She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets. She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely, displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.
Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. "Queen of the Roses," thus is she called by all Cairo.
Who does not know her--who has not heard of her, of the Rose of Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain? Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French general, Kleber, who loved Mourad's beautiful wife, and who often, in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace, awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt at the instigation of the jealous bey.
Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the proud heroine who fought at her husband's side, who shared with Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest woman in the harem?
All is still about her. The waters of the fountains near the kiosk murmur gently as they fall in the basins beneath, as if to lull the beautiful woman to rest with their music, and now the soft music from behind the rose-bushes is also wafted over, to the kiosk.
The slaves accompany the instruments with their voices.
What are they singing? What song is this that exults and is yet filled with sadness? whose strains are so passionate, so lamenting, so longing?
Sitta Nefysseh well knows what they are; although the words are inaudible, yet she knows them, knows the sad love-song "of her whom he loved, of him who slew her." The song is a familiar one. But why does it excite such emotion in her heart, why do her large black eyes fill with tears? She would permit no one to see these tears, she would quickly brush them from her sparkling eyes with her hand, white as the lily, if the eye of any human being could now behold her.
But no one sees her--Sitta Nefysseh is alone.
At least she thinks so. The pair of black eyes that peer out from behind the shrubbery and flowers near the garden-wall, she does not see, and yet these eyes are fixed with such anguish and longing, with such passionate ardor, on the lovely woman who lies there dreamily on her cushions.
Of what is she dreaming? The slaves are singing of love and bliss; the waters murmuring of love and bliss, and, in the heart of the beautiful Sitta Nefysseh, there are also singing, sighing, and murmuring of love and bliss!
People say that Sitta Nefysseh is proud and has a cold heart. Love has never dared to approach her since the death of her husband, Mourad Bey. She is kindly in her manner toward all, yet no one dares suppose she views him with more favor than others. She keeps all men at a distance; they all love her and bow down in reverence and adoration before her, but Sitta Nefysseh remains proud and cold; she loves no one!
This the people say, and, if she heard it, she would nod her beautiful head, would smile and say: "They are right, I love no one. Mourad Bey, my husband and my hero, him I loved! Since he is dead, I am alone and love no one!"
The black eyes are still peering out through the shrubbery and flowers, fixed on her with passionate ardor. She does not see them; but now, as she raises her head as if to rise from her cushions, these eyes quickly disappear, and a tall, manly figure, stooping forward behind the trees and shrubbery, glides noiselessly along to the gate that leads into the inner court-yard. But, before he steps out, young Youssouf stands still, draws a long breath, and seems to summon all his resolution to his aid to resist the charm that carries him away.
"If she knew that I watched her, she would drive me from her, and then Youssouf would die. Alas! she may not dream that I love her, she is proud and unapproachable, and what am I to her? The poor kachef of her deceased husband! She tolerates me as she tolerates the dog that is accustomed to lie on the threshold of her door. Alas, I should die if she knew of Youssouf's love for her!"
Kachef Youssouf is handsome, and, were it not the noble Sitta Nefysseh, exception would be taken to a woman's having so handsome a kachef in her service. But Sitta Nefysseh is unapproachable, virtue attends her in all her ways, modesty and dignity are everywhere her companions. No one dares approach her chaste reputation with even a breath of reproach.
Youssouf steps into the inner court-yard; he lays his hand on his brown beard and strokes its curly locks.
"Be a man," murmur his lips. "Be resolute. Alas! I could endure not being the one if no other dared approach her. But here comes one of them already. He can approach her and speak of love. Woe is me!"
With profound deference, and forcing his features into a smile, Youssouf approached Osman Bey Bardissi, who at this moment came into the court, mounted on his proud, splendidly-equipped steed, and followed by a body of his Mamelukes.
"Is your mistress at home?" asked Bardissi, springing lightly to the ground, and throwing the purple-silk reins to the Mameluke who hurried forward.
"Yes, Sitta Nefysseh is in the park. She is resting in the kiosk, and I will announce to the female slaves that Osman Bey Bardissi wishes to see their mistress."
"Do so, Kachef Youssouf," said Bardissi. "But first listen to me. How would you like to be taken into my service, kachef? you are too good for this life of inactivity? If you desire it, I will ask Sitta Nefysseh to give you your freedom?"
"Give me my freedom? I am free!" said Youssouf, regarding Bardissi with proud composure. "I was a Mameluke with Mourad, as you know. My noble master had purchased me; he loved me, and often told me I should remain with him while I lived. He made me kachef, first kachef of his house. I swore eternal fidelity to him and to his house, and I will keep my oath."
"I do not doubt it," replied Bardissi, in kindly tones; "I only mean, Youssouf, that you are too young not to wish to wield the sword and join us in the conflict that is soon to be renewed. Poor Youssouf, you will then be shut out from our ranks, for Sitta Nefysseh no longer sends her Mamelukes with us to battle; she now uses them for her service only, and I am certain she would be well pleased if her kachef Youssouf, as it becomes him, draws his sword to win laurels in the field. You can make something great of yourself. Look at me, Youssouf: I was what you are; like you a Mameluke, also like you a kachef, and could let my beard grow, and now I am a Mameluke bey, and three thousand servants follow me to battle. You might accomplish as much, Youssouf."
"I am satisfied with what I am, and ask for nothing more," replied the kachef. "I swore to Mourad Bey to serve him and his house my life long, and I will keep my oath: I therefore entreat you to say nothing to Sitta Nefysseh. She might be displeased."
"I will not," replied Bardissi; "remain true to your word. And now go and inquire whether your mistress can see me."
Youssouf hastened to where the slaves were still singing their melancholy song, and sent one of them down into the park to inform her that the Mameluke bey, Osman Bardissi, had come, and desired to see her.
The slave advanced timidly to the entrance of the kiosk, and announced the visitor to Sitta Nefysseh, who, awakening from a dream she had dreamed with open eyes, gently inclined her head.
"He is welcome. Conduct him to me.--Come nearer, ye slaves, and seat yourselves behind that clump of rose-bushes. You can sing and play while I am receiving my visitor, for Osman Bey loves music. Do me honor, my slaves, and sing the love-songs of Djumeil and his Lubna."
Bardissi cannot see these musicians as he advances toward the kiosk, conducted by the slave; he only hears and rejoices in their song.
Sitta Nefysseh has risen from her cushions, but she has not covered her face with the veil which, fastened to her hair with golden clasps, falls back over her shoulders. The widow, and above all the widow of the bey, is allowed to remain unveiled in the presence of a friend. The great prophet never commanded that the wives of Moslems should appear veiled in their own houses; the jealousy of their husbands had gradually imposed this burden upon them. Conscious of her own worth and dignity, Sitta Nefysseh feels herself free to disregard such requirement. She turns her lovely countenance with a gentle smile toward the advancing bey, and Bardissi feels the glance of her large eyes, though he does not see them. He feels it, and moves not, a slight tremor possessing itself of his entire being.
What! Bardissi trembles!--the hero, who amid the din of battle joyously confronts the death-dealing cannon, who never trembles, though face to face with a whole forest of spears--Bardissi trembles and turns pale!
Sitta Nefysseh sees it, and her smile brightens. "Why do you hesitate to approach, Osman? and what have you to say to me, friend of my husband, Mourad Bey?"
She wishes to remind him that he had been Mourad's friend. He well understands her meaning, and, stepping quickly forward, falls on his knee before her, and reverently kisses the hem of her dress.
"I paused, O Sitta, Rose of Cairo--I paused because I heard the song of the slaves--they are singing my favorite song."
"The song is known to you?" said Sitta Nefysseh.
"It is. Do you know, Sitta, when I first heard this song?"
"I do not," replied she, shaking her head gently.
"May I tell you?"
"Do so; seat yourself on the marble stool standing at the entrance of the kiosk, and tell me."
She falls back upon her cushion with the easy grace of a swan. But Bardissi does not take the seat so graciously assigned him. He steps forward and remains standing in front of Sitta Nefysseh, gazing down upon her with reverence and delight, as though his glances were a consecrated gold-inworked veil in which he wishes to envelop her lovely form, and draw her to his heart.
"Well, Osman Bey, when did you first hear this song?"
He remains silent for a moment; the bees are humming in the air, the fountains flashing, and from the distance the words of the song the slaves are singing are wafted over by the gentle breeze:
"Thee alone on earth have I loved. My longing heart is drawn to thee. And, though this earth were heaven, and it contained my Lubna not, I'd wander rather through the gates of hell if I but knew my Lubna there!"
"If I but knew my Lubna there!" repeated Osman Bey, in low, tremulous tones.--"You wish to know when I first heard this song? I will tell you. It was on the evening of a bloody day of battle; I had ridden at the side of our great chieftain, Mourad Bey. He called me his friend, his--"
"His favorite," said Sitta Nefysseh, interrupting him. "He said he loved you like a brother, and would confide to you without fear or hesitation all he loved best--his wife, his child--knowing that they would be guarded and held sacred as though they were in the holiest niche of the mosque. Yes, my noble husband loved you. And now, speak on. You had gone out to battle."
"Yes, it was a bloody day. The angel of death hovered over us, and the swords of the enemy swept heavily upon our ranks. A sabre-stroke dealt by Bashi Seref fell upon the sword-arm of my noble friend, striking him down and disabling him. The Turk was preparing to deal a second blow, when I struck him to the earth with my ataghan. I then bore my friend from the conflict to his tent, and there you were, Sitta Nefysseh. You received the hero from my arms, and for the first time I saw your unveiled countenance. I then returned to the battle, and took Mourad's place at the head of his Mamelukes. Whether it was anger over the wounding of my friend, or the bliss caused by the lovely image I had beheld, I know not, but my arm was strong and mighty, and love and heroism exulted in my heart. I called out to the Mamelukes, `We must and will die or conquer!' But, being still too young to die, and loving life too well, we conquered. The enemy was driven from the field, and ours was the victory. We encamped on the field after the bloody conflict; and then, having won the victory, I felt privileged, when evening came, to repair to Mourad's tent to report our success.
"No one was there to announce me; I drew back the curtain and entered the first room. No one was there, and the curtain of the inner apartment of the tent was half drawn aside. I went no farther, knowing that the wounded Mourad lay there on his cushions, and that Sitta Nefysseh was with him. I knew this because I heard her singing; she sang her beloved to sleep as a mother lulls her babe to rest, or as the houris sing in paradise, when they in wondrous melody announce the joys of heaven to dying mortals.
"I remained standing in the tent and listened to your song, Sitta Nefysseh. You sang to your husband of love and happiness--sang in sweet words what Djumeil says to his Lubna: `Nature breathes love. The bird in the air sings of love; the spring which bubbles at your feet murmurs of love; the rose that blossoms in the garden sheds love's fragrance--all is love and bliss. Woe to them who know nothing more of love, woe to them who bear a cold heart in their bosom.' This you sang, Sitta Nefysseh, and I stood listening, entranced. What I then felt was so all-absorbing, so divinely beautiful, that I was unwilling to have the harmony of that sweet moment broken in upon by the voice of man. I silently withdrew; your song informed me that Mourad slept and was in heavenly bliss. I noiselessly left the tent, and stepped out into the night. The moon shed its soft light around, enveloping the white tents scattered over the plain and the terrors of the day in a heavenly, silver veil.
"I did not return to my tent that night, however. Where was I? If you should ask, Sitta Nefysseh, I could not tell you. But this much I can tell you, I was in paradise! I thought of this when I just now heard your slaves sing the song I then heard for the first time, and that has resounded in my heart ever since. I covered it with thick veils, and laid my hand on it to silence it: and I found it possible to do so while my noble friend Mourad still lived. I forced my heart to bury in its depths its wishes and longings. I have been silent, Sitta Nefysseh, not only while Mourad lived, but I have also honored the period allotted to a widow's mourning. But this is now passed; pain has vanisbed from your heart, I trust. Your heavenly countenance is again radiant with youthful loveliness, and no longer shows the traces of sorrow."
"It is true, Osman Bey," said Nefysseh, with a low sigh; "time heals all wounds, and sorrow no longer darkens my soul; yet know that Mourad Bey still lives in my heart, and it is because he still lives for me that I am able to bear this life and this separation."
"I well know, O Sitta, your fidelity, your noble sentiments," replied Bardissi; "it is this knowledge that makes me adore and reverence you; and were it not strange if I, too, could ever forget the man who loved you so passionately, and whose memory you still love? But such love, Sitta, excites no jealousy, and even he who loves passionately respects such love. Listen to me, Sitta Nefysseh; hear why I have come to you; I can endure it no longer; the seal must at last fall from his lips, and Bardissi must give utterance to what he feels, to that which glows in his heart, and can no longer be repressed. Yes, Sitta Nefysseh, you must at last hear that I am dying for love, and that if you refuse to hear me, I must--"
"Silence!" exclaimed Nefysseh, interrupting him, with queenly composure, as she rose from her seat--"silence, Osman Bey! do you not know that my husband Mourad lived here in this garden, in this place? How could his wife, Sitta Nefysseh, have received you unveiled if her husband had not stood by her side? Do you not see him, Osman Bey? Do you not see his eyes fixed on you with an angry expression, and do not his lips ask his friend how he can betray friendship? What was your promise to Mourad? To honor and guard his wife while you lived."
"And I will, Sitta Nefysseh. I do guard and honor her, but I also love her as ardently as ever man loved woman!" exclaimed Bardissi, in passionate tones. "Does not man honor woman most when he loves her best? How can I better prove my adoration and reverence than by laying my life at your feet, and saying, in tones of humble entreaty, `Sitta Nefysseh, be my wife, follow me to my house, and be mistress of myself and of all that I am?"
"Do not say this, Osman Bey, I entreat you, do not speak thus to me!" cried Sitta Nefysseh in a loud voice. "It would give pain to me to have to answer you, and it will be better not to have heard your words. I call you friend, and I wish you to remain my friend all your life long. Yet, hear me; my heart is open to no other love, and my hands must remain unfettered. Mourad's widow remains true to herself, and to him who dwells in her heart, and is ever at her side. Let us forget, Osman, what you, carried away by your friendship, have said. You thought Mourad's wife felt herself alone in the world, and, out of friendship for your deceased friend, you desired to offer her the support of your heroic hand. If ever I should need assistance, and a friend, rest assured, Osman, I shall call on you. But now, step back, one of my slaves is approaching with a message. Turn your countenance away, Osman, it looks so gloomy and passionate; I would not have her notice your love."
He turns aside, and seems to be listening to the distant singing and playing of the slaves; he, however, hears the slave, who now enters the kiosk, announce that L'Elfi Bey desires to see her mistress. He hears it, and shudders. L'Elfi Bey, his friend and companion-in- arms; what brings him here to Mourad's widow?
Sitta Nefysseh sends word that the bey is welcome, and the slave departs on her errand.
"L'Elfi Bey is permitted to come to you!"
"And why not?" asked she proudly. "Was not Osman Bey permitted to visit me, and was not L'Elfi also my husband's friend?"
"It is true; forgive my thoughtlessness," replied Osman in low and almost angry tones. "Permit me to take my leave, Sitta Nefysseh. I do not wish to disturb your interview with the great L'Elfi Bey."
"On the contrary, you will please remain," replied she, quietly, gracefully drawing her fragrant veil over her head, and covering her face.
Bardissi's heroic countenance became radiant with delight. She had received him unveiled, and now that L'Elfi comes she veils herself. Allah be praised, that is a favorable omen; a ray of light penetrating the gloom that enveloped his soul; he has seen her unveiled, and --
"L'Elfi Bey comes," said Sitta Nefysseh, rising to welcome her new visitor.
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