“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 and wise! 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 harems flocked thither eagerly, for it was known 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. Everyone 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. He sang from the pure heart of El Islam, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the song died she had forgotten anger.
That wedding-feast became forever 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
