IN WHICH ISKANDER LEARNS THE NAME OF HER WHO KNOWS HIS.
AND yet Iskander recalled his father’s words..His father had been wont to say: “The loveliest rose lasts but a day, the smallest thorn endures a lifetime. Caress women, but do not love them if you would not become their slave. Love is sweet only in song; but in reality its beginning is fear; its middle, sin; and its end, repentance.”
And to these three sentiments he added a fourth, their fitting complement: “Look not upon the wives of other men, and listen not to your own.”
Let us hasten to add, to Iskander’s credit, that he forgot all these precepts in less than five minutes.
The young Tartar loved and was afraid. The first part of his father’s premonition, “The beginning of love is fear,” was then fulfilled in him.
Eight days before, poor Iskander had slept so tranquilly, the night had seemed so short and refreshing.
Now he tossed about upon his mattress; he bit his pillow; his silk coverlet stifled him.
But who was she?
At this question, which he had put to himself for the tenth time, Iskander leaped from his bed to his feet.
She! what a villanous word!
Love tolerates no pronouns, and especially love in Daghestan.
Until he knew her true name, Iskander would give her a fictitious one.
“I must know the name of my — Leila,” said he, thrusting his kandjiar into his girdle; “I shall die, perhaps, but I will know her name.”
A moment later he was in the street.
Probably the devil left one of his serpents at Derbend’: to some he takes the form of ambition, — how many celebrated men have disputed the possession of Derbend! to others he goes in the guise of love, — how many young people have lost their wits at Derbend!
The latter serpent, decidedly, had bitten Iskander Beg.
He wandered up and down the streets, looked through every gate, scanned every wall and every veil.
It was all in vain.
Whom could he ask for her name? Who would point out her house?
His heart’s eagerness urged him forward.
“Go!” it bade him.
Where? He did not know.
He joined the crowd; the crowd conducted him to the market-place.
If he had wished to learn the price of meat, he was in a fair way; but the name of his beloved? No!
He approached an Armenian. The Armenians know everybody, dealing in everything.
This one was selling fish.
“Buy a fine chamaia, Iskander Beg,” said the Armenian.
The young man turned away in disgust.
At last he approached the shop of a goldsmith, a skilful enameller.
“God save you!” said he to the Tartar.
“May Allah grant yon happiness!” responded the goldsmith, without raising his eyes from a turquoise that he was mounting in a ring.
On the counter behind which the goldsmith was working stood a copper sebilla, filled with different objects more or less precious.
Iskander Beg uttered a cry.
He had just recognized an earring which he was certain of having seen, the day before, swinging in the ear of his unknown.
His heart gave a leap; it seemed to him that he had just learned the first letter of her name.
It was as if he saw her pretty little hand with the pink nails beckoning to him.
He dared not speak a word. He hesitated to put a question; he did not know what to say; his voice trembled, his thoughts were in a tumult.
Suddenly a light flashed across his brain.
He had hit upon a truly military ruse, — one of those that capture cities.
He emptied the cup into his hand, as if to look at the jewels. The goldsmith, who had recognized him, allowed him to do so.
He adroitly withdrew the earring from the heap of jewels, slipped it into his pocket, and suddenly ejaculated, —
“There! I have dropped an earring!”
And he replaced the other jewels in the cup.
“What earring!” demanded the merchant.
“The one with little bells on it.”
“Par Allah! pick it up quickly, Iskander; I would not have that lost for five hundred roubles.”
“Oh! it is not lost,” said Iskander.
Then, after a pause, he said, —
“It is very strange, though, that I do not see it anywhere.”
“One loses sight of a thing as it falls,” said the merchant, laying down the ring upon which he was working; and rising, he looked under his bench as he raised his spectacles.
Iskander stepped about feigning to search.
“I do not find it,” said he.
Then, a moment later, lie added, —
“It is certainly lost.”
This time the goldsmith took his spectacles from his forehead and laid them on his table.
“Allah!” he exclaimed, “what have you done, Iskander Beg?”
“I have lost an earring, that is all.”
“But you don’t know what will happen to me. That old rascal of a Hadji Festahli is capable of bringing suit against me. An earring of Baku enamel!”
“On my soul, you are laughing at me, Djaffar. Do you expect me to believe that a man as serious as Hadji Festahli, a descendant of Mahomet, a saint, wears earrings?”
“And who says that he wears earrings?”
“He has neither wife nor daughter, that I know of at least.”
“He is too stingy for that, the old miser! But it is as much as ten years now since his brother Shafy fled into Persia, leaving him his wife and daughter. The little girl was only six years old then, she is sixteen now.”
“It must be she! it must be she!” murmured Iskander under his breath.
Then he asked aloud, — —”What is she called — this niece?”
“Kassime,” replied the goldsmith.
“Kassime, Kassime,” repeated Iskander to himself.
And the name seemed to him far prettier than Leila, which he discarded as one throws away a lemon from which he has squeezed all the juice.
“And since her father’s departure,” he added aloud, “I presume that the little one has grown.”
“You know our country, Iskander: the child of one year looks as though it were two; a girl of five appears to be ten. Our young girls are like the grape-cuttings which are scarcely planted before the grapes are ripe; I have never seen her, but her uncle says that she is the prettiest girl in Derbend.”
Iskander Beg tossed the earring into the goldsmith’s hand and darted off like an arrow. He knew all that he wished to know, — the name and dwelling of his lady fair.
He ran straight to the house of Hadji Festahli. He did not hope to see Kassime, but perhaps he should hear her voice; then, who knows? she might be going out with her mother, perhaps, and, whether he saw her or not, she would see him. She would certainly suspect that he was not there to get a glimpse of her uncle.
But, as usual, old Hadji Festahli’s house was shut up; Iskander foresaw one drawback, — it was, in all Derbend, the most difficult house to enter.
He heard, not Kassime’s voice, but a dog’s bark, and it was redoubled every time that he drew near the gate. Finally, the gate opened.
But an abominable old hag emerged, broom in hand.
She was some old witch, doubtless, going to her vigil.
She did not even have the trouble of shutting the gate behind her; it closed quite of itself, one would have thought had he not heard a hand push the bolts.
Iskander had resolved to remain there until evening, until the next morning, until Kassime came out. But his presence could not fail to be remarked, and his presence would announce openly to Hadji Festahli: “I love your niece; hide her more carefully than ever.”
He returned home, and threw himself down upon a rug.
There, as he was no longer afraid of being seen or even heard, he threshed about, lie roared, he bellowed.
Iskander loved after the manner of lions.
A good Mussulman, a true believer, has no conception of what we call perfect love; Iskander was purely enraged, he wanted Kassime that very moment, without delay, instantly.
He was one of the readers that skip the preface of a book and proceed immediately to the first chapter.
Terrible people for authors and uncles!
But Iskander very soon reached the conclusion that he might vainly roll on his rug all day long, roar a whole week, howl for a month, and it would not bring him a hair’s breadth nearer to Kassime.
He must bestir himself, then.
Finally, by dint of saying over to himself: “Kassime’s uncle,” he was reminded that, if he himself had no uncle, he had an aunt.
An aunt! Why were aunts made, if it were not to take charge of their nephew’s love affairs?”
That is all aunts are good for.
You do not know of an aunt who ever served any other purpose; neither do I.
He went out and purchased some silk stuff for a dress; then he ran to his aunt’s house.
The aunt took the dress, listened to the whole story of her nephew’s love affair, and as an aunt, however old she may be, remembers the days when she was young, Iskander’s aunt, sending a sigh after hef own lost youth, promised him to do all in her power to bring about an interview.
“Come to my house to-morrow, at noon, my child,” she said; “I will send for Kassime, under pretext of darkening her eyes with kohl. I will hide you behind this curtain, you rascal! But be discreet. Do not move, do not breathe, and, above all, beware of whispering a word to any one of what I am doing for you.” As one can well understand, Iskander returned home in high spirits.
He went to bed at sunset, hoping to sleep, and that the time would pass swiftly while he slept.
Sleep had been good once upon a time.
He fell asleep at one o’clock, and awoke at two.
By seven in the morning he was at his aunt’s house, insisting that it was almost noon.
At every sound made at the gate he ran and hid behind the curtain.
Then he would resume his position beside his aunt, shaking his head and saying, —
“She will not come.”
Whereupon, falling into a rage, and stamping his foot, he would exclaim, —
“Ah! if she does not come I will set fire to her uncle’s house; she will have to come out so as not to be burned; then I will seize her, I will put her on my Karabach and run away with her.”
And each time his aunt would soothe him, saying,—”That could not have been she: it is only nine o’clock —— it is only ten — it is only eleven.”
But at noon the aunt exclaimed, —
“Ah! there she comes this time.”
Iskander, like his aunt, had heard the heels of little Turkish slippers pattering on the paved court, and he had sprung behind his curtain.
It was indeed she, with her friend Kitchina, — blueeyed Kitchina, as they called her.
The maidens took off their slippers at the threshold of the door and came in, seating themselves beside the old aunt.
The two veils fell to the floor. The curtain was agitated; lmppily, neither of the girls looked that way.
No; they were watching the old aunt, who was stirring with a small ivory stick the kohl at the bottom of a little silver jar.
Kassime knelt before the good woman, who first pencilled her eyebrows, then the under-lids; but when Kassime, for the latter operation, raised her beautiful eyes, Iskander felt as if his heart were pierced by a bullet.
The old woman herself was struck with their wonderful beauty, and in her admiration for the girl, she said, embracing her, —
“How soon, my pretty Kassime, shall I be painting you in the bath amid the songs of your friends? You have such beautiful eyes that I could wish them each morning to awake tearless and to be sealed every night by a kiss.”
Kassime sighed, and affectionately kissed the old woman.
Iskander heard the sigh and felt the warmth of the kiss.
“My uncle Festahli says that I am too young,” answered Kassime, sadly.
“And what says your heart?” demanded the old lady.
Instead of replying, Kassime took down the tambourine hanging on the wall, and sang: —
“Fair dawn, oh, why did I so early feel
The dewy coolness of thy wings?
Fair youth, oh, why this eve did thine eyes steal
Into my heart their fiery stings?
“Oh, why, though I have seen in cloudless sky
Enthroned the god-like shining star, —
Oh, why, though I have seen from storm-cloud high
A serpent fire o’erleap heaven’s bar, —
“Oh, why, since I’ve forgotten dreaded woes
And longed-for weal, sad earth, gay skies —
So much forgotten, sun and fire, dawn’s rose —
Oh, why forget I not thine eyes?”
While singing the last verse of the song which she was improvising, Kassime blushed to her shoulders; then, laughing like a child, she dropped her tambourine and threw herself into her friend’s arms; and then the two silly young things both began to laugh.
Why were they laughing, and what was there so laughable in all that?
But Iskander’s aunt understood very well, and, for the sake of her nephew’s happiness, she determined to bring out the secret of the enigma immediately.
“O my sweet rose,” she said, playing with Kassime’s rings, “if my nephew could have heard the song you have just sung, he would have staved in the wall to see the singer, and after seeing her, he would have carried her off as a lion does a kid.”
And just then a jar filled with jasmin water fell from the chest that stood near the curtain and broke into a thousand pieces.
The old woman faced about; the two young people turned pale.
“Why did it fall?” asked Kassime in trembling tones. “That devil of a black cat!” exclaimed the old lady; “there was never another like it!”
Kassime was reassured.
“Oh, I detest black cats!” said she. “It is said that they sometimes lend their skin to the devil, and that is why we can see their eyes glare in the dark.”
Then turning to her friend, she said, —
“Come, Kitchina, mamma allowed me but an hour, and there is the mullah’s call.”
Kassime rather coldly embraced the old woman, who saw that the reserve was assumed.
“Nonsense!” said the aunt, accompanying her to the door, “it is useless for you to be angry, Kassime. I should like to see you with flowers upon your head; your happiness is as dear to me as a link of gold, and with a link of gold, I know a young man who would like to bind his soul to yours. But be at ease, my dear child, only Allah, he, and I know the secret.”
Kassime opened her great eyes, whose size was doubled with amazement, but she was just then at the threshold of the street-door; her friend, who was behind, pushed her gently, the door was shut, and, for all explanation, she heard the key creaking in the lock.
Iskander Beg fairly stifled his aunt in his arms when she returned from Kassime. The good woman scolded him well because he had not been able to keep still at his post of observation.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “when that dreadful jar fell I nearly died from fright! Wicked child! it would have been the death of me if Kassime had guessed who made it fall.”
“Is it my fault, aunt?” cried Iskander; “and could I keep quiet when my heart threatened to burst at sight of the roses that overspread Kassime’s cheeks after you had spoken of me? I longed to gather them with my lips. What could you expect? Who sows must reap!”
“Not when he sows in another’s garden.”
“Then buy me this garden, aunt; do not let me expire like a nightingale on the thorns of a rose-bush. Kassime must be my wife; ask her uncle for her, then, without delay, and rest assured that I shall be as grateful as I am loving. Succeed in your embassy, dear aunt, and I promise you the most beautiful pair of buffaloes in Daghestan.”
On the morrow Iskander Beg received the answer of Mir Hadji Festahli.
Alas! it was very far from being what he had hoped. Here it is, for that matter; the reader can judge how much of hope it left to poor Iskander.
“Tell your Iskander, for me,” Festahli had replied to the aunt, “that I have not forgotten his father. His father was a brute. One day, before everybody, he called me, — I will not repeat what he called me; I could take no revenge, because it was just at the time when the Russians were interfering with our customs; but I have not forgotten the offence. I have not burned his coffin. It is proper for the son to pay his father’s debt, and I am no dog to fawn on the hand that has beaten me. But, to tell the truth, had there been no feud between us, Iskander should not have had my niece in any case. A great honor to be the uncle of this beg! There are seventy begs in Derbend just like him; I will give him their names whenever he likes. Why talk to me of a dowry? Yes, faith, by ruining himself, he could pay for my niece; but after that how would he provide for her? Has he any relatives to help him in case of need? How many raven’s-eggs does he get from the rent of his huts? How many bundles of nettles has he reaped in his fields? He is destitute, utterly destitute, your beggar of a nephew. Tell him no, — a hundred times no. I will not have such a good-for-nothing as he is in my family. A head and a purse so empty that with only a breath both head and purse would fly away. Good-evening, old woman!”
With the knowledge that you already possess of Iskander Beg’s disposition, you can imagine his rage when his aunt brought him this answer, word for word.
At last, his wrath cooled; and he had sworn to be terribly revenged upon Mir Hadji Festahli.
Ho was a Tartar.
This explains why Hadji Festahli was so preoccupied while climbing the streets which led to the dwelling of Iskander Beg; why, in his preoccupation, he spat upon the black beard of Hussein and the red beard of Ferzali, and why, at last, arrived at Iskander Beg’s door, instead of knocking impatiently, he knocked very gently.