The Pacha of Many Tales. Фредерик Марриет

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СКАЧАТЬ it with tears of gratitude to heaven, mingled with the fond yearnings of a father’s heart.

      It saved my life; for the next day a small caravan arrived, which was bound to Cairo. The merchants treated me with great kindness, tied me on one of the camels, and I once more embraced my family, whom I had never thought to see again. Since that I have been poor, but contented—I deserved to lose all my property for my wickedness; and I submit with resignation to the will of Allah.

      And now I trust that your highness will acknowledge that I was justified in making use of the expression, that “Happy was the man who could at all times command a crust of bread!”

      “Very true,” observed the pacha; “that’s not a bad story: Mustapha, give him five pieces of gold, and allow him to depart.”

      The camel-driver quitted the divan, prostrating himself before the pacha, and overjoyed at the fortunate termination of what had threatened so much danger. The pacha was silent for a little while, during which he puffed his pipe—when he observed:—

      “Allah kebur, God is most powerful! That man has suffered much—and what has he to show for it?—a green turban.—He is a hadjy; I never thought that we should have heard so good a story about a ‘crust of bread.’ His description of the simoom parched up my entrails. What think you, Mustapha, cannot a true believer go to Heaven without a visit to the tomb of the Prophet?”

      “The holy Koran does not say otherwise, your highness, it inculcates that all who can, should do so, as the path will be rendered easier. Min Allah! God forbid! Has your highness ever had the time to go to Mecca, and is not your highness to go to Heaven?”

      “Very true, Mustapha, I never had time. In my youth I was busy shaving heads: after that, Wallah! I had enough to do, splitting them; and now am not I fully occupied in taking them off? Is it not so, Mustapha; are not these the words of truth?”

      “Your highness is all wisdom. There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet; and when the latter said, that a visit to the holy shrine would be a passport to heaven, it was intended to employ those who were idle, not to embarrass true believers who work hard in the name of the Most High!”

      “Min Allah! God forbid! the case is clear,” replied the pacha, “why, if every body were to go to Mecca what then, Mustapha?”

      “Your highness—it is the opinion of your slave, if such were to take place, that all the fools would have left the country.”

      “Very true, Mustapha; but my mouth is parched up with the sand of that simoom—sherbet I cannot drink, rakee I must not, the hakim has forbid it; what must it be then, Mustapha?”

      “Hath the holy Prophet forbidden wine to true believers in case of sickness; is not your highness sick; was the wine of Shiraz given by Allah to be thrown away? Allah karim! God is most merciful; and the wine was sent that true believers might, in this world, have a foretaste of the pleasures awaiting them in the next.”

      “Mustapha,” replied the pacha taking his pipe out of his mouth, “by the beard of the holy Prophet, your words are those of wisdom. Is a pacha to be fed on water-melons? Staffir Allah! do we believe the less, because we drink the wine? Slave, bring the pitcher. There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet.”

      “The words of the Prophet, your highness, are plain he says. ‘True believers drink no wine,’ which means, that his followers are not to go about the streets, drunken like the Giaours of Franguistan, who come here in their ships. Why is wine forbidden? because it makes men drunk. If then we are not drunk, we keep within the law. Why was the law made? Laws cannot be made for all; they must therefore be made for the control of the majority—Is it not so? Who are the majority? Why the poor. If laws were made for the rich and powerful, such laws would not suit the community at large. Mashallah! there are no laws for pachas, who have only to believe that there is one God and Mahomet is his prophet. Does your slave say well?”

      “Excellently well, Mustapha,” replied the pacha, lifting the pitcher to his mouth for a minute, and then passing it to Mustapha. “Allah karim! God is most merciful! your slave must drink; is it not the pleasure of your highness? As the wine poured down the throat of your highness, pervades through your whole frame to the extremities, so does your slave participate in your bounty. Do I not sit in your sublime presence? Can the sun shine without throwing out heat; therefore if your highness drink, must not I drink? Allah acbar! who shall presume not to follow the steps of the pacha?” So saying, Mustapha lifted up the pitcher, and for a minute, it was glued to his lips.

      “I think that story should be written down,” observed the pacha, after a pause of a few moments.

      “I have already given directions, your highness, and the Greek slave is now employed about it, improving the language to render it more pleasing to the ears of your sublime highness, should it be your pleasure to have it read to you on some future day.”

      “That is right, Mustapha; if I recollect well, the caliph Haroun used to command them to be written in letters of gold, and be deposited in the archives: we must do the same.”

      “The art no longer exists, your highness.”

      “Then we must be content with Indian-ink,” replied the pacha, lifting the pitcher to his mouth, and emptying it. “The sun will soon be down, Mustapha, and we must set off.”

      Volume One–Chapter Two

      The pacha called for coffee, and in a few minutes, accompanied, as before, by Mustapha and the armed slaves, was prowling through the city in search of a story-teller. He was again fortunate, as, after a walk of half an hour, he overheard two men loudly disputing at the door of a small wine-shop, frequented by the Greeks and Franks living in the city, and into which many a slave might be observed to glide, returning with a full pitcher for the evening’s amusement of his Turkish master, who, as well as his betters, clandestinely violated the precepts of the Koran.

      As usual he stopped to listen, when one of the disputants exclaimed—“I tell thee, Anselmo, it is the vilest composition that was ever drunk: and I think I ought to know, after having distilled the essence of an Ethiopian, a Jew, and a Turk.”

      “I care nothing for your distillations, Charis,” replied the other, “I consider that I am a better judge than you: I was not a monk of the Dominican order for fifteen years, without having ascertained the merit of every description of wine.”

      “I should like to know what that fellow means by distilling people,” observed the pacha, “and also why a Dominican monk should know wine better than others, Mustapha, I must see those two men.”

      The next morning the men were in attendance, and introduced; when the pacha requested an explanation from the first who had spoken. The man threw himself down before the pacha, with his head on the floor of the divan, and said,—“First promise me, your highness, by the sword of the Prophet, that no harm shall result to me from complying with your request; and then I shall obey you with pleasure.”

      “Mashallah! what is the kafir afraid of? What crimes hath he committed, that he would have his pardon granted before he tells his story?” said the pacha to Mustapha.

      “No crime toward your state, your sublime highness; but when in another country, I was unfortunate,” continued the man; “I cannot tell my story, unless your highness will condescend to give your promise.”

      “May it please your highness,” observed Mustapha, “he asserts his crime to have been committed in another state. It may be heavy, and I suspect ’tis murder;—but although we watch the flowers which ornament our gardens, СКАЧАТЬ