INTRODUCTION

In the reign of the Sultàn Abdul Mejìd Khan, upon termination of the war with Muscovy, a multitude of faithful Georgians and Circassians chose to cast themselves, their women and children, upon the bounty of the Padishah rather than endure the yoke of an infidel conqueror. They begged but leave to settle in some part of the Sultàn’s dominions, to dwell in peace among true believers in obedience to the law of God, as transmitted to Muhammed, His Apostle. But their spokesmen had fierce eyes, and, when a little emphasis seemed called for, each clutched quite naturally at the dagger in his sash.

The Sultàn’s advisers—black-coated, red-capped Othmanlis of the eyes that see but never look—noted this slight discrepancy while placidly telling their beads. There were lawless spots in the empire. On the confines of Esh-Shâm, for example, the peasants paid tax to the chiefs of the desert rather than[2] to the lawful tithe farmer. There was a place with work in the world for men both loyal and warlike.

The Sultàn Abdul Mejìd heard those exiles. He clothed them in the mantle of his grace. Lands were granted in a far province, rights and privileges were conferred upon them. Letters written under the Tûghra made it a duty for all men to do them honor. And to prevent untoward collision with the old inhabitants, one Milhem Bey, a native of that country, was appointed to overlook the settlement and quell the disputes which were sure to arise at the outset.

Many days after the Circassians had set sail for their new land, one hot afternoon, this Milhem took boat at Tufana, down by the bridge, and went to visit his brother, a young doctor of the religion, who dwelt by the shore of Asia. As his caique shot forth into the strait, the coasts of Europe opened like a scroll. Fat domes and slender minarets rose up white from out dark cypress groves on the hill of Istanbûl. Heaped Ghalata and straggling Pera gathered beauty as their forms receded. The song of waters, with the pleasant sense of gliding, soothed Milhem. He closed his eyes upon the shining prospect, while he said in his soul:

[3]

“It is well.... Yet not altogether well. After fifteen years of obeisance, now at last I am lord of something—a small thing, but earnest of more to come. That is good. Praise to Allah, I am blest in that!... But it has taken long to reach this little eminence, and has cost me—Merciful Allah!—how much money! My patrimony is all but spent. And this post is not worth the trouble unless as a step to something finer. A few rock-scraping fellahìn, a few wild-beast Circassians.... What profit, O Lord, in such a government? After six months or eight I shall return. Then, it may be, they will speak to me of a pashalik. Where—Allah pity!—can I touch the price of a pashalik? Without money I can go no farther. If Shems-ud-dìn, my brother, will not help me, I must borrow of the infidel. O Shems-ud-dìn! O my soul! Allah knows it has been my sin to neglect thee. How long since I embraced thee, O my dear!”

The boat came to land at a point where a huddle of colored dwellings on the sea’s brink and a mosque with needle-pointed minarets cast a shimmer on the smooth water. Milhem clambered out on to a landing stage and started to climb a path through orchards which led to his brother’s house.

The Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn sat under a tree enjoying[4] the view, across the strait, of the imperial city, when he was struck by the apparition of a white sunshade slowly bobbing up the path from the shore. Another minute and he sprang to his feet, crying, “Thanks to Allah!” With eyes alight, he ran to kiss his brother.

“They told me thou wast gone,” he said, as he led him to the carpet under the tree. “But my heart informed me that they lied. Thou wouldst never have gone without my peace on thee. I am glad they lied who told me thou wast gone.”

“Of a surety they lied,” chuckled Milhem. “Everyone thought I should travel with those wild beasts. Only this morning one of the greatest called me laggard for remaining behind. Hear my answer! I said: ‘O my lord, had I journeyed with the colonists, I had surely been a party to their quarrels as they arose. With your Grace’s permission, let the quarrels first arise that I, coming as a stranger, may judge impartially with whom the right. Moreover,’ I said, ‘may it please your Highness, I would set my house in order ere I go. And your Excellency’s self will admit that the city Istâna is mistress of more charm than the desert possesses.’ I tell thee, he laughed, that great one; he laughed immoderately and praised my understanding. Men begin to perceive[5] that Milhem Bey is not foolish. In sh’ Allah he will be Milhem Pasha some day.”

“In sh’ Allah!” echoed Shems-ud-dìn vaguely.

“But a province costs much money!” sighed Milhem, at the same time darting a sharp glance at his brother’s face.

The stupid had not heard. There he sat, fingering his great black beard, and gazing with his great brown eyes, full and wistful as a gazelle’s, over the cypress tops of an adjacent cemetery, over the blue strait, to the crowding minarets of the city.

“Am I here to watch thee dreaming?” said Milhem tartly. “Art in love, or what ails thee?”

Shems-ud-dìn turned to him with a smile.

“Love, saidst thou? I have not loved these many days, since the death of one I loved truly. She whom I have now is but for appearance, lest neighbors should deem me disreputable, living alone.... I do but think, O my brother! I think, by Allah’s leave, I go with thee.”

Milhem flung up his hands and eyes to heaven.

“What a fancy!” he cried, affrighted. “May Allah heal thee of it quickly.”

“Mock me not, O beloved!” pleaded Shems-ud-dìn. “Whom love I in the world like thee? While thou wast absent fighting in the holy wars, had my[6] soul peace? And since then, seeing thee so seldom, have I been content? I adjure thee, by our love of old, gainsay me not in this matter!”

Launched upon a favorite theme, he continued in this strain of deep affection a great while.

Milhem answered not a word. Profoundly moved, he plucked up the grass near him by the roots, snuffling to keep from tears. At last, able to bear it no longer, he rose abruptly and took his leave with broken words of blessing and praise to God. Not until his boat danced midway across the path of darkening water, and the minarets of the sovereign city, aloft in the sunset, seemed spears of a phantom host uplifted, threatening, did he remember his purpose in the visit.

On the morrow, before noon, he found his way to the street of sweet odors, where Shems-ud-dìn had a shop which it was his custom to visit on that day of each week for the purpose of taking account with his steward. This morning Shems-ud-dìn was not alone. Two old men sat with him in the inner gloom, beyond where a group of women chaffered with the salesman. They were sheykhs renowned through all the world for their learning and piety, stern foes to innovation, for whom a time-serving official was an unclean beast.

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Milhem bowed low before those holy ones, and blessed the lucky day.

After seats had been resumed, Shems-ud-dìn observed:

“I was telling these, my friends, of the journey I purpose to make. And they have honored me with a mission....”

But Milhem stopped his ears, crying: “Think not of it, I beseech thee, O my brother! I come on purpose to restrain thee. With the permission of these reverend ones, thy thought to go with me is not of wisdom. Does a man right to quarrel with the part allotted? Behold thee here in great honor, with such friends about thee; yet not content! Thou must needs embark upon a venture—very perilous, very tiresome—whereunto no one calls thee. Do not so, O my brother, for the sin is great!”

“Once upon a time Eblìs himself met an angel from Allah, and, looking earnestly upon his face, observed, ‘Sin not, I entreat thee,’” said one of the two old doctors in a manner of abstruse meditation.

Milhem bit his lips. He said, “Who am I to discuss what is right with the law’s exponents? Yet, now and then, in my chamber, I give thought to these high matters. And it has seemed, to my little understanding,[8] a sin that my brother should wander from a road so clear before him.”

“By my beard, I see not the harm!” said the sheykh who had before spoken. “Why should not our friend, the learned Shems-ud-dìn, revisit his native land, a land of true belief? In sh’ Allah, he will enjoy himself there.... But perhaps our lord the Bey would go alone. Two eyes of truth fixed constantly upon him embarrass the statesman.”

“Which is only to say: ‘He would keep his master’s counsel.’ Allah witness, I have no desire save for my brother’s welfare.”

“That is known for certain,” cried Shems-ud-dìn heartily. “But fear not for me. I go gladly.”

Milhem shrugged his shoulders. As soon as coffee had been served he took his departure. Where was the use in staying longer? These dotards showed no intention of moving, and he would not mention his need in their cold hearing.

At a later hour he returned that way, and, seeing Shems-ud-dìn alone in the depths of the shop, ran in and, stooping, kissed the hem of his robe. Through eagerness to convince, he magnified his want a hundredfold. By Allah, by the admirable Korân, he had spent all his inheritance—had sown it rather, hoping to reap a rich crop of honor. His last para[9] had gone to procure this beggarly appointment of governor over sundry wild beasts. On his return, if Allah kept him alive, he would have the offer of a wilâyet. Where in the world could he touch the price of a wilâyet? Rather than borrow of an Armenian or other usurious infidel, he would beg in the gate of one of the mosques; he had not yet decided which. He was in the hand of the Almighty, to whom the praise.... Three hundred thousand piasters at the lowest.... Ma sh’ Allah! It was too much to ask of any man!...

“O my dear, O light of my eyes, O my breath!” cried Shems-ud-dìn, when he could speak for amazement. “Why hast thou kept silence? Is it for this thou didst shun me? Fie on thy pride! Thou hast a share in this business, as in all belonging to me. Talk not of begging when thou hast a trade. There is but little now in my hand; but to-morrow or the day after I will pay thee all I can collect. Of the rest we will speak later. Have no fear! All mine is thine; and, by the blessing of Allah, it may be that my patrimony has increased while thine wasted.”

Milhem wept on his brother’s neck and called him kindest of the sons of Adam.

“By my life, he has earned the right to bear me company,” he murmured as he went his way. “May[10] Allah requite him! And if, in such close converse, he should discover a little thing to my disadvantage, it is so decreed. Allah knows, a man of my employments cannot keep the habits of a saint.”

He vowed before God to keep strict watch upon himself, to avoid giving offense to his brother’s piety. But he had forgotten the vow, or recanted, when the day of departure came.

Shems-ud-dìn, with other turbaned voyagers, was in the customhouse, patiently enduring the chicanery of a number of small officials whose end was bakshìsh, when Milhem passed down the middle of the great shed, escorted by the mûdìr and a group of high officers. He overlooked Shems-ud-dìn’s salutation, appeared unconscious of his neighborhood. In loud talk with his companions he walked out at the farther doors, through which the dance of violet waves shone twinkling, and his brother was left to conclude his bargain with the customhouse men, when a nod from the Sultàn’s plenipotentiary might have released him.

On the steamship, bewildered by the novelty of his situation, alarmed by the pushing of rude Franks, Shems-ud-dìn herded for countenance with a little group of the faithful on the fore part of the deck; nor dared to look round for Milhem. The shores and the fair, great city were slipping fast away, ere[11] he descried the latter standing amidships. He ran to him with intent to embrace, but was checked by the formality of his reception.

“Leave me alone here, I entreat thee,” said Milhem, as if his teeth were set on edge. “Afterwards, upon land, I will explain all things.”

Shems-ud-dìn withdrew, much hurt. He made no further claim on his brother’s notice, but sat all day long in the company of three Turkish merchants, men of substance and of imperturbable phlegm, who spoke in proverbs between long sucks at the narghileh. At the rising of the night, when the evening prayer was ended, his black servant brought him food, and spread a bed for him beneath the stars. Once, ere he lay down, his ear caught the voice of Milhem at no great distance talking glibly in a foreign tongue, and by the light of one of the lamps he could distinguish his brother strolling amid a crowd of Franks, both men and women. They kept laughing the senseless, heathen laugh that knows not past or future, nor foresees the judgment of the last day.

The faces of Shems-ud-dìn’s companions were lost in night, except when the charcoal in the bowl of a narghileh glowed up redly as its owner drew on it. One said:

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“Allah created different animals. He made no crossbreeds. These latter spring from sin. What can be said of one who, being circumcised and duly shaven like ourselves, yet chooses to sit on a chair at a table with infidels, his hands unwashed, to eat abomination, and to toy with unveiled women whose face is of brass for all men, who know not shame? Shall such an one treat us as dirt, being most likely the son of some pimp or other? May the justice of God overtake him, and that suddenly!”

“Now Allah avert that curse, for the man is my mother’s son,” said Shems-ud-dìn sadly.

“Ma sh’ Allah! Is it truth thou speakest? Then Allah forgive me! Let it be as though I had said nothing. I guessed not, O my lord, that he was the son of any honorable house. Most of these officials are the sons of nothing. Why comes he not to sit with thee? May Allah teach him the way of the upright!”

The speaker, a good old man, by name Yûsûf, a dealer in cotton goods, sucked hard at his narghileh. From that hour no one of the sedate circle referred to the great man on board, or betrayed the slightest interest in the doings of the Frankish passengers. Time glided smoothly for Shems-ud-dìn in their company, though few words passed, and those of abstract[13] wisdom. It seemed matter for praise to Allah that there was no chatterer among them. And ever the steamboat panted on over that silken sea, tossing back its mane of dingy smoke along the furrow it had plowed. Only when the panting ceased awhile, did the faithful quit the pose of resignation, uncross their legs, rise, stretch themselves, and praise God for the view of some white town that rimmed the sea, with minarets and distaff cypresses, and fertile gardens on the hill beyond.

At length, near dawn of the fifth day, Shems-ud-dìn awoke to find the ship at rest on the bosom of a wide bay. Already a whiteness played upon the ripples. Already, above high mountains in the east, appeared a blushing streak, a fluttering pulse of light that throbbed and spread till shapes grew clear in silhouette upon the shore line, here a palm tree, there a dwelling; and still the sky to seaward was night blue and spangled with stars.

Shems-ud-dìn knelt down and prayed with fervor, prostrating himself many times. The sun rose, and its rays struck upon his two hands held before his face as he prayed. There were the heights of Lebanon, towers of darkness up against a glory. By the mercy of Allah, he beheld those heights once more. His heart was full.

[14]

Later, when the sun rode high and many boats had put forth from the shore, he embarked in one of them with his friends of the voyage, and was rowed to the customhouse. There, engaged in the civilities preliminary to the gift of a coin, he was surprised by Milhem. He leaped at the sound of his brother’s voice hailing him with words of love, and the flush of pleasure overcame him. The Bey showed a paper to the officers, who straight made reverence. Shems-ud-dìn and his friends were free to go where they chose.

“I have saved thee and those quaint worthies a mejidi apiece. Art thou not grateful?” laughed Milhem, as they issued forth into the morning sunlight.

Instantly their ears were assailed with the shouts of carriage drivers, and a mob of porters pressed on them, shouting also and gesticulating, shouldering one another roughly in the strife for employment. The Bey had one arm round his brother’s neck. With the other he signaled to the most importunate of the carriage drivers, who shook his reins in triumph; the while he continued:

“Praise to Allah, that ordeal is ended. May all the Franks rot painfully, and their fathers be consumed with fire! But it is the will of the Sultàn[15] that we mix with them and learn their ways. For me, to hear is to obey. What am I but a servant?... I proceed to the city Esh-Shâm by the coach this evening. That Greek dog, my secretary, follows with the baggage. There I obtain my soldiers from the Wâly—a hundred only, not half enough to overawe those wild beasts. Go thou, upon arrival in that city, to the khan of Ahmed Effendi, the same who was the steward of our father’s property. I shall seek thee there.... Allah be with thee now and always, O my beloved!”

He kissed Shems-ud-dìn very suddenly on both cheeks, sprang into his carriage, and was driven to a foreign hotel.

His brother, left thunderstruck, stood by the door of the customhouse, impervious to the frantic efforts made by porters, and others having an interest in new arrivals, to attract his notice. He scarcely heard his servant speak to him, and answered at random a question as to whither they should be going.

“So his Excellency the Bey has flown again,” said the voice of Yûsûf, the old merchant, close to his ear. “Well, Allah knows where such birds nest! I know not, nor greatly care to know. Wilt thou make the journey to Esh-Shâm with us who are plain[16] men? With Allah’s leave we will hire baggage animals, and buy each one of us an ass whereon to ride. We shall journey slowly, by easy stages, being old men and burdened with fat. If thy youth can bear with our infirmities, journey with us and welcome, for we love instruction, and it is seldom that a learned sheykh of the religion falls to our lot for company.”

“Let it be as he says, O my lord!” pleaded the negro eagerly; for he tired of standing still, a gazing-stock for low people.

“So be it then,” said Shems-ud-dìn, with a cordial smile. “By my beard, I thank thee; for in this minute I knew not where to face.”

So it happened that Shems-ud-dìn entered the city of his birth one morning, riding soberly upon an ass, in the company of three fat old men, riding each likewise upon an ass. The legs of all four stuck out wide over full saddlebags. On foot beside Shems-ud-dìn went his faithful negro, now walking, now trotting, in accordance with the donkey’s pace. From Zebbadâni, where they had spent the night, they ambled by garden ways to the great city, down a valley full of shade, and the song of birds, and the ever-sweet murmur of running waters.

Shems-ud-dìn had found the journey anything but[17] tiresome. And now, in the familiar streets where every sight and sound recalled his childhood, he felt like nothing more than a happy child.

Near by the khan of Ahmed Effendi, in a covered way narrow and crowded, where the cavalcade had to go in single file with shouts to clear the path, a hand grasped Shems-ud-dìn’s arm, and the voice of Milhem snarled:

“Get down! Get down, madman!”

With fear the traveler alighted, holding his donkey by the bridle. The rope was promptly snatched from his hand and thrust into that of the negro, who stood grinning by.