In sh´Allah, she will soon acquire that tongue and Turkish too. …
“I fear she must feel strange and lonely in a life so different: I wish I could expound its beauty to her. Ask her whether she has read the tragedies of Sophocles, an ancient Greek. No? That surprises. I had thought them known among the Franks. Say, I have read them in the Turkish version and admired them greatly. … At least, she knows that, in old times, before the prophets, there were priestesses who guarded mysteries of the false gods? … Well, we secluded women of the East are the guardians of the mysteries of God Most High—the verities of life and death, of birth and growth and of decay—of all those things which come directly from the hand of God. These are the sense of life; though much obscured by all the surface agitation which disturbs the life of men. We, in our calm retirement, always view them …
“And then, when one regards the strife of tribes, the tumults and rebellion in this world, is it not well that womanhood should be kept sacred and aloof, respected in the strife of Muslims—the ark which bears the future of the Faith? … Then, even as it is, much crime is caused by love and jealousy. What would it be if women went unveiled? I say not, in her land where men’s blood may be more equable; but here. … Just Allah! Youth would be a curse. If marriageable girls were barefaced, what could preserve them from atrocious accidents? We guard their youth and train them to be lovers, child-bearers; we send forth healthy boys to serve the Faith. …
“Tell her that I myself, by Allah’s visitation, have lost all my children; yet, thanks to El Islâm, I am not desolate. I have her Yûsuf and a score of others for delight.”
Hearing these words translated by Gulbeyzah, Barakah felt abashed to insignificance. The habit of confronting the brute facts of life, which Europeans cover over, clothed this old woman in a tragic grandeur which was almost terrifying. She was relieved when other ladies came and talk grew shallow. Silks and fine linen fabrics were spread out before her. Hearing that she was required to choose among them for her trousseau, she implored Gulbeyzah with despairing gestures to say that she resigned selection to the ladies. The answer caused relief. The ladies set to work methodically, feeling, stroking, comparing the materials in the best light, discoursing all the while like happy birds. Fitnah Khânum was less forward than the others in politeness, and kept her face averted from the gaze of Barakah. She took her leave before the service of the midday meal.
The Pasha’s widowed sister begged of Barakah to spend the following day with her in her apartments. Murjânah was approached and gave consent.
“I can give you dinner on a proper table with chairs and knives and forks,” the widow said in broken French.
Murjânah Khânum’s tables were brass trays on little stands, and everybody ate with fingers from the dish.
The day with Leylah Khânum was less serious. The widow’s talk was all of love and lovers. A perfect host of go-betweens was kept employed to find her a fresh husband; but, though ageing fast, she was fastidious and asked perfection.
“God grant she may not die a widow,” sighed Gulbeyzah, who explained the case to Barakah.
Leylah Khânum was much exercised to know whether Barakah had had much love-experience in England. Hearing “No,” she raised her hands in marvel. One so beautiful! The mistress of so much charm! And unveiled among men! She asked the reason.
“I was poor,” said Barakah.
At that there was loud outcry; Leylah Khânum and Gulbeyzah called on God for pity.
“But you are beautiful! Men pay for beauty, need no bribe with it. And you mean to say they would have let you die a virgin—with that loveliness? O Lord of Heaven! What a wicked waste!”
Their dread of dying in virginity appealed to Barakah as something comical when she remembered the ideals preached in Christendom.
Leylah Khânum told her stories of true love, all far from proper judged by English taste; and shocked her by the cool assertion that poison was a woman’s natural weapon. In the afternoon they were invited to Murjânah Khânum’s rooms, where the business of the trousseau still proceeded. It went on for days. Each morning when she woke, the bride-elect found some fresh present from the Pasha in her room, which Gulbeyzah made her carry forth and show to every one. The whole haramlik frolicked round her in excitement.
Gulbeyzah’s status in the household puzzled her. The Circassian seemed the equal of the ladies, yet was called a slave.
She said to her one day:
“You are as white as I am. How can you bear to be a slave like Wardah or Fatûmah?”
“Not like Wardah or Fatûmah, if you please!” was the superb rejoinder. “They or their fathers were captured in a warlike raid and made to islam, I, God be praised, was born in the Faith. Look!” she cried, and with a splendid gesture bared her bosom. “This is the paste of which they make sultanas. My parents sold me—they were poor—that I might come to honour, as others of the family have done before me.”
“But what chance have you here? Do you expect to captivate the Pasha?”
“God forbid! I never even see him. Here I serve the sweetest of all ladies, who will one day find me a rich husband. It is a famed harîm, and my lady is renowned for goodness and refinement. The greatest in the land would not disdain a fair Circassian girl of her instructing.”
“But do you never miss your freedom? You can form no projects, being, it seems, entirely in the hands of others. Surely your thoughts are not so ruly? You must sometimes dream?”
Gulbeyzah fixed her great eyes on the questioner as though debating whether she were to be trusted. Then, with a smile, she grasped her hand and whispered, “Come!”
She led the English girl across the court where grew the orange trees, down a foul-smelling passage towards the kitchens, and up a flight of stairs into a corridor which served the chambers of the humblest servants. In its wall was a recess with a small window neither barred nor latticed. Here Gulbeyzah stopped.
The reason why that window had been left uncaged was plain, since it looked out upon blind walls and distant housetops. But one small angle of a terraced roof appeared within clear seeing range, and on that angle sat a man. When Gulbeyzah leaned her elbows on the window-sill, he sprang to his feet and made despairing gestures. She watched his antics for a moment, then drew in her head.
“It is a secret, mind!” she cautioned Barakah. “I spent an afternoon here once, when I was sulky, and he was walking on that roof by chance. Ever since then I see him every day. He always sits there. I sign to him to climb up, but I know he cannot.” She laughed scornfully. “I make romances in my mind about him. It is evident he dies of love. He has grown thinner.”
“How cruel! How can you torment him so?”
“He is a man, you understand. One does not feel compassion as one would for girls. Perhaps if he could climb up here I should reward him, but, thanks to God, he cannot, poor young man!”
“But are you not ashamed to think such thoughts—you, the pupil of Murjânah Khânum? So immoral!”
“It is my fancy, there! Morality is not our business. We are strictly guarded. One gets a conscience—what you call a soul—when one has children. How droll you are! You talk just like a man. God knows I love you, and should like to be your durrah.” (The word means colleague in the married state.)
