“Professor Cutter, I want to speak to you about my aunt,” said Hermione, at last. The professor stopped and looked sharply at her, but said nothing. “Do you remember that morning in the conservatory?” she continued. “You told me that she was very mad indeed, — those were your own words. I did not believe it, and I was triumphant when she came out — in — well, quite in her senses, you know. I thought she had recovered, — I hope she has. But she has very queer ways.”
“What do you mean by queer ways, Miss Carvel? I have come to Constantinople on purpose to see her. I hope there is nothing wrong?”
“I do not know. But I have told nobody what I am going to tell you. I think you ought to be told. My room is next to hers, at the hotel, and I hear through the door what goes on, without meaning to. The other night I came home late from a ball, and she was walking up and down, talking to herself so loud that I heard several sentences.”
“What did she say?” asked Cutter, whose interest was already aroused. The symptom was only too familiar to him.
“She said” — Hermione hesitated before she continued, and the color rose faintly in her cheeks— “she said she wished she could kill Paul — and then” ——
“And then what?” inquired the professor, looking at her steadily. “Please tell me all.”
“It was very foolish. — she said that then Alexander could marry me. It was so silly of her. Just think!”
After all, Professor Cutter was her father’s old friend. She need not have been so long about telling the thing.
“She thinks that you are going to marry Paul?” observed the professor, with an interrogative intonation.
“Well, if I did?” replied the young girl, after a short pause. “If she were in her right mind, would that be any reason for her wishing to murder him?”
“No. But I never believed she was out of danger,” said Cutter. “Did she say anything more?”
Hermione told how Madame Patoff had behaved when she had entered the room. Her companion looked very grave, and said little during the few moments they remained in the gallery. He only promised that he would tell no one about it, unless it appeared absolutely necessary for the safety of every one concerned. Then they descended the steps again and joined Chrysophrasia and Paul, who were waiting below.
“Aunt Chrysophrasia says she must go to the bazaar,” said the latter.
“Yes,” remarked Miss Dabstreak, “I really must. That Jew! Oh, that Jew! He haunts my dreams. I see him at night, dressed like Moses, with a linen ephod, you know, holding up that Persian embroidery. It is more than my soul can bear!”
“But we were going to take Professor Cutter to the other mosques,” objected Hermione.
“I am sure he will not mind if we go to the bazaar instead, will you?” she asked, with an engaging squint of her green eyes, as she turned to the professor.
“Not at all, — not at all, Miss Dabstreak. Anything you propose — I am sure” — ejaculated Cutter, apparently waking from an absorbing meditation upon his thumb-nail, and perhaps upon thumb-nails in general.
“You see how kind he is!” murmured Chrysophrasia, as she got into the carriage. “To the bazaar, Paul. Could you tell the driver?”
Paul could and did. Ten minutes later the carriage stopped at the gate of the bazaar. A dozen Mohammedans, Greeks, and Jews sprang out to conduct the visitors whither they would, — or, more probably, whither they would not. But Paul, who knew his way about very well, fought them off. One only would not be repulsed, and Chrysophrasia took his part.
“Let him come, — pray let him come, Paul. He has such beautiful eyes, such soft, languishing eyes, — so sweetly like those of a gazelle.”
“His name is Abraham,” said Paul. “I know him very well. The gazelle is of Jewish extraction, and sells shawls. He is a liar.”
“Haïr, Effendim — sir,” cried Abraham, who knew a little English. “Him Israeleet — hones’ Jew — Abraham’s name, Effendim.”
“I know it is,” said Paul. “Git!” — an expression which is good Californian, and equally good Turkish.
They threaded the narrow vaulted passages, which were cool in the warm spring afternoon, taking the direction of the Jews’ quarter, but pausing from time to time to survey the thousand articles, of every description, exposed for sale by the squatting shopkeepers. Cutter looked at the weapons especially, and remarked that they were not so good as those which used to be found ten years earlier. Everything, indeed, seemed to have changed since that time, and for the worse. There is less wealth in the bazaar, and yet the desire to purchase has increased tenfold, so that a bit of Rhodes tapestry, which at that earlier time would not have fetched forty piastres, is now sold for a pound Turkish, and is hard to get at that. It may be supposed that the Jews have made large fortunes in the interval, but the fact is not apparent in any way; the uncertainty of property in Turkey forcing them to conceal their riches, if they have any. Their shops are very fairly clean, but otherwise they are humble, and the best and most valuable objects are generally packed carefully away in dark corners, and are produced only when asked for. You see nothing but a small divan, a table, a matted floor, and shelves reaching to the ceiling, piled with packages wrapped in shabby gray linen. It is chiefly in the Mohammedan and Greek “tscharshis” of the bazaar that jewelry, weapons, and pipes are openly exhibited, and laid out upon benches for the selection of the buyer. But the Jews have almost a monopoly of everything which comes under the head of antiquities, and it is with them that foreigners generally deal. They are as intelligent as elsewhere, and perhaps more so, for the traveler of to-day is a great cheapener of valuables. Moreover, the Stamboul Jews are most of them linguists. They speak a bastard Spanish among themselves; they are obliged to know Turkish, Greek, and a little Armenian, and many of them speak French and Italian intelligibly.
Chrysophrasia delighted in the bazaar. The flavor of antiquity which hangs about it, and makes it the only thoroughly Oriental place in Constantinople, ascended gratefully to the old maid’s nostrils, while her nerves were continually thrilled by strange contrasts of color. It was very pleasant, she thought, to be really in the East, and to have such a palpable proof of the fact as was afforded by the jargon of loud but incomprehensible tongues which filled her ears. She had often been in the place, and the Jews were beginning to know her, scenting a bargain whenever her yellow face and yellow hair became visible on the horizon. She generally patronized Marchetto, however, and on the present occasion she had come expressly to see him. He was standing in the door of his little shop as usual, and his red face and red-brown eyes lighted up when he caught sight of Miss Dabstreak. With many expressions of joy he backed into the interior, and immediately went in search of the famous piece of Persian embroidery which Chrysophrasia had admired during her last visit to the bazaar.
“Upon my honor” — began Marchetto, launching into praises of the stuff. Patoff and Hermione stood at the door, but Cutter immediately became interested in the bargain, and handled the embroideries with curiosity, asking all manner of questions of the Jew and of Miss Dabstreak. Somehow or other, the two younger members of the party soon found themselves outside the shop, walking slowly up and down and talking, until the bargain should be concluded.
“I could not go up to the gallery in Santa Sophia,” said Paul. “I am not a nervous person, but it brings the story back too vividly.”
“What does it matter, since he is found?” asked Hermione.
Patoff was struck by the question, for it was too much at variance with his own feelings to seem reasonable. It was not because he preferred to avoid all reminiscence of the adventure that he had stayed below, but rather because he hated to think what the consequences of Alexander’s return had been.
“What does it matter?” he repeated slowly. “It matters a great deal. What happened on that night, two years ago, was the beginning of a whole series of misfortunes. I have had bad luck ever since.”
“Why do you say that?” asked H
ermione, somewhat reproachfully.
“It is true, — that is one reason why I say it. But for that night, my mother would never have been mad. I should never have been sent to Persia, and should not have gone to England during my leave. I should not have met you” ——
“You consider that a terrible misfortune,” observed Hermione.
“It is always a man’s misfortune when he determines to have what is denied him,” answered Paul quietly. “Somebody must suffer in the encounter, or somebody must yield.”
“Somebody, — yes. Why do you talk about it, Paul?”
“Because I think of nothing else. I cannot help it. It is easy to say, ‘Let this or that alone;’ it is another matter to talk to you about the bazaar, and the Turks, and the weather, when we are together.”
Hermione was silent, for there was nothing to be said. She knew how well he loved her, and when she was with him she submitted in a measure to his influence; so that often she was on the point of yielding, and telling him that she no longer hesitated. It was when she was away from him that she doubted herself, and refused to be persuaded. Paul needed only a very little to complete his conquest, but that little he could not command. He had reached the point at which a man talks of the woman he loves or of himself, and of nothing else, and the depth of his passion seemed to dull his speech. A little more eloquence, a little more gentleness, a little more of that charm which Alexander possessed in such abundance, might have been enough to turn the scale. But they were lacking. The very intensity of what he felt made him for the time a man of one idea only, and even the freedom with which he could speak to Hermione about his love for her was a disadvantage to him. It had grown to be too plain a fact, and there was too little left to the imagination. He felt that he wearied her, or he fancied that he did, which amounted to the same; and he either remained tongue-tied, or repeated in one form or another his half-savage ‘I will.’ He began to long for a change in their relations, or for some opportunity of practically showing her how much he would sacrifice for her sake. But in these days there are no lists for the silent knights; there are no jousts where a man may express his declaration of love by tying a lady’s colors to his arm, and breaking the bones of half a dozen gentlemen before her eyes. And yet the instinct to do something of the kind is sometimes felt even now, — the longing to win by physical prowess what it is at present the fashion to get by persuasion.
Paul felt it strongly enough, and was disgusted with his own stupidity. Of what use was it that during so many years he had cultivated the art of conversation as a necessary accomplishment, if at his utmost need his wits were to abandon him, and leave him uncouth and taciturn as he had been in his childhood? He looked at Hermione’s downcast face; at the perfect figure displayed by her tightly fitting costume of gray; at her small hands, as she stood still and tried to thrust the point of her dainty parasol into the crevice between two stones of the pavement. He gazed at her, and was seized with a very foolish desire to take her up in his arms and walk away with her, whether she liked it or not. But just at that moment Hermione glanced at him with a smile, not at all as he had expected that she would look.
“I think we had better go back to the shop,” said she. So they turned, and walked slowly towards the narrow door.
“These Orientals are so full of wonderful imagery!” Chrysophrasia was saying to Professor Cutter as the pair came in. “It is delightful to hear them talk, — so different from an English shopkeeper.”
“Very,” assented the learned man. “Their imagery is certainly remarkable. Their scale of prices seems to be founded upon it, as logarithms depend for their existence on the square root of minus one, an impossible quantity.”
“Dear me! Could you explain that to Marchetto? It might make a difference, you know.”
“I am afraid not,” answered the professor gravely. “Marchetto is not a mathematician; are you, Marchetto?”
“No surr, Effendim. Marchetto very honest man. Twenty-five pounds, lady — ah! but it is birindjí — there is not a Pacha in Stamboul” ——
“You have said that before,” observed the scientist, “Try and say something new.”
“New!” cried Marchetto. “It is not new. Any one say it new, he lie! Old — eski, eski! Very old! Twenty-five-six pounds, lady! Hein! Pacha give more.”
“I fear that the traditions of his race are very strong,” remarked Chrysophrasia, languidly examining the embroidery, a magnificent piece of work, about a yard and a half square, wrought in gold and silver threads upon a dark-red velvet ground; evidently of considerable antiquity, but in excellent preservation. “Paul, dear,” continued Miss Dabstreak, seeing Patoff enter with Hermione, “what would you give for this lovely thing? How hard it is to bargain! How low! How infinitely fatiguing! Do help me!”
“Begin by offering him a quarter of what he asks, — that is a safe rule,” answered Paul.
“How much is a quarter of twenty-five — let me see — three times eight are — do tell me, somebody! Figures drive me quite mad.”
“I have known of such cases,” assented the professor. “Eight and a quarter, Miss Dabstreak. Say eight, — I dare say it will do as well.”
“Marchetto,” said Chrysophrasia sadly, “I am afraid your embroidery is only worth eight pounds.”
The Jew was kneeling on the floor, squatting upon his heels. He put on an injured expression, and looked up at Miss Dabstreak’s face.
“Eight pounds!” he exclaimed, in holy horror. “You know where this come from, lady? Ha! Laleli Khanum house — dead — no more like it.” Marchetto of course knew the story of Alexander’s confinement, and by a ready lie turned it to his advantage. Every one looked surprised, and began to examine the embroidery more closely.
“Really!” ejaculated Chrysophrasia. “How strange this little world is! To think of all this bit of broidered velvet has seen, — what joyous sights! It may have been in the very room where she died. But she was a wicked old woman, Marchetto. I could not give more than eight pounds for anything which belonged to so depraved a creature.”
“Hein?” ejaculated the Jew, with a soft smile. “I know what you want. Here!” he exclaimed, springing up, and rummaging among his shelves. Presently he brought out a shabby old green cloth caftán, trimmed with a little tarnished silver lace, and held it up triumphantly to Chrysophrasia’s sight.
“Twenty-five-six pounds!” he cried, exultingly. “Cheap. Him coat of very big saint-man — die going to Mecca last year. Cheap, lady — twenty-five-six pounds!”
“I think you are fairly caught, aunt Chrysophrasia,” observed Paul, with a laugh.
“Who would have guessed that there was so much humor in an Israelite?” asked Chrysophrasia, with a sad intonation. “I cannot wear the saint’s tea-gown, Marchetto,” she continued; “otherwise I would gladly give you twenty-five pounds for it. Eight pounds for the embroidery, — no more. It is not worth so much. I even think I see a nauseous tint of magenta in the velvet.”
“Twenty-four-five pounds, lady. I lose pound — your backsheesh.”
How long the process of bargaining might have been protracted is uncertain. At that moment Balsamides Bey entered the shop. It appeared that he had called at the Carvels’, and, being told that the party were in Stamboul, had gone straight to the Jew’s shop, in the hope of finding them there. He was introduced to the professor by Paul, with a word of explanation. Marchetto’s face fell as he saw the adjutant, who had a terribly acute knowledge of the value of things. Balsamides was asked to give his opinion. He examined the piece carefully.
“Where did you get it?” he asked, in Turkish.
“From the Validé Khan,” answered the Jew, in the same language. “It is a genuine piece, — a hundred years old at least.”
“You probably ask a pound for every year, and a backsheesh for the odd months,” said the other.
“Twenty pounds,” answered Marchetto, imperturbably.
“It is worth ten pounds,” remarked Balsamides,
in English, to Miss Dabstreak. “If you care to give that, you may buy it with a clear conscience. But he will take three weeks to think about it.”
“To bargain for three weeks!” exclaimed Chrysophrasia. “Oh, no! It takes my whole energy to bargain for half an hour. The lovely thing, — those faint, mysterious shades intertwined with the dull gold and silver, — it breaks my heart!”
Marchetto was obdurate, on that day at least, and with an unusually grave face he began to fold the embroidery, wrapping it at last in the inevitable piece of shabby gray linen. The party left the shop, and threaded the labyrinth of vaulted passages towards the gate. Cutter was interested in Gregorios, and asked him a great many questions, so that Chrysophrasia felt she was being neglected, and wore her most mournful expression. Paul and Hermione came behind, talking a little as they walked. They reached the bridge on foot, and, paying the toll to the big men in white who guard the entrance, began to cross the long stretch of planks which unites Stamboul with Pera. The sun was already low. Indeed, Marchetto had kept his shop open beyond the ordinary hour of closing, which is ten o’clock by Turkish time, two hours before sunset, and the bazaar was nearly deserted when they left it.
Paul and Hermione stopped when they were halfway across the bridge, and looked up the Golden Horn. Great clouds were piled up in the west, behind which the sun was hidden, and the air was very sultry. A dull light, that seemed to cast no shadows, was on all the mosques and minarets, and down upon the water the air was thick, and the boats looked indistinct as they glided by. The great useless men-of-war lay as though water-logged in the heavy, smooth stream, and the flags hung motionless from the mastheads.
The two stood side by side for a few moments and said nothing. At last Paul spoke.
“It is going to rain,” he said, in an odd voice.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 293