The Pacha of Many Tales

Volume Two–Chapter Seven

“Mustapha,” said the pacha, taking his pipe out of his mouth, after an hour’s smoking in silence, “I have been thinking it very odd that our Holy Prophet (blessed be his name!) should have given himself so much trouble about such a son of Shitan as that renegade rascal, Huckaback, whose religion is only in his turban. By the sword of the Prophet, is it not strange that he should send him to command my fleet!”

“It was the will of your sublime highness,” replied Mustapha, “that he should command your fleet.”

“Mashallah! Was it not the will of the Prophet?”

Mustapha smoked his pipe, and made no reply.

“He was a great story-teller,” observed the pacha, after another pause.

“He was,” drily replied Mustapha. “No kessehgou of our true believers could equal him; but that is now over, and the dog of an Isauri must prove himself a Rustam in the service of your sublime highness. Aware that your highness would require amusement, and that it was the duty of your slave, who shines but by the light of your countenance, to procure it, I have since yesterday, when the sun went down, despairing to find his glory eclipsed by that of your sublime highness, ordered most diligent search to be made through the whole of the world, and have discovered, that in the caravan now halted on the outskirts of the town, there was a famous kessehgou proceeding to Mecca to pay his homage to the shrine of our Prophet: and I have despatched trusty messengers to bring him into the presence of the Min Bashi, to whom your slave, and the thousands whom he rules, are but as dust:” and Mustapha bowed low.

“Aferin, excellent:” exclaimed the pacha; “and when will he be here?”

“Before the tube now honoured by kissing the lips of your highness shall have poured out in ecstasy the incense of another bowl of the fragrant weed, the slippers of the kessehgou will be left at the threshold of the palace. Be chesm, on my eyes be it.”

“’Tis well, Mustapha. Slave,” continued the pacha, addressing the Greek who was in attendance, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down to the ground; “coffee and the strong water of the Giaour.”

The pacha’s pipe was refilled, the coffee was poured down their respective throats, and the forbidden spirits quaffed with double delight, arising from the very circumstance that they were forbidden.

“Surely there must be some mistake, Mustapha. Does not the Koran say, that all that is good is intended for true believers; and is not this good? How then can it be forbidden? Could it be intended for the Giaours? May they, and their fathers’ graves, be eternally defiled!”

“Amen!” replied Mustapha, laying down the cup, and drawing a deep sigh.

Mustapha was correct in his calculations. Before the pacha had finished his pipe, the arrival of the story-teller was announced: and after waiting a few minutes from decorum, which seemed to the impatient pacha to be eternal, Mustapha clapped his hands, and the man was ushered in.

“Kosh amedid! you are welcome,” said the pacha, as the kessehgou entered the divan: he was a slight, elegantly moulded person, of about thirty years of age.

“I am here in obedience to the will of the pacha,” replied the man in a most musical voice, as he salaamed low. “What does his highness require of his slave Menouni?”

“His highness requires a proof of thy talent, and an opportunity to extend his bounty.”

“I am less than dust, and am ready to cover my head with ashes, not to feel my soul in the seventh heaven at the condescension of his highness; yet would I fain do his bidding and depart, for a vow to the Prophet is sacred, and it is written in the Koran—”

“Never mind the Koran just now, good Menouni; we ask of thee a proof of thy art. Tell me a story.”

“Most proud shall I be of the honour. Will not my face be whitened to all eternity? Shall your slave relate the loves of Leilah and Majnoun?”

“No, no,” replied the pacha; “something that will interest me.”

“Then will I narrate the history of the Scarred Lover.”

“That sounds well, Mustapha,” observed the pacha.

“Who can foresee so well as your sublime highness?” replied Mustapha. “Menouni, it is the pleasure of the pacha that you proceed.”

“Your slave obeys. Your sublime perspicuity is but too well acquainted with geography—?”

“Not that I know of. Hath he ever left his slippers at our threshold, Mustapha?”

“I suspect,” replied Mustapha, “that he goes all over the world, and therefore he must have been here. Proceed, Menouni, and ask not such questions. By virtue of his office, his sublime highness knows everything.”

“True,” said the pacha, shaking his beard with great dignity and satisfaction.

“I did but presume to put the question,” replied Menouni, whose voice was soft and silvery as a flute on a summer’s silent eve, “as, to perfectly understand the part of the world from which my tale has been transmitted, I thought that a knowledge of that science was required: but I have eaten dirt, and am covered with shame at my indiscretion, which would not have occurred, had it not been that the sublime sultan, when I last had the honour to narrate the story, was pleased to interrupt me, from his not being quite convinced that the parts of the world were known to him. But I will now proceed with my tale, which shall go forward with the majestic pace of the camel, proud in his pilgrimage over the desert, towards the shrine of our Holy Prophet.”

In the north-eastern parts of the vast peninsula of India, there did exist a flourishing and extended kingdom, eminent for the beauty of the country, the fertility of the soil, and the salubrity of the climate. This kingdom was bounded on the east by a country named Lusitania, that lies northerly towards the coast of Iceland, so called from the excessive heat of the winter. On the south it was bounded by a slip of land, the name of which has slipped my memory; but it runs into the seas under the dominion of the great chain of Tartary. On the west it is bounded by another kingdom, the name of which I have also forgotten; and on the north by another kingdom, the name of which I do not remember. After this explanation, with your sublime highness’s knowledge, to which that of the sage Lokman was but in comparison as the seed is to the water-melon, I hardly need say that it was the ancient kingdom of Souffra.

“Menouni, you are quite right,” observed the pacha. “Proceed.”

“Fortunate is your slave to stand in the presence of so much wisdom,” continued Menouni, “for I was in doubt; the splendour of your presence had startled my memory, as the presence of the caravan doth the zebra foal of the desert.”

In this delightful kingdom, where the nightingales sang away their existence in their love for the rose, and the roses gave forth their perfume until the air was one continued essence of delight, such as is inhaled by the true believers when they first approach the gates of Paradise, and are enchanted by the beckoning of the houris from the golden walls, there lived a beautiful Hindu princess, who walked in loveliness, and whose smile was a decree to be happy to all on whom it fell; yet for reasons which my tale shall tell, she had heard the nightingale complain for eighteen summers and was still unmarried. In this country, which at that time was peopled by Allah with infidels, to render it fertile for the true believers, and to be their slaves upon their arrival, which did occur some time after the occurrences which I now relate; it was not the custom for the females of Souffra to lead the life of invisibility, permitted only to those who administer to the delights of the followers of the Koran; and although it was with exceeding modesty of demeanour, still did they on great occasions expose their charms to the public gaze, for which error, no doubt if they had had souls, beautiful as they were, they would have been damned to all eternity. Civilisation, as Menou hath said, must extend both far and wide before other nations will be so polished as to imitate us in the splendour, the security, and the happiness of our harems; and when I further remark to your highness—

“Proceed, good Menouni,” interrupted Mustapha, “his highness is not fond of remarks.”

“No, by our beard,” rejoined the pacha; “it is for you to tell your story and for me to make remarks when it is over.”

“I stand in the presence of wisdom,” said Menouni, who bowed low and proceeded.

The beauteous Babe-hi-bobu, for such was the name of the princess, and which in the language of the country implied “the cream-tart of delight,” was left queen of the Souffrarians by the death of her father; and by his will, sworn to by all the grandees of the empire, she was enjoined at twelve years of age to take to herself a husband; but it was particularly expressed that the youth so favoured should be of the same high caste as herself, and without scar or blemish. When, therefore, two years after her father’s death, the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu had attained the age of twelve years, swift runners on foot, and speedy messengers mounted upon the fleetest dromedaries and Arab horses of the purest race, were despatched through all the kingdom of Souffra to make known the injunctions of the will; the news of which at last flew to the adjacent kingdoms, and from them to all the corners of the round world, and none were ignorant. In the kingdom of Souffra, from which the choice was to be made, all the youth of caste were in a state of fermentation, because they had a chance of obtaining the honour; and all those of lower caste were in a state of fermentation, to think they had no chance of obtaining such an honour; and all the women of high caste, or low caste, or no caste, were all in a state of fermentation, because—because—

“Because they always are so,” interrupted the pacha. “Proceed, Menouni.”

“I thank your sublime highness for having relieved me in my case of difficulty; for who can give reasons for the conduct of women?”

It is sufficient to say that the whole country was in a state of fermentation, arising from hope, despair, jealousy, envy, curiosity, surmising, wondering, doubting, believing, disbelieving, hearing, narrating, chattering, interrupting, and many other causes too tedious to mention. At the first intelligence every Souffrarian youth new-strung his mandolin, and thought himself sure to be the happy man. Hope was triumphant through the land, roses advanced to double their price; the attar was adulterated to meet the exorbitant demand, and nightingales were almost worshipped; but this could not last. Doubt succeeded to the empire of hope, when reflection pointed out to them, that out of three millions of very eligible youths, only one could be made happy. But when the counsellors are so many, the decision is but slow; and so numerous were the meetings, the canvassings, the debates, the discussions, the harangues, and the variety of objections raised by the grandees of the country, that at the age of eighteen the beauteous bird of paradise, still unmated, warbled her virgin strain in the loneliness of the royal groves.

“But why,” interrupted the pacha, “why did they not marry her, when there were three millions of young men ready to take her? I can’t understand the cause of six years’ delay.”

The reason, most sublime, was, that the grandees of Souffra were not endowed with your resplendent wisdom, or the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu had not so long languished for a husband. All this delay was produced by doubt, which the poets truly declare to be the father of delay. It was a doubt which arose in the mind of one of the Brahmins, who, when a doubt arose in his mind, would mumble it over and over, but never masticate, swallow, or digest it; and thus was the preservation of the royal line endangered. For years had the aspirants for regal dignity, and more than regal beauty, hovered round the court, each with his mandolin on his arm, and a huge packet of love-sonnets borne behind him by a slave, and yet all was doubt; and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.

“I doubt whether we shall ever come to the doubt,” interrupted the pacha impatiently, “or the princess to a husband.”

The doubt shall now be laid at your excellency’s feet. It was, as to the exact meaning of the words, without scar or blemish, and whether moles were to be considered as scars or blemishes. The Brahmin was of opinion that moles were blemishes, and many others agreed with him; that is, all those who had no moles on their persons were of his opinion; while, on the other hand, those who were favoured by nature with those distinguishing marks, declared that so far from their being scars or blemishes, they must be considered as additional beauties granted by Heaven to those most favoured. The dispute ran high, and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried. This great question was at last very properly referred to the mufti; these sages handled it, and turned it, and twisted it, added to it, multiplied it, subtracted from it, and divided it, debated it fasting, debated it on a full stomach, nodded over it, dreamt on it, slept on it, woke up with it, analysed it, criticised it, and wrote forty-eight folio volumes, of which twenty-four were advocates of, and twenty-four opponents to the question; the only conclusion which they could come to at last was, that moles were moles: and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.