to view the nuptial chamber. It was full of flowering plants; the bed, with silken coverings, was quite embowered. In addition to the odour of so many blossoms the air was thick with perfumes burnt and sprinkled. The room, they were informed, had been arranged, the flowers provided, by rich admirers of the singer’s talent.
“By Allah, pretty! But I should not like to sleep there!” had been Gulbeyzah’s comment, little guessing what would happen. For next morning it was known to high and low, through all the city, that the bridegroom and the bride had died of suffocation. When people went to rouse them in the morning they found corpses. The news was brought to Barakah by Umm ed-Dahak, who had herself been present at the sad discovery. She told the story with an artist’s relish.
“What did Tâhir do? The poor demented father? What did he? He took his lute and struck the chords and sang a song more mournful than was ever heard on earth till now. Many present had to leave the room in grievous pains. And then, with the last note—C-r-r-a-c-k!—he brokethe lute, and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. In sh´Allah he will change his mind,” said Umm ed-Dahak, in her ordinary tone. “The world would lack a soul without his singing. His oath has spread despair through all the town.”
For months the news of Tâhir was demanded eagerly. After his daughter’s death he went to Tantah for a while. Returning to the capital, prepared to keep his vow, he took a shop and furnished it with goods, intending to become a merchant. He thought to work out bargains over cups of coffee, by way of pastime only, for he was a wealthy man. But the people, his admirers, would not have it. They thronged his shop directly it was opened, and bought up all his goods in a few hours, paying the price first asked without a protest. He stocked his shop again; the same thing happened, till, finding himself debarred from occupation, he cursed the day when he was born; and in the end repaired to the Grand Câdi, and asked for liberation from his vow. The reverend judge released him with a grin and “Praise to Allah!” It was what his Honour and the whole of Egypt had been wanting. Enormous crowds assembled to hear Tâhir call to noonday prayer at the great mosque El Azhar—the first occasion of his singing since his daughter’s death.
“The praise to Allah, we possess him once again,” said Umm ed-Dahak, when reporting hisdefeat. “It has cost us trouble to regain him, Allah knows. He did wrong to swear that oath; which was as impious as swearing to cut off his hand or foot, the work of God; and so the Câdi told him in his judgment yesterday. He brought the grief upon himself by doting on the girl above her merits, calling her his soul of music, neglecting the son who is still with him—a fine lad. By the Prophet, it was courting sorrow to make all that fuss about a daughter. Now had it been his son, his source of honour——”
Barakah interrupted with a prayer to Allah to avert the omen of her stabbing fear. She clutched Muhammad to her bosom; but he, intent on playthings, kicked and struggled, even swore at her. And at that moment Fitnah Khânum was announced.
CHAPTER XXVIWhen Fitnah Khânum entered, the small boy was stamping about on the dais, hurling frightful imprecations at his mother, who was on her knees endeavouring to soothe him. His fez was off, and he had trampled on it in his rage; he tore his clothing. Umm ed-Dahak, crouching by the wall with her narghileh, made clucking noises to attract the child; while the wife of Ghandûr, standing, smiled upon the scene, awaiting the command to bear him off. The floor was littered with his broken playthings. The light that filtered in through the rich lattice was blue with all the dust that he had raised.“Look, here comes thy grandmother, a great lady. Hush, O Muhammad! Be a good boy. I will give thee such nice sweeties.”“Mayest thou be ravished and then cut in pieces!” shrieked Muhammad, knuckling both his eyes. Therewith he spurned his mother with his foot.The visitor remained a moment petrified. It was the first time she had seen her grandson at his worst. Then, boxing both ears of thewife of Ghandûr, who stood grinning near her, she rushed upon the wicked boy, and slapped him hard, regardless of his kicks and blows, his horrid language.“Learn to respect thy mother, little malefactor,” she admonished him, enforcing every word with punishment. “Thou art no better than a heathen, than a wild beast. Thou wilt merit fire hereafter!”But Barakah sprang on her like a tigress. “He is my child! Let him alone!” she panted.“He is thy child, truly, but a Muslim first. To curse and kick his mother is a dreadful crime.”“Let him alone, I say! By Allah, no one shall chastise my son but me, his mother!”The ladies, both alike indignant, screamed against each other; Umm ed-Dahak, ever ready to applaud a truth, however adverse, begged her mistress to hear wisdom from the mouth of Fitnah Khânum; the wife of Ghandûr was in tears, and all the slave-girls, assembling in the hope to see a fight, shrieked prayers to Allah and implored the ladies to be calm. Muhammad, in disgust at being quite forgotten, set up a dismal howl, which no one heeded.At length, perceiving the futility of further argument, the visitor retired, by no means vanquished.“The child must be removed if thou wilt not control him,” were her parting words, unheard of any one amid the din.In the greatest agitation and distress of mind, Fitnah Khânum went back to her carriage and was driven home. She sought immediate audience of Murjânah Khânum. She had a warm affection for the wife of Yûsuf, and something like a passion for her little grandson. The need to take stern measures with them filled her eyes with tears; but her religion nerved her to perform a duty. A scene like that she had just witnessed must never be allowed to be repeated in a Muslim house.Murjânah’s look grew worried as she heard the story.“I have spoken to the dear one once, and fain would never speak to her again in chiding tones,” she murmured. “I pity her extremely, for she is alone among us and, I think, afraid. Consider what might have become of one of us if set down all alone amid the life of Europe! But it devolves on us to intervene since Yûsuf, as thou sayest, will not act against her.”As a result of Fitnah’s allegations, Murjânah Khânum called a council of the matrons of the family, including in the number her ex-slave, Gulbeyzah, who, as Barakah’s best friend, might plead her cause. But Gulbeyzah, when the case was laid before her, shrugged and cried:“By Allah, it is true, she will destroy the child! How often have I tried to warn her! But she is haughty in her weakness, and impatient ofadvice. She loves the fawning voice of her own servants. She has greatly changed. Yûsuf Bey, however, is for discipline. She has more than once complained to me of his severity towards the boy.”“What good is that when she consoles Muhammad afterwards, and talks about his cruel father? I have heard her,” put in Na’imah, who was a member of the conclave, though a child in years. She spoke with great excitement. All the ladies smiled. Murjânah Khânum touched her cheek affectionately, and called her the most excellent of little mothers. Murjânah added:“The whole trouble, as I see it, is her want of faith. She has lost the comfort of her own religion, without acquiring ours in more than name. Is such a woman, full of cowardice and self-indulgence, fit to rear a Muslim? Unless she change her whole behaviour, which appears unlikely, for her strength is gone, will it be wise to leave the child with her?”“No!” came from all sides.“Let his grandmother take charge of him,” said Leylah Khânum.“God forbid!” cried Fitnah, “lest his mother hate me. Let him be given to the wisest, most benign of women, to our dear Murjânah.”This motion won applause from all the ladies on the divan. They smiled to one another with rouged lips and kohled eyes. The room wasbeautifully cool and sweet, the cigarettes were of the best, the coffee excellent, and every one enjoyed the sense of doing serious business.Murjânah showed no fear of the responsibility. Assured of Fitnah Khânum’s gracious help, she said the task of civilizing the small boy would not displease her; but first the menfolk had to be consulted, and due warning must be given to the luckless mother. The ladies Fitnah, Leylah, and Murjânah were deputed to convey the verdict of the council to the Pasha and to Yûsuf Bey, who were invited to Murjânah’s rooms that evening.Yûsuf displayed some irritation when he heard the charges.“But my wife is a Frank!” he cried. “Allah knows it is but natural her ways should be different from ours.”Murjânah took no notice of the interruption, but proceeded to relate the scene described by Fitnah. She mentioned also facts which he could not gainsay, as that Muhammad never kissed his father’s hand, that he sat down in his father’s presence without asking leave, and that he did not wait upon his parents as behoved a child. Yûsuf was silenced, though he looked annoyed. The Pasha wore his blandest diplomatic visage.“With thy permission, O my lord,” said the great lady, “we have thought upon this matterand discussed it fully. If it be allowed for us to proffer a suggestion, it is that thou, who didst endow the bride of Yûsuf and stand in some sort for her people at the wedding, shouldst of thy gracious favour go and reason with her.”The Pasha, fingering his beads, observed that God is merciful.“Of thy kindness condescend to view the case,” she urged. “The boy is brought up utterly devoid of reverence. What is his fate when he goes out to face the world—unmannerly, rebellious, a mad dog, a savage, detestable alike to great and small. Of what use will he be to El Islâm? Oh, God forbid that he should grow like that—a scourge to his two parents, and the scorn of others. It is to save him and his mother from the consequences of her folly that we beg thee of thy mercy to remonstrate with her, and if she will not hearken, to confide the education of the child to us. The word is spoken. May our Lord preserve thee ever!”“May Allah help us all!” replied the Pasha gently.When he and Yûsuf had departed from the ladies and were returning through dim corridors to the selamlik, he inquired:“What sayest thou?”“They much exaggerate,” said Yûsuf warmly. “I keep an eye upon the boy. In course of time I shall correct his conduct.”“Do it now!”“What meanest thou? Why dost thou smile, my father?”“I smile because I have observed that when the women take that tone—‘of thy great kindness deign to listen,’ and the rest, there is no safe course for man but to obey. The boy is five years old and it is time he learnt behaviour. It is thy business, O my son; remonstrate with her.”“Nay, for they charged thee with the office.”“It is thine of right.”“Very gladly I resign it to thee. Thy words have more weight. And how can I turn round upon her suddenly? She will think me mad.”“By Allah, I implore thee to perform thy duty.”“By the Prophet, I beseech, adjure thee to befriend me now, as thou hast done from childhood. I will tell her to expect a visit from thee in the morning.”“Well, God is greatest!” The good Pasha heaved a sigh, proclaiming his acceptance of the part allotted.Accordingly, next morning, arrayed in his official black frock-coat and newest fez, he waited upon Barakah, who received him with delight, evidently unsuspecting the real purpose of his visit. He thought that Yûsuf might at least have warned her. However, with a shrug, he opened business in his usual courtly andconfiding manner, speaking in French, since servants are born eavesdroppers.“Madame my daughter,” he began, “from the moment when you did my house the honour of espousing my dear son, I have been your servant and admirer; that is known. Yûsuf himself has not more tender veneration for your many virtues and accomplishments, so rare among us.” He went on to recite the panegyric of her general conduct as a wife and mother, paid tribute to her beauty and her piety, and then said, “But there is one small point on which I have to scold you. In your great goodness, your untiring kindness, you forget to claim the service due to you. Your slaves, as I have heard, grow fat and lazy, and though devoted to you—as what soul would not be?—do not keep your house so scrupulously clean and nicely ordered as the dwelling-place of such a treasure ought to be. I beg you to make hard your heart from time to time, to think a little less for others and more often for yourself. Even your own son should be brought up to reverence you, as one to whom he owes incalculable debts of gratitude. He should kiss your hand whenever he approaches, and bow and ask your blessing when he takes his leave. It is our custom for small children and, I think, a good one. How is the little one this morning? Am I not to be allowed to see him for one moment?”Barakah clapped her hands and, when a slave appeared, gave order for Muhammad to be brought. He came in presently, escorted by his foster-mother, who stood and watched his progress to the dais with loving smiles. He was in docile mood, and Barakah detained him, giving the wife of Ghandûr leave to go.“What fault is there to find in his behaviour?” she inquired in French, with arch defiance of the Pasha.“None in the world,” he made reply, with vast politeness, “except that he has not kissed hands, nor waited your permission to sit down with us.”“Absurd!” laughed Barakah.“Absurd, in verity, like many of our customs. Only, my cherished daughter, he is one of us and must observe them. If you refuse to teach him the behaviour which we consider fitting for young children, I announce with deep regret that we must take him from you.”Barakah gasped. She looked for signs of jesting; but the Pasha’s visage, though urbane, was serious.“It has been told me,” he continued very gravely, “that this boy, when angry, kicks and curses his own mother. That is, for us others, a most dreadful crime, apart from the regard in which I hold you personally. My grandson must not be brought up to shame our house; the authority of the family must be exerted to avertdishonour. In fact, dear madame, if you will not punish him, he must be given for a while to some one who will do so.”“But it is unheard of!” cried the mother wildly. “How can you think of such abominable cruelty? He is my child. My right to him exists in nature.”“And is inalienable,” said the Pasha, with a splendid bow. “No one else can ever bear him, but some one else will have to educate him, since madame refuses.”“I am an Englishwoman. I shall complain to my Consul.”“Believe me, dear madame, he will not listen. Your son is a Turkish subject; we inhabit Egypt; and in a case of this sort we allow no interference. The English are a race distinguished for intelligence and force of character; I beg you to display those qualities on this occasion.”He left her in hysterics, clinging fiercely to her boy.
When Fitnah Khânum entered, the small boy was stamping about on the dais, hurling frightful imprecations at his mother, who was on her knees endeavouring to soothe him. His fez was off, and he had trampled on it in his rage; he tore his clothing. Umm ed-Dahak, crouching by the wall with her narghileh, made clucking noises to attract the child; while the wife of Ghandûr, standing, smiled upon the scene, awaiting the command to bear him off. The floor was littered with his broken playthings. The light that filtered in through the rich lattice was blue with all the dust that he had raised.
“Look, here comes thy grandmother, a great lady. Hush, O Muhammad! Be a good boy. I will give thee such nice sweeties.”
“Mayest thou be ravished and then cut in pieces!” shrieked Muhammad, knuckling both his eyes. Therewith he spurned his mother with his foot.
The visitor remained a moment petrified. It was the first time she had seen her grandson at his worst. Then, boxing both ears of thewife of Ghandûr, who stood grinning near her, she rushed upon the wicked boy, and slapped him hard, regardless of his kicks and blows, his horrid language.
“Learn to respect thy mother, little malefactor,” she admonished him, enforcing every word with punishment. “Thou art no better than a heathen, than a wild beast. Thou wilt merit fire hereafter!”
But Barakah sprang on her like a tigress. “He is my child! Let him alone!” she panted.
“He is thy child, truly, but a Muslim first. To curse and kick his mother is a dreadful crime.”
“Let him alone, I say! By Allah, no one shall chastise my son but me, his mother!”
The ladies, both alike indignant, screamed against each other; Umm ed-Dahak, ever ready to applaud a truth, however adverse, begged her mistress to hear wisdom from the mouth of Fitnah Khânum; the wife of Ghandûr was in tears, and all the slave-girls, assembling in the hope to see a fight, shrieked prayers to Allah and implored the ladies to be calm. Muhammad, in disgust at being quite forgotten, set up a dismal howl, which no one heeded.
At length, perceiving the futility of further argument, the visitor retired, by no means vanquished.
“The child must be removed if thou wilt not control him,” were her parting words, unheard of any one amid the din.
In the greatest agitation and distress of mind, Fitnah Khânum went back to her carriage and was driven home. She sought immediate audience of Murjânah Khânum. She had a warm affection for the wife of Yûsuf, and something like a passion for her little grandson. The need to take stern measures with them filled her eyes with tears; but her religion nerved her to perform a duty. A scene like that she had just witnessed must never be allowed to be repeated in a Muslim house.
Murjânah’s look grew worried as she heard the story.
“I have spoken to the dear one once, and fain would never speak to her again in chiding tones,” she murmured. “I pity her extremely, for she is alone among us and, I think, afraid. Consider what might have become of one of us if set down all alone amid the life of Europe! But it devolves on us to intervene since Yûsuf, as thou sayest, will not act against her.”
As a result of Fitnah’s allegations, Murjânah Khânum called a council of the matrons of the family, including in the number her ex-slave, Gulbeyzah, who, as Barakah’s best friend, might plead her cause. But Gulbeyzah, when the case was laid before her, shrugged and cried:
“By Allah, it is true, she will destroy the child! How often have I tried to warn her! But she is haughty in her weakness, and impatient ofadvice. She loves the fawning voice of her own servants. She has greatly changed. Yûsuf Bey, however, is for discipline. She has more than once complained to me of his severity towards the boy.”
“What good is that when she consoles Muhammad afterwards, and talks about his cruel father? I have heard her,” put in Na’imah, who was a member of the conclave, though a child in years. She spoke with great excitement. All the ladies smiled. Murjânah Khânum touched her cheek affectionately, and called her the most excellent of little mothers. Murjânah added:
“The whole trouble, as I see it, is her want of faith. She has lost the comfort of her own religion, without acquiring ours in more than name. Is such a woman, full of cowardice and self-indulgence, fit to rear a Muslim? Unless she change her whole behaviour, which appears unlikely, for her strength is gone, will it be wise to leave the child with her?”
“No!” came from all sides.
“Let his grandmother take charge of him,” said Leylah Khânum.
“God forbid!” cried Fitnah, “lest his mother hate me. Let him be given to the wisest, most benign of women, to our dear Murjânah.”
This motion won applause from all the ladies on the divan. They smiled to one another with rouged lips and kohled eyes. The room wasbeautifully cool and sweet, the cigarettes were of the best, the coffee excellent, and every one enjoyed the sense of doing serious business.
Murjânah showed no fear of the responsibility. Assured of Fitnah Khânum’s gracious help, she said the task of civilizing the small boy would not displease her; but first the menfolk had to be consulted, and due warning must be given to the luckless mother. The ladies Fitnah, Leylah, and Murjânah were deputed to convey the verdict of the council to the Pasha and to Yûsuf Bey, who were invited to Murjânah’s rooms that evening.
Yûsuf displayed some irritation when he heard the charges.
“But my wife is a Frank!” he cried. “Allah knows it is but natural her ways should be different from ours.”
Murjânah took no notice of the interruption, but proceeded to relate the scene described by Fitnah. She mentioned also facts which he could not gainsay, as that Muhammad never kissed his father’s hand, that he sat down in his father’s presence without asking leave, and that he did not wait upon his parents as behoved a child. Yûsuf was silenced, though he looked annoyed. The Pasha wore his blandest diplomatic visage.
“With thy permission, O my lord,” said the great lady, “we have thought upon this matterand discussed it fully. If it be allowed for us to proffer a suggestion, it is that thou, who didst endow the bride of Yûsuf and stand in some sort for her people at the wedding, shouldst of thy gracious favour go and reason with her.”
The Pasha, fingering his beads, observed that God is merciful.
“Of thy kindness condescend to view the case,” she urged. “The boy is brought up utterly devoid of reverence. What is his fate when he goes out to face the world—unmannerly, rebellious, a mad dog, a savage, detestable alike to great and small. Of what use will he be to El Islâm? Oh, God forbid that he should grow like that—a scourge to his two parents, and the scorn of others. It is to save him and his mother from the consequences of her folly that we beg thee of thy mercy to remonstrate with her, and if she will not hearken, to confide the education of the child to us. The word is spoken. May our Lord preserve thee ever!”
“May Allah help us all!” replied the Pasha gently.
When he and Yûsuf had departed from the ladies and were returning through dim corridors to the selamlik, he inquired:
“What sayest thou?”
“They much exaggerate,” said Yûsuf warmly. “I keep an eye upon the boy. In course of time I shall correct his conduct.”
“Do it now!”
“What meanest thou? Why dost thou smile, my father?”
“I smile because I have observed that when the women take that tone—‘of thy great kindness deign to listen,’ and the rest, there is no safe course for man but to obey. The boy is five years old and it is time he learnt behaviour. It is thy business, O my son; remonstrate with her.”
“Nay, for they charged thee with the office.”
“It is thine of right.”
“Very gladly I resign it to thee. Thy words have more weight. And how can I turn round upon her suddenly? She will think me mad.”
“By Allah, I implore thee to perform thy duty.”
“By the Prophet, I beseech, adjure thee to befriend me now, as thou hast done from childhood. I will tell her to expect a visit from thee in the morning.”
“Well, God is greatest!” The good Pasha heaved a sigh, proclaiming his acceptance of the part allotted.
Accordingly, next morning, arrayed in his official black frock-coat and newest fez, he waited upon Barakah, who received him with delight, evidently unsuspecting the real purpose of his visit. He thought that Yûsuf might at least have warned her. However, with a shrug, he opened business in his usual courtly andconfiding manner, speaking in French, since servants are born eavesdroppers.
“Madame my daughter,” he began, “from the moment when you did my house the honour of espousing my dear son, I have been your servant and admirer; that is known. Yûsuf himself has not more tender veneration for your many virtues and accomplishments, so rare among us.” He went on to recite the panegyric of her general conduct as a wife and mother, paid tribute to her beauty and her piety, and then said, “But there is one small point on which I have to scold you. In your great goodness, your untiring kindness, you forget to claim the service due to you. Your slaves, as I have heard, grow fat and lazy, and though devoted to you—as what soul would not be?—do not keep your house so scrupulously clean and nicely ordered as the dwelling-place of such a treasure ought to be. I beg you to make hard your heart from time to time, to think a little less for others and more often for yourself. Even your own son should be brought up to reverence you, as one to whom he owes incalculable debts of gratitude. He should kiss your hand whenever he approaches, and bow and ask your blessing when he takes his leave. It is our custom for small children and, I think, a good one. How is the little one this morning? Am I not to be allowed to see him for one moment?”
Barakah clapped her hands and, when a slave appeared, gave order for Muhammad to be brought. He came in presently, escorted by his foster-mother, who stood and watched his progress to the dais with loving smiles. He was in docile mood, and Barakah detained him, giving the wife of Ghandûr leave to go.
“What fault is there to find in his behaviour?” she inquired in French, with arch defiance of the Pasha.
“None in the world,” he made reply, with vast politeness, “except that he has not kissed hands, nor waited your permission to sit down with us.”
“Absurd!” laughed Barakah.
“Absurd, in verity, like many of our customs. Only, my cherished daughter, he is one of us and must observe them. If you refuse to teach him the behaviour which we consider fitting for young children, I announce with deep regret that we must take him from you.”
Barakah gasped. She looked for signs of jesting; but the Pasha’s visage, though urbane, was serious.
“It has been told me,” he continued very gravely, “that this boy, when angry, kicks and curses his own mother. That is, for us others, a most dreadful crime, apart from the regard in which I hold you personally. My grandson must not be brought up to shame our house; the authority of the family must be exerted to avertdishonour. In fact, dear madame, if you will not punish him, he must be given for a while to some one who will do so.”
“But it is unheard of!” cried the mother wildly. “How can you think of such abominable cruelty? He is my child. My right to him exists in nature.”
“And is inalienable,” said the Pasha, with a splendid bow. “No one else can ever bear him, but some one else will have to educate him, since madame refuses.”
“I am an Englishwoman. I shall complain to my Consul.”
“Believe me, dear madame, he will not listen. Your son is a Turkish subject; we inhabit Egypt; and in a case of this sort we allow no interference. The English are a race distinguished for intelligence and force of character; I beg you to display those qualities on this occasion.”
He left her in hysterics, clinging fiercely to her boy.
CHAPTER XXVIINo sooner was the Pasha gone than Umm ed-Dahak crept back softly to her mistress and cooed of consolation in her ear. Muhammad, who had started howling out of sympathy, she told to go and play with Ghandûr’s son.“By Allah, it is all my fault, not thine,” she whispered. “I ought to have foreseen this grief and warned thee. Vex not thy soul at all! It is no matter! Praise be to Allah, we can change our policy. To-morrow thou wilt beat thy son a little, and all the world will praise thy management.”But the mother’s tears were flowing less from sense of guilt than for the helplessness, the lack of energy, which she discovered in herself at such a crisis. The call to make an effort paralysed her; she hung on Umm ed-Dahak like a frightened child, agreeing with loud sobs to the old woman’s statement that on the morrow they would make a new beginning.That afternoon the little boy had been invited to Gulbeyzah’s house. His mother being too unwell to bear him company, he started off on foot in the custody of Ghandûr. Barakah adjured himto be very good and mind his manners, on which he kissed her with a most angelic smile.“See how obedient and how good he is!” she wailed, her anguish breaking out afresh when he was gone. “How can they say he is not well brought up?”“Without a doubt they have been misinformed,” cooed Umm ed-Dahak. “They have mistaken some exceptional disorder for his general conduct Ma sh´Allah! With but a touch of discipline, a very little teaching of good manners, thou wilt make him glorious, a pattern to all other children of this age.”But Muhammad, who had set forth as an angel, returned a little devil, in a sullen rage. He would not speak a word, refused all nourishment, and sat aloof with frowning brows and gnashing teeth. Ghandûr, who brought him home, had sent in word that he had been a naughty boy and needed punishment. So Ghandûr also was his mother’s enemy.Muhammad struck at all the women who came near him. He swore by the Most High to ravish every one of them, to tear their eyes out and cut off their hands and feet. The servants laughed at his ferocious impotence, which made things worse. When his mother came and knelt beside him, he at first repelled her; but after half an hour’s incessant coaxing she elicited his cause of grief.He had been pretending in his play to kill Gulbeyzah’s little girl—“not really hurting her,” he blubbered, “though she shrieked like a dyingfowl”—when all at once, without the slightest provocation, a big boy assailed him, flung him down and knelt upon him, pinning his two hands. While he was in that position the ladies of the harîm had come in and reviled him, praising his cruel persecutor as a hero. They had then conveyed him, kicking, to Ghandûr, who, like the beast he was, believed their lies.“It is no matter, O beloved! Dry thy tears! Never—never shalt thou visit that unfriendly house again,” his mother whispered.Muhammad hiccuped on a sob, “Wallahi!” and fell again to gnashing of his teeth and moaning.“See!” murmured Umm ed-Dahak. “See his dauntless spirit! By Allah, it is true, he must be tamed a little.”That night he cried himself to sleep, and in the morning was snappish and morose, with furtive eyes. About the fourth hour of the day his mother missed him, and having sought through all the house in vain, conceived grave fears. She sent a eunuch to the Pasha’s palace, while Ghandûr cried the tidings through the quarter. Distraught with grief, she ran from room to room in the hottest hours of the day, always expecting to find Muhammad hiding somewhere. At last she sank down on a couch, exhausted.The third hour after noon, as she was lying thus, Gulbeyzah and her durrahs were announced. They entered with much tragic exclamation.Then the truth was known. Muhammad had repaired that morning to their house and joined the children’s games, appearing friendly. But he was only waiting for his chance of vengeance; for, luring Gulbeyzah’s little girl apart, he stabbed her with a dagger he had got—the Lord knew how!—and cried to her big brother, “Thy account, O tyrant!”His victim—praise to Allah—was not killed; nor even, by His mercy, maimed for life; but the ensuing uproar in the house may be imagined. The murderous child had been imprisoned in a room apart; the lord of the harîm, when summoned, had sent at once for Yûsuf Bey, who was even now examining the culprit. Directly the responsibility had been lifted off them, they (the ladies) had flown straight to Barakah to assure her of their unimpaired affection. But—merciful Allah!—what was the world coming to? They sought refuge in Allah from such revengeful fury in so small a child.“You must have used him very cruelly,” the mother cried. “He is by nature the most generous of children, not a criminal!”At that, all four began to talk at once. Barakah talked against them, and the slave-girls and dependants, looking on, raised cries. The argument was at its height when Yûsuf was announced. The din ceased instantly. The four Circassians raised their mouth-veils in alarm and slipped away; the servants, silenced, went into another room.Yûsuf entered, stern of countenance, draggingby the arm the peccant boy, whose mouth hung open, while his eyes stared wildly, fixed in the imbecility of abject fear.Barakah fell down at her husband’s feet and screamed for mercy. He was obdurate.“Let be, O woman!” he commanded. “My child, as trained by thee, is now a malefactor. He robs and kills; he breaks the law of hospitality. He stole a weapon from Ghandûr, his foster-father, and with it stabbed a little girl, whose guest he was. Henceforth I take him from thee, and give him to my mothers to be educated. Seek not to counteract their efforts, or by the Ca’abah I will beat thee soundly as I now beat him.”With that, he marched his son into an inner room, whence presently there issued sounds of blows and bitter wailing. Barakah ground her face upon the floor and stopped her ears.Muhammad, by his father’s orders, was shut off from her that night; and the next morning, before Yûsuf went to business, the Pasha’s harîm carriage came to fetch the child. The eunuch brought a letter from Murjânah Khânum, inviting Barakah to come and give her counsel. But Barakah’s sole answer was an angry cry.For several days she would not budge from her own rooms, refused to see the Pasha’s ladies when they called, and persisted, notwithstanding every argument, in posing as the victim of most foul injustice. And Umm ed-Dahak coaxed andsoothed her all that while. At length, one day, Murjânah Khânum entered, unannounced; and Barakah, in act to rise and make indignant protest, was silenced by the sight of her own child.“Go, O Muhammad, do what I have told thee,” said the old lady, with her hand on the boy’s shoulder. Whereat Muhammad went up gravely and bowed over his mother’s hand to kiss it, but she caught him in her arms, preventing him. He called out to Murjânah Khânum that it was not fair, and struggled to get free. She put him down, when he went on with his polite performance, kissed her hand and pressed his forehead to it, inquired after her health and asked her blessing; and then in the most courtly Arabic asked what he had done that one of his parents, who were dearer to him than all living creatures, should punish him by five days of avoidance.“The harîm of my grandfather, Muhammad Pasha Sâlih, depute me to request that thou wilt honour us this day and every day with thy most gracious presence, O my mother.”Before the termination of this speech and ceremony, Barakah was lying on her face in tears. She had thought, through the long hours of deprivation, that they were teaching her own child to disregard, if not to hate her. The relief was great. Murjânah sat beside her and caressed her, while Muhammad, standing reverently, looked concerned.They took her with them in the carriage to thePasha’s house, where, instead of reprobation, she met boundless sympathy. The ladies Fitnah and Murjânah told her all that had been done for the small boy, with evident anxiety for her approval. Muhammad showed her all the harîm pets. He bade a slave-girl bring his own white doves. She brought three in her bosom. At his call, they flew to him and settled on his head and shoulders. There dwelt a parrot in the house of Na’imah, a monkey in the house of Fitnah Khânum, which she had to visit; as well as roving cats, and little birds in cages, and several street-dogs who came round for food. He also showed with pride his plot of garden, consisting of a box of scented herbs. And all the while that she was in the house, he waited on her like a page, kissing her hand whenever he could get a chance, and telling her the joy he felt in seeing her. When, left alone with him, she strove to whisper consolation, he shook his head decidedly, and told her: “O my mother, I have learnt to know that I was very wicked. Thou wast ever much too gentle and too kind with me. Allah knows how much I love thee—my grandmothers have taught me that—but it is well that I should be removed from thee a while and brought to reverence. It is not right that one so delicate as thou art should have a rough, ill-mannered boy to vex her.”He loved her more than ever, it appeared, but thought her not much wiser than himself.Her fear of the stern rules of El Islâm was tamed by reverence.“By Allah, they are like the string and we the beads,” said Umm ed-Dahak, holding up a rosary to point her meaning. “Thirty-three beads of no intrinsic worth. If scattered, useless and soon lost. If strung together, a comely instrument of praise to God.”Barakah watched Muhammad with humility; not jealous of the change which had been wrought by others, but choosing to regard it as a miracle direct from Heaven. His pride, once wayward, now was focused on his coming manhood. He told her all his thoughts, which seemed to her most wise. He waited on her hand and foot when in her presence. Yet in this deference there was a touch of condescension which was absent from the honour which he paid to Yûsuf. His father was his sovereign, she his tender care. Such wisdom in so small a child appeared miraculous. She worshipped his perfections while he bowed before her.
No sooner was the Pasha gone than Umm ed-Dahak crept back softly to her mistress and cooed of consolation in her ear. Muhammad, who had started howling out of sympathy, she told to go and play with Ghandûr’s son.
“By Allah, it is all my fault, not thine,” she whispered. “I ought to have foreseen this grief and warned thee. Vex not thy soul at all! It is no matter! Praise be to Allah, we can change our policy. To-morrow thou wilt beat thy son a little, and all the world will praise thy management.”
But the mother’s tears were flowing less from sense of guilt than for the helplessness, the lack of energy, which she discovered in herself at such a crisis. The call to make an effort paralysed her; she hung on Umm ed-Dahak like a frightened child, agreeing with loud sobs to the old woman’s statement that on the morrow they would make a new beginning.
That afternoon the little boy had been invited to Gulbeyzah’s house. His mother being too unwell to bear him company, he started off on foot in the custody of Ghandûr. Barakah adjured himto be very good and mind his manners, on which he kissed her with a most angelic smile.
“See how obedient and how good he is!” she wailed, her anguish breaking out afresh when he was gone. “How can they say he is not well brought up?”
“Without a doubt they have been misinformed,” cooed Umm ed-Dahak. “They have mistaken some exceptional disorder for his general conduct Ma sh´Allah! With but a touch of discipline, a very little teaching of good manners, thou wilt make him glorious, a pattern to all other children of this age.”
But Muhammad, who had set forth as an angel, returned a little devil, in a sullen rage. He would not speak a word, refused all nourishment, and sat aloof with frowning brows and gnashing teeth. Ghandûr, who brought him home, had sent in word that he had been a naughty boy and needed punishment. So Ghandûr also was his mother’s enemy.
Muhammad struck at all the women who came near him. He swore by the Most High to ravish every one of them, to tear their eyes out and cut off their hands and feet. The servants laughed at his ferocious impotence, which made things worse. When his mother came and knelt beside him, he at first repelled her; but after half an hour’s incessant coaxing she elicited his cause of grief.
He had been pretending in his play to kill Gulbeyzah’s little girl—“not really hurting her,” he blubbered, “though she shrieked like a dyingfowl”—when all at once, without the slightest provocation, a big boy assailed him, flung him down and knelt upon him, pinning his two hands. While he was in that position the ladies of the harîm had come in and reviled him, praising his cruel persecutor as a hero. They had then conveyed him, kicking, to Ghandûr, who, like the beast he was, believed their lies.
“It is no matter, O beloved! Dry thy tears! Never—never shalt thou visit that unfriendly house again,” his mother whispered.
Muhammad hiccuped on a sob, “Wallahi!” and fell again to gnashing of his teeth and moaning.
“See!” murmured Umm ed-Dahak. “See his dauntless spirit! By Allah, it is true, he must be tamed a little.”
That night he cried himself to sleep, and in the morning was snappish and morose, with furtive eyes. About the fourth hour of the day his mother missed him, and having sought through all the house in vain, conceived grave fears. She sent a eunuch to the Pasha’s palace, while Ghandûr cried the tidings through the quarter. Distraught with grief, she ran from room to room in the hottest hours of the day, always expecting to find Muhammad hiding somewhere. At last she sank down on a couch, exhausted.
The third hour after noon, as she was lying thus, Gulbeyzah and her durrahs were announced. They entered with much tragic exclamation.Then the truth was known. Muhammad had repaired that morning to their house and joined the children’s games, appearing friendly. But he was only waiting for his chance of vengeance; for, luring Gulbeyzah’s little girl apart, he stabbed her with a dagger he had got—the Lord knew how!—and cried to her big brother, “Thy account, O tyrant!”
His victim—praise to Allah—was not killed; nor even, by His mercy, maimed for life; but the ensuing uproar in the house may be imagined. The murderous child had been imprisoned in a room apart; the lord of the harîm, when summoned, had sent at once for Yûsuf Bey, who was even now examining the culprit. Directly the responsibility had been lifted off them, they (the ladies) had flown straight to Barakah to assure her of their unimpaired affection. But—merciful Allah!—what was the world coming to? They sought refuge in Allah from such revengeful fury in so small a child.
“You must have used him very cruelly,” the mother cried. “He is by nature the most generous of children, not a criminal!”
At that, all four began to talk at once. Barakah talked against them, and the slave-girls and dependants, looking on, raised cries. The argument was at its height when Yûsuf was announced. The din ceased instantly. The four Circassians raised their mouth-veils in alarm and slipped away; the servants, silenced, went into another room.
Yûsuf entered, stern of countenance, draggingby the arm the peccant boy, whose mouth hung open, while his eyes stared wildly, fixed in the imbecility of abject fear.
Barakah fell down at her husband’s feet and screamed for mercy. He was obdurate.
“Let be, O woman!” he commanded. “My child, as trained by thee, is now a malefactor. He robs and kills; he breaks the law of hospitality. He stole a weapon from Ghandûr, his foster-father, and with it stabbed a little girl, whose guest he was. Henceforth I take him from thee, and give him to my mothers to be educated. Seek not to counteract their efforts, or by the Ca’abah I will beat thee soundly as I now beat him.”
With that, he marched his son into an inner room, whence presently there issued sounds of blows and bitter wailing. Barakah ground her face upon the floor and stopped her ears.
Muhammad, by his father’s orders, was shut off from her that night; and the next morning, before Yûsuf went to business, the Pasha’s harîm carriage came to fetch the child. The eunuch brought a letter from Murjânah Khânum, inviting Barakah to come and give her counsel. But Barakah’s sole answer was an angry cry.
For several days she would not budge from her own rooms, refused to see the Pasha’s ladies when they called, and persisted, notwithstanding every argument, in posing as the victim of most foul injustice. And Umm ed-Dahak coaxed andsoothed her all that while. At length, one day, Murjânah Khânum entered, unannounced; and Barakah, in act to rise and make indignant protest, was silenced by the sight of her own child.
“Go, O Muhammad, do what I have told thee,” said the old lady, with her hand on the boy’s shoulder. Whereat Muhammad went up gravely and bowed over his mother’s hand to kiss it, but she caught him in her arms, preventing him. He called out to Murjânah Khânum that it was not fair, and struggled to get free. She put him down, when he went on with his polite performance, kissed her hand and pressed his forehead to it, inquired after her health and asked her blessing; and then in the most courtly Arabic asked what he had done that one of his parents, who were dearer to him than all living creatures, should punish him by five days of avoidance.
“The harîm of my grandfather, Muhammad Pasha Sâlih, depute me to request that thou wilt honour us this day and every day with thy most gracious presence, O my mother.”
Before the termination of this speech and ceremony, Barakah was lying on her face in tears. She had thought, through the long hours of deprivation, that they were teaching her own child to disregard, if not to hate her. The relief was great. Murjânah sat beside her and caressed her, while Muhammad, standing reverently, looked concerned.
They took her with them in the carriage to thePasha’s house, where, instead of reprobation, she met boundless sympathy. The ladies Fitnah and Murjânah told her all that had been done for the small boy, with evident anxiety for her approval. Muhammad showed her all the harîm pets. He bade a slave-girl bring his own white doves. She brought three in her bosom. At his call, they flew to him and settled on his head and shoulders. There dwelt a parrot in the house of Na’imah, a monkey in the house of Fitnah Khânum, which she had to visit; as well as roving cats, and little birds in cages, and several street-dogs who came round for food. He also showed with pride his plot of garden, consisting of a box of scented herbs. And all the while that she was in the house, he waited on her like a page, kissing her hand whenever he could get a chance, and telling her the joy he felt in seeing her. When, left alone with him, she strove to whisper consolation, he shook his head decidedly, and told her: “O my mother, I have learnt to know that I was very wicked. Thou wast ever much too gentle and too kind with me. Allah knows how much I love thee—my grandmothers have taught me that—but it is well that I should be removed from thee a while and brought to reverence. It is not right that one so delicate as thou art should have a rough, ill-mannered boy to vex her.”
He loved her more than ever, it appeared, but thought her not much wiser than himself.
Her fear of the stern rules of El Islâm was tamed by reverence.
“By Allah, they are like the string and we the beads,” said Umm ed-Dahak, holding up a rosary to point her meaning. “Thirty-three beads of no intrinsic worth. If scattered, useless and soon lost. If strung together, a comely instrument of praise to God.”
Barakah watched Muhammad with humility; not jealous of the change which had been wrought by others, but choosing to regard it as a miracle direct from Heaven. His pride, once wayward, now was focused on his coming manhood. He told her all his thoughts, which seemed to her most wise. He waited on her hand and foot when in her presence. Yet in this deference there was a touch of condescension which was absent from the honour which he paid to Yûsuf. His father was his sovereign, she his tender care. Such wisdom in so small a child appeared miraculous. She worshipped his perfections while he bowed before her.
CHAPTER XXVIIIAt seven years old Muhammad went to school. It was customary for the scions of great houses to be taught at home by private tutors, but the family council had decreed that so exceptional a child must feel the yoke of public discipline and mix with other boys as soon as possible. The school, just founded by the widow of a former ruler, was reckoned modern, for the simple reason that the scholars learnt geography and history, and handled other books as well as the august Corân.Ghandûr led off Muhammad every morning, and brought him home at evening through the perils of the streets. Barakah’s thoughts were with him all day long; she liked to guess at his employment at a given moment; while Umm ed-Dahak painted flattering pictures of his skill in learning, the astonishment of all his masters at his brilliant genius.When she was driven out to pay her calls, Barakah arranged beforehand with the eunuch that the carriage should pull up before the school. Then through the shutter she would watch the iron screen which filled each window-arch and listen to the drone of children’s voices.The school was an octagonal kiosk of marble, touching the wall of a world-famous mosque. Its salient bulk half throttled an important thoroughfare, forming a narrow strait where traffic battled, and on each side a little bay or backwater where the carriage could draw up without obstruction. There, underneath the windows with their arabesques of iron screen-work, sat street sorcerers with trays of sand before them, venders of sugar-cane and slabs of bread and divers nuts; and holy beggars slumbered in the shade. Barakah knew exactly where Muhammad had his seat and, waiting upon that side, watched a certain opening in the iron-work, from which there presently emerged a little hand. It fluttered for a moment and was then withdrawn. She waited for a second signal and a third before she gave the order to drive on.At school Muhammad’s aim was to excel by all means. The counsels of Murjânah Khânum, who used religious and inspiring words, had fired his brain. He had but one ambition now—to please his father. He would prove the best of Muslims, the most zealous, the most learned, and then his father would forget his former wickedness. In pursuance of this end he chafed at every obstacle and was infuriated by stupidity or sloth in others. He beat his foster-brother more than once through mere impatience, and in the end put zeal into that vacant but receptive youth. And Barakah, whose worship of her paragon extended to the son of Ghandûr as his shadow, became the confidante of all their thoughts and projects.The report which the headmaster made to Yûsuf Bey after Muhammad’s first few weeks at school was satisfactory.“The boy, thy son,” remarked the reverend man, “is highly gifted and extremely diligent. In sh´Allah, he will live to be a light to El Islâm, a glory to this land of Masr, and a worthy slave of the Most High. We have only one small fault to find with his behaviour, which is that, in his eagerness, he answers questions we address to other boys, and is inclined to argue with the teacher as if instruction were for him alone.”His mother was delighted with this verdict, whose one restriction seemed to her the highest praise. She began to cherish visions of his future greatness, and with the aid of Umm ed-Dahak built grand castles in the air.“In sh´Allah, he will rise to rule in Egypt; he will be the right hand of the Khedive, the chief vizier, the leader of the armies; the sword and shield of El Islâm, the scourge of Allah on the heathen and all infidels.”Thus Umm ed-Dahak, seated on the floor beside her mistress; who, reclining on the dais at ease with her narghileh, removed the amber mouthpiece from her lips to sigh, “In sh´Allah!”In order to be worthy of her son’s magnificence, Barakah had evolved a fine romantic historyout of her own past. The transmutation of that dross to gold took place so naturally that she was not aware of lying when she told her crony that she was of royal birth. Gentility being something inconceivable by Umm ed-Dahak, who knew of no inherited prestige save that of an Emîr, she was obliged, in order to convey the status of a governess, to compare it with the lot of fallen princes. From thence to the invention of a principality was but a step. The remonstrance of the Consul and of Mrs. Cameron against her marriage became the rage of a fanatical and angry nation. The noise of her conversion had disturbed all Europe, and nearly brought on a religious war. Let Umm ed-Dahak ask the Pasha, if she doubted!But Umm ed-Dahak was not of the kind who doubt. For her, romantic fiction was more worth than fact. She accepted this, as she accepted every tale, artistically, and even added likely details unperceived of Barakah.The servants came to know the weakness of their mistress and addressed her as “Emîrah” with all kinds of ceremony. The disease was catching; they themselves became infected. With the blacks illusion took the form of demoniacal possession. Each one began to brag of “him who dwells in me,” his power and jurisdiction over other demons. Barakah overheard them talking of their inmates, discussing pedigreesand finding out relationships which had existence only in the world of ginn. She once complained of their insanity to Fitnah Khânum, and asked what could be done to put a stop to it.“I know one cure for devils as for every other illness of unmarried girls, and that is matrimony,” was the answer. “Among us here it is a sovereign remedy; among the Franks it seems less efficacious.”“Among the Franks such foolish fancies are unknown,” laughed Barakah, when Fitnah Khânum sniffed, but said no more.“The poor one is herself possessed,” she told Murjânah afterwards. “The servants say a princess of the ginn inhabits her; and she complains because they also harbour inmates. She ought to see a proper exorcist.”The ladies all agreed to pity her. But Barakah, unconscious of their criticism, pursued her path of dreams with Umm ed-Dahak.“May fire consume the infidels who thus dethroned thee, who robbed thee of thy land and honours!” cried the latter. “O day of milk, when thou didst fly for succour to the Muslimîn! They will avenge thy wrongs, in sh´Allah, in the time to come. Thy son shall win his birthright back with fire and sword.... Ma sh´Allah! Do I not behold his state? I see him on a throne, with courtiers prone before him—Muhammad Yûsuf Pasha, styled ‘the Great’—nay, what say I?—the Emîr, the King Muhammad in virtue ofhis mother’s dignity!” cried Umm ed-Dahak with dilated eyes. “By Allah, the most splendid scene I ever witnessed! He is Grand Vizier!”But the downfall of the Khedive’s favourite, occurring at this epoch, dashed the ardour of the seers, and caused them in alarm to change their vision. The man, whose pomp had served them for a measure of Muhammad’s greatness, disappeared from life. The story ran that, having grown too great, he had been trapped by order of his loving master, accommodated with a weighted sack, and dropped into the Nile. The tidings caused a flutter in the world of women like that of seafarers beholding shipwreck. For the favourite’s death involved the ruin of a great harîm, boasting its troupes of dancers and of trained musicians, lavish of entertainment and of gay repute. Its members, far too many to be all beloved, had, some of them, found vent in wild amours which furnished thrilling stories to more lucky women. Now all the slaves were scattered among other houses; the ladies, owning private property, returned to their relations pending further marriage. The great man’s children were reduced to mediocrity; his honours and emoluments divided up among a score of courtiers; his name became a byword for pride’s fall.“Wallahi, our beloved must not follow in his steps too closely. Allah forbid!” said Umm ed-Dahak solemnly. And forthwith she began tomake another forecast, with frequent “In sh´Allahs” and “Ma sh´Allahs,” to rob it of all taint of boastfulness. “He goes up gently, rousing no suspicion in the ruler, winning the people’s voice, as did Muhammad Ali. Then, when the times are ripe, he asks the Sovereign and his courtiers to a banquet and cuts all their throats. Then he ascends the throne and does good deeds, till all men praise the Maker for his rare benevolence. And thou, his mother, wilt reside in splendid state, and when the great ones of the English come with gifts for thee, thou wilt spit upon them and repel them with thy little foot. In sh´Allah!”Barakah would be a widow in those days, by Allah’s mercy. A queen, she would of course have many lovers. Did she desire a man—one word, and he was hers as quick as lightning! And Umm ed-Dahak would be ever at her call to spread the net for goodly youths and guard her secret.“But I shall be too old by then!” laughed Barakah.“Please Allah, no!” cried the old woman, a trifle vexed at being brought to earth. “Thou wilt be still quite youthful. See thee now: what beauty, what a youthful figure! By Allah, almost wicked in a mother! Thou dost not grow old.”In fact, her shape, though something fat, was not ungainly, like that of younger women leading the same life. She took no care of it, conforming to the harîm custom for women who bear childrento let beauty go. “The time and purpose of the bloom is past, the fruit succeeds, more noble,” they assured her. She saw the rarest beauties, like Bedr-ul-Budûr, already changing into fat old women. Compared with them she felt still young and comely. But when, her carriage rolling on the Gîzah road, she saw real Frankish women, riding, driving, she felt a raddled and unwieldy hag. There was one Englishwoman in particular who often passed her, driving a light dog-cart with a Nubian groom behind—straight as a lance and trim of waist, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes under grizzled hair. A creature of free air and open sunlight, the shuttered, perfumed shade could not produce her like. A jealousy near hatred stirred in Barakah.One evening Yûsuf, thinking to amuse her, had sent her with his sisters and Muhammad to the new opera-house which the Khedive had built to please the European visitors, and also to provide His Highness with relays of mistresses. There, in a harîm box behind a screen, she smoked cigarettes and listened to what seemed mere senseless screeching to one who had admired the voice of Tâhir. The opera wasDon Giovanni. Never had she witnessed a performance so stilted, artificial, and absurd. She quite agreed with the remarks of her companions, who, after their first wonder at the building and the lighted stage, yawned openly and called it simple madness. Yet the entertainment was no bad one to the taste of Europe, asshe knew from the applause of people in the unscreened boxes, where barefaced, brilliant women sat and stared about them. The mere existence of those women there in Cairo, transgressing every native rule of conduct, was an insult. The freshness even of the old ones made her conscious of decay. When the girls after the second act proposed to go, she agreed gladly. Muhammad screamed to stay, and had to be transported bodily by Barakah, while one of his young aunts held her hand upon his mouth. A very small boy at the time, he had supposed the scene was laid in hell, and all the hideous screams of the performers denoted pangs of tortured infidels.Muhammad, for his mother’s sake, abhorred the English; and yet he loved his mother, who was of that race. He reconciled these warring passions by supposing the existence of a race of Muslims in the British Isles.One day, when he was ten years old, he came home with a face of indignation, demanding, “O my mother, is it not quite true that the English nation is as strong and warlike as the French, and nowise subject to the lord of Paris?”“True, O my son.”“By Allah, that is what I said. We were arguing, a dozen of us, after school. They all opposed me, stating that the French were much the greater and more civilized. I, sure of my contention, asked a master who stood by. Hefoolishly asserted that the French were stronger. I informed him of his error in all courtesy, when, to my horror, he began abusing me, detained me in the school an hour against my will, and himself remained to gloat on my imprisonment.“Nor is that all. No sooner was I free than I went to the house of the principal and made complaint of the injustice. He said—the malefactor!—thus escaping from the question, that it was a sin for true believers to quarrel for the sake of infidels. I told him there were Muslimîn among the English, as witness my own mother, who is one of them. He had the rudeness to declare thou art a convert. It was all that I could do to keep from plucking at his beard. I shall ask my father to remove me straightway from a school where lying insults and oppression thus prevail.”“The principal spoke truth. I am a convert,” murmured Barakah, hanging her head through fear of her son’s shame.“Merciful Allah!” cried Muhammad, greatly shocked.But in a moment he recovered from the blow. Kissing her hand, he murmured fondly:“Be not downcast, O beloved, it is not thy fault. My comrades sneer at converts; but no matter. I shall still maintain that thou wert born in the right way. Thou art still my dearest mother, loved and honoured.”The lover-like, protecting air became him rarely.
At seven years old Muhammad went to school. It was customary for the scions of great houses to be taught at home by private tutors, but the family council had decreed that so exceptional a child must feel the yoke of public discipline and mix with other boys as soon as possible. The school, just founded by the widow of a former ruler, was reckoned modern, for the simple reason that the scholars learnt geography and history, and handled other books as well as the august Corân.
Ghandûr led off Muhammad every morning, and brought him home at evening through the perils of the streets. Barakah’s thoughts were with him all day long; she liked to guess at his employment at a given moment; while Umm ed-Dahak painted flattering pictures of his skill in learning, the astonishment of all his masters at his brilliant genius.
When she was driven out to pay her calls, Barakah arranged beforehand with the eunuch that the carriage should pull up before the school. Then through the shutter she would watch the iron screen which filled each window-arch and listen to the drone of children’s voices.
The school was an octagonal kiosk of marble, touching the wall of a world-famous mosque. Its salient bulk half throttled an important thoroughfare, forming a narrow strait where traffic battled, and on each side a little bay or backwater where the carriage could draw up without obstruction. There, underneath the windows with their arabesques of iron screen-work, sat street sorcerers with trays of sand before them, venders of sugar-cane and slabs of bread and divers nuts; and holy beggars slumbered in the shade. Barakah knew exactly where Muhammad had his seat and, waiting upon that side, watched a certain opening in the iron-work, from which there presently emerged a little hand. It fluttered for a moment and was then withdrawn. She waited for a second signal and a third before she gave the order to drive on.
At school Muhammad’s aim was to excel by all means. The counsels of Murjânah Khânum, who used religious and inspiring words, had fired his brain. He had but one ambition now—to please his father. He would prove the best of Muslims, the most zealous, the most learned, and then his father would forget his former wickedness. In pursuance of this end he chafed at every obstacle and was infuriated by stupidity or sloth in others. He beat his foster-brother more than once through mere impatience, and in the end put zeal into that vacant but receptive youth. And Barakah, whose worship of her paragon extended to the son of Ghandûr as his shadow, became the confidante of all their thoughts and projects.
The report which the headmaster made to Yûsuf Bey after Muhammad’s first few weeks at school was satisfactory.
“The boy, thy son,” remarked the reverend man, “is highly gifted and extremely diligent. In sh´Allah, he will live to be a light to El Islâm, a glory to this land of Masr, and a worthy slave of the Most High. We have only one small fault to find with his behaviour, which is that, in his eagerness, he answers questions we address to other boys, and is inclined to argue with the teacher as if instruction were for him alone.”
His mother was delighted with this verdict, whose one restriction seemed to her the highest praise. She began to cherish visions of his future greatness, and with the aid of Umm ed-Dahak built grand castles in the air.
“In sh´Allah, he will rise to rule in Egypt; he will be the right hand of the Khedive, the chief vizier, the leader of the armies; the sword and shield of El Islâm, the scourge of Allah on the heathen and all infidels.”
Thus Umm ed-Dahak, seated on the floor beside her mistress; who, reclining on the dais at ease with her narghileh, removed the amber mouthpiece from her lips to sigh, “In sh´Allah!”
In order to be worthy of her son’s magnificence, Barakah had evolved a fine romantic historyout of her own past. The transmutation of that dross to gold took place so naturally that she was not aware of lying when she told her crony that she was of royal birth. Gentility being something inconceivable by Umm ed-Dahak, who knew of no inherited prestige save that of an Emîr, she was obliged, in order to convey the status of a governess, to compare it with the lot of fallen princes. From thence to the invention of a principality was but a step. The remonstrance of the Consul and of Mrs. Cameron against her marriage became the rage of a fanatical and angry nation. The noise of her conversion had disturbed all Europe, and nearly brought on a religious war. Let Umm ed-Dahak ask the Pasha, if she doubted!
But Umm ed-Dahak was not of the kind who doubt. For her, romantic fiction was more worth than fact. She accepted this, as she accepted every tale, artistically, and even added likely details unperceived of Barakah.
The servants came to know the weakness of their mistress and addressed her as “Emîrah” with all kinds of ceremony. The disease was catching; they themselves became infected. With the blacks illusion took the form of demoniacal possession. Each one began to brag of “him who dwells in me,” his power and jurisdiction over other demons. Barakah overheard them talking of their inmates, discussing pedigreesand finding out relationships which had existence only in the world of ginn. She once complained of their insanity to Fitnah Khânum, and asked what could be done to put a stop to it.
“I know one cure for devils as for every other illness of unmarried girls, and that is matrimony,” was the answer. “Among us here it is a sovereign remedy; among the Franks it seems less efficacious.”
“Among the Franks such foolish fancies are unknown,” laughed Barakah, when Fitnah Khânum sniffed, but said no more.
“The poor one is herself possessed,” she told Murjânah afterwards. “The servants say a princess of the ginn inhabits her; and she complains because they also harbour inmates. She ought to see a proper exorcist.”
The ladies all agreed to pity her. But Barakah, unconscious of their criticism, pursued her path of dreams with Umm ed-Dahak.
“May fire consume the infidels who thus dethroned thee, who robbed thee of thy land and honours!” cried the latter. “O day of milk, when thou didst fly for succour to the Muslimîn! They will avenge thy wrongs, in sh´Allah, in the time to come. Thy son shall win his birthright back with fire and sword.... Ma sh´Allah! Do I not behold his state? I see him on a throne, with courtiers prone before him—Muhammad Yûsuf Pasha, styled ‘the Great’—nay, what say I?—the Emîr, the King Muhammad in virtue ofhis mother’s dignity!” cried Umm ed-Dahak with dilated eyes. “By Allah, the most splendid scene I ever witnessed! He is Grand Vizier!”
But the downfall of the Khedive’s favourite, occurring at this epoch, dashed the ardour of the seers, and caused them in alarm to change their vision. The man, whose pomp had served them for a measure of Muhammad’s greatness, disappeared from life. The story ran that, having grown too great, he had been trapped by order of his loving master, accommodated with a weighted sack, and dropped into the Nile. The tidings caused a flutter in the world of women like that of seafarers beholding shipwreck. For the favourite’s death involved the ruin of a great harîm, boasting its troupes of dancers and of trained musicians, lavish of entertainment and of gay repute. Its members, far too many to be all beloved, had, some of them, found vent in wild amours which furnished thrilling stories to more lucky women. Now all the slaves were scattered among other houses; the ladies, owning private property, returned to their relations pending further marriage. The great man’s children were reduced to mediocrity; his honours and emoluments divided up among a score of courtiers; his name became a byword for pride’s fall.
“Wallahi, our beloved must not follow in his steps too closely. Allah forbid!” said Umm ed-Dahak solemnly. And forthwith she began tomake another forecast, with frequent “In sh´Allahs” and “Ma sh´Allahs,” to rob it of all taint of boastfulness. “He goes up gently, rousing no suspicion in the ruler, winning the people’s voice, as did Muhammad Ali. Then, when the times are ripe, he asks the Sovereign and his courtiers to a banquet and cuts all their throats. Then he ascends the throne and does good deeds, till all men praise the Maker for his rare benevolence. And thou, his mother, wilt reside in splendid state, and when the great ones of the English come with gifts for thee, thou wilt spit upon them and repel them with thy little foot. In sh´Allah!”
Barakah would be a widow in those days, by Allah’s mercy. A queen, she would of course have many lovers. Did she desire a man—one word, and he was hers as quick as lightning! And Umm ed-Dahak would be ever at her call to spread the net for goodly youths and guard her secret.
“But I shall be too old by then!” laughed Barakah.
“Please Allah, no!” cried the old woman, a trifle vexed at being brought to earth. “Thou wilt be still quite youthful. See thee now: what beauty, what a youthful figure! By Allah, almost wicked in a mother! Thou dost not grow old.”
In fact, her shape, though something fat, was not ungainly, like that of younger women leading the same life. She took no care of it, conforming to the harîm custom for women who bear childrento let beauty go. “The time and purpose of the bloom is past, the fruit succeeds, more noble,” they assured her. She saw the rarest beauties, like Bedr-ul-Budûr, already changing into fat old women. Compared with them she felt still young and comely. But when, her carriage rolling on the Gîzah road, she saw real Frankish women, riding, driving, she felt a raddled and unwieldy hag. There was one Englishwoman in particular who often passed her, driving a light dog-cart with a Nubian groom behind—straight as a lance and trim of waist, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes under grizzled hair. A creature of free air and open sunlight, the shuttered, perfumed shade could not produce her like. A jealousy near hatred stirred in Barakah.
One evening Yûsuf, thinking to amuse her, had sent her with his sisters and Muhammad to the new opera-house which the Khedive had built to please the European visitors, and also to provide His Highness with relays of mistresses. There, in a harîm box behind a screen, she smoked cigarettes and listened to what seemed mere senseless screeching to one who had admired the voice of Tâhir. The opera wasDon Giovanni. Never had she witnessed a performance so stilted, artificial, and absurd. She quite agreed with the remarks of her companions, who, after their first wonder at the building and the lighted stage, yawned openly and called it simple madness. Yet the entertainment was no bad one to the taste of Europe, asshe knew from the applause of people in the unscreened boxes, where barefaced, brilliant women sat and stared about them. The mere existence of those women there in Cairo, transgressing every native rule of conduct, was an insult. The freshness even of the old ones made her conscious of decay. When the girls after the second act proposed to go, she agreed gladly. Muhammad screamed to stay, and had to be transported bodily by Barakah, while one of his young aunts held her hand upon his mouth. A very small boy at the time, he had supposed the scene was laid in hell, and all the hideous screams of the performers denoted pangs of tortured infidels.
Muhammad, for his mother’s sake, abhorred the English; and yet he loved his mother, who was of that race. He reconciled these warring passions by supposing the existence of a race of Muslims in the British Isles.
One day, when he was ten years old, he came home with a face of indignation, demanding, “O my mother, is it not quite true that the English nation is as strong and warlike as the French, and nowise subject to the lord of Paris?”
“True, O my son.”
“By Allah, that is what I said. We were arguing, a dozen of us, after school. They all opposed me, stating that the French were much the greater and more civilized. I, sure of my contention, asked a master who stood by. Hefoolishly asserted that the French were stronger. I informed him of his error in all courtesy, when, to my horror, he began abusing me, detained me in the school an hour against my will, and himself remained to gloat on my imprisonment.
“Nor is that all. No sooner was I free than I went to the house of the principal and made complaint of the injustice. He said—the malefactor!—thus escaping from the question, that it was a sin for true believers to quarrel for the sake of infidels. I told him there were Muslimîn among the English, as witness my own mother, who is one of them. He had the rudeness to declare thou art a convert. It was all that I could do to keep from plucking at his beard. I shall ask my father to remove me straightway from a school where lying insults and oppression thus prevail.”
“The principal spoke truth. I am a convert,” murmured Barakah, hanging her head through fear of her son’s shame.
“Merciful Allah!” cried Muhammad, greatly shocked.
But in a moment he recovered from the blow. Kissing her hand, he murmured fondly:
“Be not downcast, O beloved, it is not thy fault. My comrades sneer at converts; but no matter. I shall still maintain that thou wert born in the right way. Thou art still my dearest mother, loved and honoured.”
The lover-like, protecting air became him rarely.