Thus Umm ed-Dahak, seated on the floor beside her mistress; who, reclining on the dais at ease with her narghile, removed the amber mouthpiece from her lips to sigh, “Inshallah!”
In order to be worthy of her son’s magnificence, Barakah had evolved a fine romantic history out 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 Emir, 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 “Emirah” 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 pedigrees and finding out relationships which had existence only in the world of jinn. 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 jinn 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, inshallah, in the time to come. Thy son shall win his birthright back with fire and sword. … Mashallah! 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 Emir, the King Muhammad in virtue of his 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 harem, 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 to make another forecast, with frequent “Inshallahs” and “Mashallahs,” 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. Inshallah!”
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 harem custom for women who bear children to let beauty go. “The time and purpose of the bloom is past, the
