Читать книгу Veiled Women - Marmaduke William Pickthall - Страница 11

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The Englishwoman had surrendered to the importunities of all the household, and submitted to be dressed entirely as an Eastern bride. Her feet and hands had been well dyed with henna overnight; her hair was intricately plaited, smeared with ointment smelling strong of ambergris and sprinkled with gold dust until it made a close and shining covering; her lips and cheeks were painted, and her eyes enlarged with kohl. Then came the putting on of splendid clothes amid a din of chatter, above which strains of music could be heard, wafted by gusts from the selamlik, where festivity had reigned for two days past. A jewelled crown completing her apparel, she was led with joy-cries to the great reception-room, and there enthroned upon the dais. The room was fairly full of visitors already, and every minute there were fresh arrivals.

Early that morning, Gulbeyzah had shown Barakah her future lodging—five rooms within the women’s portion of the house, but self-contained, and with a private door to the selamlik. She had beheld a salon hung with mirrors, full of gilded chairs and tables; and then the nuptial chamber, the bed with silken bed-clothes, much too good to use, beneath a canopy of cloth-of-gold embroidered. Four monstrous candles placed around the bed looked ceremonial, and the perfume of rare flowers reminded her of English death-rooms.

The vision of that room oppressed her now as she sat idle, feeling like a wooden image, and met the criticizing stare of strangers who perfunctorily blessed her. At first Gulbeyzah stayed with her and played interpreter. Murjânah Khânum came and kissed her, praying: “May the crown upon thy brow inure thee to the burden of responsibility, may the rich robes and the throne foreshadow honour for thee; may the ordeal of long stillness teach thee patience and long-suffering with dignity. May all our blessings and our prayers to-day secure thee fruitfulness, and mayst thou live to see thy children’s children flourish round thee. Our Lord preserve thee ever in His grace. Amîn.”

Apart from this soft murmur of the Turkish lady, she discerned no hint of a religious feeling with regard to marriage. After an hour Gulbeyzah mingled with the throng of visitors, and Barakah was left alone to face the curiosity, the unknown talk about her. Every one of all those women used strong scent, and the smoke of divers kinds of incense dimmed the air. The bride herself was saturated with perfumery; which, however, could not drown the odour of her own new garments. This grew sickening. Her brain swam. She was stuck there like a painted doll to be appraised, inspected.

Anon the crowd was drawn away from her. She sat unnoticed. A group of female musicians had arrived, with them a well-known singer. There ensued a frightful caterwauling, as it seemed to Barakah, but the rest were charmed, to judge from their enraptured “Ah’s!” and ravished gestures.

Then a brown girl, clad diaphanously, writhed a dance of lewd suggestion, ogling the bride the while maliciously. Her performance was applauded even by Murjânah Khânum. Gulbeyzah flew up to the bride and whispered: “We are in great luck! Tâhir, the greatest singer in the world, has been performing for the bridegroom’s friends in the selamlik. He is coming here to sing to us, behind that screen. Look! Those are his children.” A small boy and girl had stolen shyly in, and were made much of, being passed from hand to hand. Gulbeyzah ran off to convey the news to other rooms.

Another minute and dead silence fell. All watched the screen. Up leapt an eerie note, sustained till it became a terror to the ear, when all at once it broke into a shower of trills like impish laughter. This was repeated thrice, and then the singer struck a solemn and majestic measure—a religious strain, which his strange voice embroidered with all human passions in their natural tones. Barakah forgot her weariness. This singing was like nothing she had ever heard. It seemed to dignify all life with a tremendous meaning. All unawares she joined the gusty sigh which swept the whole assembly when the last note died. There followed a quick panting melody of lover’s sighs, more like a bird’s song than the effort of a human voice; then came a wail of more than human anguish, and then the singing ceased quite unexpectedly. There was a storm of moans and prayers for more, but Tâhir, the great singer, had already gone.

Barakah became once more aware of stiffness, headache, and a burning mouth. She called to Hamdi, Yûsuf’s little brother, one of her former pupils, to bring water to her. He ran off at once, but brought, instead of water, cloying sherbet which increased her thirst. Her eyelids were so stiffened they would hardly close; her eyeballs ached; the stiffness of the paint upon her cheeks became an iron mask. She felt pilloried, derided, miserably alone, when lo! a small soft hand touched hers confidingly. It was the singer’s little daughter, who, grown tired of sweets and petting, had come to the one lonely person in the room, the quiet place. She looked up in the face of Barakah and smiled. Her brother, a still smaller child, had followed her. They both sat down without the slightest ceremony, and with their heads against her knees, their hands in hers, fell fast asleep. This little group, when it was noticed, caused much laughter and a shout: “Mabrûkah!” (lucky). The bride, a statue of endurance, paid no heed.

At last a great noise came from the selamlik. A eunuch rushed to say that the procession of the bridegroom to the mosque had just returned. At once, a heavy veil, precluding sight, was flung on Barakah. The bride’s train formed. With tapers and with garlands, amid joy-cries, she was led to her own gilded salon, and there left alone. In the same instant, so it seemed to her, the bridegroom came. Her veil was lifted. She felt like to die. She dared not raise her eyes for fear of weeping. The ritual words she had been schooled to say escaped her memory. But, as luck befell, they were unneeded.

“Grand Dieu!” cried Yûsuf Bey. “The fools—the miscreants have made you look like one of them. Your face—your hair! Ah, mon amour! Ma colombe!”

She was obliged to laugh, and the nice-looking, eager youth laughed with her. Fatigue and headache fell off from her like a garment.

On the next afternoon, when Barakah, at peace with all the world, was sitting in her gilded parlour, on the cushioned window-sill, peeping through the lattice at red masts and flags, the decorations for her wedding not yet taken down, it happened that she called for water. That cry resounded through the whole haramlik in the hours of heat, and slaves with pitchers waited always ready to obey it. The girl who answered brought a vase of amber fluid, which she proclaimed the most delicious sherbet known to woman. The lady Fitnah had herself prepared it for the bride’s delight. Barakah took one sip, disliked the taste, and, only waiting for politeness till the maid had gone, poured out the rest upon a plant of jasmine in a flower-pot which stood upon a shelf within the lattice. A little later she was very sick, and went and lay down on her bed. She was feeling better when her husband was announced.

“Yûsuf!” she cried, as he came in, “it is so curious. Madame your mother sent me up some special sherbet. I tasted it, and found it disagreeable, so I emptied all the rest upon the plant there. Then I felt so ill——”

She got no further. Yûsuf, following the direction of her gesture, had fixed his eyes upon the flower-pot. They were riveted. The plant was dead, a shrivelled, blackened object. With one despairing cry he clutched his forehead and rushed headlong from the room.