“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 broke the lute, and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. Inshallah 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 Qadi, 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 his defeat. “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 Qadi 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.
XXVI
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 narghile, 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 the wife 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 anyone 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
