by John Galt
“A description! My dear fellow, you’re not working for the ministry. You promised me a dramatic story; tell it. Above all, don’t wander into descriptions.”
Gaston sighed, and then continued.
“I was approaching the mosque of Tchechel-Sutoun, when at a street corner, I saw a woman in a litter. Usually Persian women in the street look like bundles. They are veiled, of course, or rather they wear on their heads a sort of curtain which covers their faces. This Persian, on the contrary, displayed a slender, graceful figure. Her eyes were large and full of fire. My horse was walking and slowly followed the litter. I fancied that the stranger looked back once or twice, but as flirtations are extremely improbable occurrences in the East, I paid little heed and had nearly forgotten the meeting when, two days later, I again encountered the litter. This time I was not alone. Mehmed Aga was with me. I recognized the veiled lady at a glance, especially her marvellous eyes, whence flashed a beam of lambent flame. As before, she looked back, but for a longer time. I glanced at the sertip, he pretended not to have noticed anything. We moved on in this way for about ten minutes when the litter turned abruptly toward the Djoulffa bridge, one of the finest pieces of architecture in the world. It has thirty huge arches over the Zenderud, a very changeable river. In the summer you may cross it dry-shod; in the month of November, the time when this adventure occurred, its waves were as swift and violent as a torrent leaping from Alpine glaciers. The Djoulffa bridge is a sort of meeting place for people who go out in the cool air of the evening. I hesitated, therefore, to follow my incognita openly, but she had no scruples. Leaning half way out of the litter she dropped her handkerchief. Oh, these Persian women are quick-witted.”
“And did the sertip say nothing?”
“Not at the moment. He kept silent during the rest of our ride, but twisted his moustache as if his thoughts were far away. ‘Come in,’ he said when we reached the palace; and, after we were smoking in his private room, he added:
“‘My dear fellow, I made no comment just now. But instead of keeping that dainty handkerchief pressed close to your heart, you are going to throw it into the fire.’
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘I mean that you are not to be strangled or stabbed, or flung into the Zenderud. I am in charge of the police in this city, and answerable to the French legation.’
“‘But—’
“‘Not another word. You Parisians are the most amazing fellows! You always imagine yourselves on the Boulevard des Capucines. We are in the East, my dear boy, and in the East, husbands do not jest. Your stranger is no stranger to me. Her name is Nissa.’
“‘Nissa!’
“‘If the name is charming the husband is not. He is a very rich merchant, famous for his violent temper and his jealousy. His mother was of English origin, but he is thoroughly Oriental in character. He’d kill you like a dog.’
“‘And what is this Ispahan Bluebeard’s name?’
“‘Astoulla. I don’t wish you to make his acquaintance. But you know where he lives. His house is just on the river brink at the end of the bridge.’
“‘And Nissa, what do people say of her?’
“‘Oh, true Parisian! People don’t talk about women in our country, or if they do—well, they are sewed up in a sack and flung into the water.’
“‘What an outrage!’
“‘Oh, we are civilized now,’ replied the sertip cooly. ‘Formerly a live cat would have been put into the bag, also. Terrified by the water, the cat would tear the woman’s face. This is no longer done—at least, not frequently. The result of European influence!’
“This little conversation was rather a wet blanket on my enthusiasm. Besides, Mehmed Aga had the good taste not to push the subject further. I dined with him and in the evening he sent for some musicians who played several airs for us in the fashion of the country. But my thoughts were preoccupied. I still saw the graceful figure bending from the litter, and the little hand which dropped from the handkerchief. A persistent voice murmured in my ear like the refrain of a ballad: ‘Nissa!—Nissa.’ All night long I suffered from nightmare, in which a huge cat named Astoulla scratched my face. I woke at eleven o’clock in the morning, completely disenchanted.
* * * *
“While sitting on the terrace that evening a hideously ugly old woman entered the low doorway of the house and asked to see me. As soon as we were alone, she said:
“‘Are you a brave man?’
“I smiled with the fatuity peculiar to men who are asked that question.
“‘I have a proposal to make,’ she added. ‘It is dark. No one will see us. You must follow me. When half way, I shall tie a bandage over your eyes, but you must swear not to try to discover where I am taking you.’
“‘I promise.’
“She made a grimace, which rendered her still more frightful. I had consented off hand, urged by an irresistible impulse. Daylight had dispelled my fears, the nightmare had gradually faded from my mind, and I constantly heard the voice murmuring in my ear: ‘Nissa! Nissa!’ The old woman evidently came from her. I went into my room and took a small revolver. Five minutes after we were on our way. It was crazy, utterly absurd, I am perfectly aware of that. But there are some absurdities concerning which we do not reason. The unknown Nissa exerted some mysterious power over me. I had not even seen her, yet I ardently longed for her presence. Her sparkling eyes had fired my heart.
“When we reached the Djoulffa bridge the old woman stopped, and, drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, tied it firmly over my eyes. I could see nothing; then she seized my hand, and I let her lead me. By the cooler air I guessed that we were crossing the river; then I heard the sound of voices at the right and left. It never entered my mind that I might be noticed by these passing pedestrians. I was completely absorbed in my dream, thinking of the young Persian’s graceful figure, delicate little hand, and glowing eyes. After a few minutes’ walk the old woman turned toward the right, but we did not leave the banks of the Zenderud. I heard its tumultuous waves dashing against the arches of the bridge. At last my guide stopped; I heard the creaking of a key, and the old woman said under her breath:
“‘Go up.’
“We mounted only five steps, then my feet pressed a thick, soft carpet. At the same time the bandage was snatched away. I found myself in a somewhat small room, dimly lighted by a copper lamp. Usually, in Persia, the walls are bare. Here, on the contrary, they were draped with yellow cashmere. Perfumes were burning in a brazier—the acrid Oriental perfumes which intoxicate like the fumes of old wine. Against the background of yellow cashmere on the walls hung musical instruments, the nefir which resembles our hautboy, timbals, two kematches, a sort of viol, and, here and there, weapons interspersed with necklaces. Outside was the dull, rhythmic beat of the waves of the river. Drawing aside the portiere, I saw that it washed the very walls of the house. Almost instantly I heard a slight, rustling noise, and turning saw—Nissa. I was fairly dazzled. She was probably seventeen or eighteen. Her thick black hair, falling on her neck and shoulders, reminded one of the raven locks of Regnault’s Salome. Her face, somewhat creamy in tint, resembled mother of pearl, but I was especially struck by the contrast between her dazzling white teeth and very black eyes. The lashes, lids, and lips were painted. She gazed calmly at me with her sparkling eyes, then took my hand and leading me to a sofa, said:
“‘My husband has gone to Teheran; we can have a little fun.’
“She spoke in English, with a marked guttural accent, then tapped with a copper ring on a small drum and coffee was served. Afterwards, she began to talk in low, rapid tones, telling me that she was terribly bored and had noticed me at once. Meanwhile her glances grew more tender, her hand gently pressed mine. Just at that moment there was a noise in the next room. She sprang up, trembling from head to foot. Her graceful advances, the caress, the sudden terror that succeeded each other so rapidly that I had not had time to analyze my own impressions. Still with the same swift,
feline grace, she darted to the wall, snatched a small, sharp dagger, and slipped it up her sleeve. Then, turning to me with an energetic gesture, she whispered, ‘Wait!’ and vanished behind the heavy drapery.
* * * *
“A vague sense of anxiety stole over me. I remembered the sertip’s warnings. Perhaps I had been a little imprudent. Suddenly the noise in the next room commenced again; I heard voices, a short struggle—silence followed. All at once the portiere was raised and Nissa appeared again. She was very pale, so pale that the mother of pearl tints in her complexion blended with the pearl necklace she wore. She stood half leaning against the wall, like a white statue relieved against the yellow background of the drapery. Then she advanced a few paces into the apartment, smiling: her hands and the knife were red.
“‘Great Heavens! What has happened?’
“‘Nothing,’ she replied, flung the knife into a corner, and added quietly:
“‘It was my husband. He would have killed us; I preferred to anticipate him. Come and help me throw the body into the water.’
“I stood motionless, gazing at her in horror. She looked at me, but her eyes expressed the most absolute contempt, and I shall never forget the tone in which she said:
“‘Oh! how nervous these Frenchmen are!’
“Shrugging her shoulders, she called a female servant and told her to open the window. Then, as if they were doing the most everyday thing, the two lifted the corpse and flung it into the water, which swept it away. In truth, the adventure was becoming too Oriental for a Parisian. I confess that I was overwhelmed with frantic terror, and waiting for nothing more, rushed off like a madman. How did I go? I have actually no idea. At the end of ten minutes I found myself again in the city, through which I rushed at full speed as if pursued by a legion of fiends.
“On reaching home I double-locked my door, execrating Nissa and all the houris of the Oriental world.
* * * *
“What a night I spent! I did not sleep until the morning and then fell into a leaden stupor. When I awoke, the sun, already high in the heavens, was pouring floods of light into my room. I felt overwhelmed by a sort of moral paralysis. A man does not disappear without the interference of justice. Nissa did not even conceal her deed; the servant had seen and helped her. I should be implicated in the affair, and the bare thought of being mixed up with such a crime made my hair bristle with horror. Should I confide the whole matter to the French Minister? Unfortunately he had just obtained leave of absence, and the first Secretary of Legation was too young for me to apply to him. In any case my whole future was destroyed. I remained all day a prey to the keenest anxiety, not daring to leave the house. Evening came before I had formed any plan, and still there was no news of Nissa. Had she been arrested? What had become of her? I went to bed early, but could not sleep. The second day, unable to endure the situation longer, I resolved so visit the sertip. Anything would be preferable to the uncertainty in which I was living. I felt sure that Mehmed-Aga would not go out before breakfast, so I reached the palace at noon. I was told that he was in his office as usual and, after being announced, I entered. The sertip was peacefully smoking his chibouque.
“‘Ah, is it you?’ he said. ‘Are you well?’
“‘Very well. thank you.’
“‘By the way,’ he added, ‘have you heard the news?’
“‘The news—the news? No, I—I don’t know anything.’
“‘You remember the rich merchant, Astoulla?’
“‘Remember As—’
“‘Why yes, the husband of Nissa, of whom we were speaking.’
“I felt the blood mount to the roots of my hair. It was all over, the crime was known, and I dared not think of the end of the adventure. I stammered an almost unintelligible ‘yes.’
“‘Poor fellow!’ continued the sertip. ‘He has suddenly disappeared.’
“I felt a curious choking sensation in the throat but managed to answer:
“‘What! he has—he has disappeared? Why! That’s very—very queer.’
“‘Yes, very queer.’
“And the sertip looked intently at me. I could bear his gaze no longer, and was on the point of confessing everything, when he said:
“‘He was going to Teheran, and all at once he vanished. Nothing more has been heard of him.’
“For the second time the sertip looked intently at me. A brief silence followed. Then, puffing a cloud of smoke from his chibouque, he added with the most peaceful tranquility:
“‘God is great!’”
THE DREAM, by John Galt
(1833)
Amidst the mountains of the “north countrie” is an extensive blue lake, on which, at noon, no shadow can be traced; the hills and uplands, by which it is surrounded, all present their brightest sides to its beautiful waters, and, for upwards of an hour, it then appears as a mirror on which the sun shines with peculiar lustre.
The streams, which rush into this crystalline basin, are clear, cool and picturesque; several, on account of their romantic features, are visited by young travelers, and persons accustomed to indulge in the reveries of imagination; but there is one sylvan rivulet more deserving of attention than them all, and which, from its quiet flow and sequestered course, is seldom noticed. From a remote rock leaps in it a south running spring, which, from that circumstance, is much frequented on Hallows-eve by the swains and maidens who dwell in the neighborhood, repairing to its banks to perform its divinations.
The effusion from this natural fountain is mineral and tepid: it sends a slight aromatic fragrance, and possesses the power of producing sleep, in which the dreams are wonderfully consistent with themselves and delightful in their incidents; but it is thought to have some intoxicating quality, and, in consequence, is but seldom tasted.
One summer’s day a shepherd boy, belonging to the adjacent hills, had strayed into the glen in which this forbidden water descends. He was, in many respects, a singular stripling, and had a strange pleasure in lone places, and where, in ancient times poets would have seen nymphs and fauns pursuing their innocent gaieties. His father, a village schoolmaster, had given him the romantic name of Driades, and delighted in filling his fancy with recitals of courtly pageants and fantastical adventures. Thus, without endeavor on the boy’s part, he was unlike the other lads of the village, and yet withal, more gentle, good, and simple, than any of the other boys that might have been his companions.
Driades, finding himself alone in the green hollow where the spring gushed odoriferously from the rock, sat himself down. He had never been there before, and the leaves of the birch and hazel shed into the sultry air their sweetest perfume. On all sides rocks and cliffs and feathery trees hung above him, and no sound molested the calm that breathed there but the falling waters and the occasional call of the merle to her mate. It was a warm and soft day, and all around were images of peace and rest. Confidence was vocal in the bowers, and the genius of the place whispered tranquility to the blameless and unguarded Driades.
Overpowered by his previous journey and the warmth of the day, he approached the enticing waters. He had never heard of their qualities, and, allured by their brightness, drank of them freely; surprised at tasting them tepid, and yet leaping from the rock, he renewed his draught to assure his palate that he was not mistaken. In doing this he discovered their faint and delicious odor, and tasted again and again, until he had inadvertently indulged in a more copious draught than those acquainted with the spring would have ventured to take.
In the course of a few minutes the intoxicating influence of the waters began to prevail, and he stretched himself upon the green sward and surrendered his senses to sleep. The day, the place, and the thoughtlessness of Driades were propitious to his slumber, and he continued, for several hours, in unmolested repose; but late in the afternoon, near the time that the sun was setting, a stranger, who had taken up his abode for a short time on the banks of the lake, happened to explore the untrodden margin of the rill into which the m
edicinal water was flowing. Seeing the entranced youth lying in defenceless sleep in the sylvan dells, he went towards him and awakened him.
Driades, in rising from his couch, stretched out his arms, and yawning with pleasure, reproached the stranger mildly for disturbing a dream, the pleasantest he had ever enjoyed.
Surprised by the look and expression of the boy, the stranger paused beside him, and enquired of what his dream had consisted. After a short explanation they seated themselves together on the embroidered turf, and Driades thus related the story of the vision which had so charmed his slumber:—
“I thought myself,” said Driades, “in a grand and gorgeous metropolitan city; all around me were lofty structures and solemn temples, pinnacles crowned with gold, vast colonnades, stairs and sculptured palaces, triumphal arches and surpassing domes. I beheld objects of wealth and dominion, and on every side I heard the buzz of a great multitude, and saw chariots and horsemen and nobles in all the pomp of honors, antiquity, and power. Presently, from a stupendous portico, heralds and trumpeters issued forth, and, with a flourish, announced the great king: all the crowd of spectators knelt at the sound and in due time, I beheld, after a retinue of officers clothed in oriental splendor, the monarch, borne on a golden throne, into the midst of them. Of the ceremonies then performed, and the decrees he issued, I cannot speak, but the plaudits which his wisdom received were loud and long, and he was hailed by the vast multitude that filled the spacious courts of the palace with demonstrations of praise and joy.
“When this resplendent scene had lasted some time, the king retired into his interior halls; his attendants followed, and the crowd dispersed. All went away, and I was left alone; but at last I too moved from my situation, and began to examine more in detail the edificial grandeur of that Babylonian town: wherever I turned, my sight was perplexed with new wonders; pleasure sparkled in every visage, and methought the New Jerusalem could present no superior splendor and happiness.