The grasp of the Sultan

Front matter

=) Wy

BY ig

The anonymous author of this absorbing novel writes with an intimate knowledge of harem life, and every detail rings true.

Contents

THE MAN FROM THE GUTTER .. .

BA. Loe oe MODI o/ shyt e 6) ele te « ADAMS HEARS A SOB s/w we siles ‘*THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE”? , wet UL FIRS. DAYS 5 el salllelins

THE GREAT MAGICIAN OF STAMBOUL

Chapter I The Man From The Gutter

It was a tiny coffee-house on a side street off Kara-kuey, and not more than half an hour’s walk from the Bridge of Galata. It was made of plain, unpainted boards, to which time and smoke had given a coating of black. Its sole ornament was a pergola, over which luxuriated a grapevine, the hard, green fruit hanging down into space. The pergola extended over the whole sidewalk, obviously meant for pedestrians; but the cafedji was a Turk, and ignored the rights of pedestrians. He appropriated the sidewalk with the same air of ownership as did the shadow of his grapevine. A dozen low, rustic stools filled the sidewalk, for the convenience of the patrons of the coffee-house, and to the inconvenience of all others, who on muddy days were forced to go out into the mud, ankle-deep.

I

No one complained. People in Turkey rarely do. Besides, the patrons of the coffee-house were the formidable carriers of Constantinople. Thus, no one interfered, and the cafedji and his grapevine spread themselves unhampered over

the sidewalk. .

It was the midday hour, the hour in which the little café was most busy in extending its hospitality. All the stools were taken. The ample bloomers of the carriers overfilled the straw seats. ‘The long, many-colored stockings, the bright kerchiefs twined around the red fezes, and the gold and silver thread with which the carriers’ short jabots were embroidered made the portion of the sidewalk underneath the pergola very picturesque and very Oriental. They are fastidious and dandified, these giants from Anatolia, who wear their clothes with such a debonair grace, and always have love exploits to relate to one another.

Just now, at the midday hour, they were at their ease. No power and no sum of money could make them work between twelve and two. Some were eating their luncheon of half a loaf of bread, garnished with sliced onions, tomatoes,

Mii awa, Obl r SOLAN and oil, with abundant salt and pepper. Others, having done with eating, were smoking their narghilés in a contemplative manner; while still others were playing at backgammon. In the street, upward of twenty dogs were lying contentedly, their heads buried in their front paws, fast asleep. Men and dogs made a perfect picture of life at its quietest and most peaceful — innocent of any rude feelings.

Down the road came a shabbily dressed young Englishman. ‘The scene evidently appealed to him; for he stopped a few yards away to contemplate it. Presently one of the carriers, an Armenian, reached up, took a grape, and, with careful aim, threw it at the head of a dog.

The animal raised his head, looked about him, and then fell back into his former position. The Armenian laughed. His co-religionists sitting around him — for each religion in Turkey naturally congregates by itself — laughed also.

The Armenian took another grape, and with the same precision threw it at the same dog.

The dog raised his head again, gave a plaintive growl, and again lay down. The Armenians laughed again, and the thrower reached for a third grape.

“Let him alone!” said a Turkish carrier.

The Armenian paid no attention to the words, but threw his grape as before.

“TI told you to let him alone,” repeated the Turk.

“So you did,” the Armenian assented, with exaggerated deliberation reaching up for another grape.

In other parts of the Turkish Empire an Armenian would instantly have obeyed the Turk; but here at Galata, where the strongest of them congregated, they often stood up for themselves.

“Well, I said, ‘Let the dog alone,’” repeated the ‘Turk, the quiet contemplation gone from his eyes.

All the carriers became attentive. Those who were still eating gulped down their food; those who were smoking took the markoutches out of their mouths; and those who were playing backgammon stopped with the dice in their fingers.

The Armenian, for answer, reached for another grape. He had not time to pluck it. With

DAE GRASP: OF THE SULTAN a swift movement, the Turk snatched up the stool he was sitting on, and threw it at the head of the Armenian, with the same precision which had characterized the latter.

The scene changed.

All the men were on their feet — and all the dogs, too.

The peaceful street was a battlefield.

The Armenians sprang to the left — the Turks to the right. They faced one another man to man. There were some Turks left over, and they remained under the pergola, watching. :

Each man fought his man alone, and the dogs were spontaneously fighting among themselves and among the legs of the men. One of the most wonderful sights of Constantinople is a fight among the carriers. It is as superb as it is rare. These giants, who think nothing of carrying a piano on their backs, practice wrestling and boxing every day, and when they come toa real fight, they bring to it the same tactics and the same skill that they bring to their games, nor do they ever resort to unfair methods.

The shabby young Englishman was fascinated by the spectacle of sheer physical magnificence before him. Lithe and alert, he stood tense as an umpire at a football game, absorbed in watching the contestants in this well-organized battle. So intent was he that he did not notice the approach of an older Englishman, dressed in Turkish naval attire, his breast covered with medals. The latter glanced from the fighting carriers to his shabby young countryman, and something in the lean, clean-cut face carried the older man far away into the past — a remote past, but one which had helped to carve his present; for the face of the young man was the face of the woman who had preferred another to him, and because of her Arthur Manlove had left the navy and his country, had roamed around the earth, and had ended by becoming a Turkish admiral.

The fight came to an end, the Armenians having got the better of the Turks, one of whom was left lying on the ground, evidently badly injured. The young Englishman stepped quickly to the side of the prostrate man, and with deft fingers began to examine his hurt. Ignorant of the language, he instinctively looked about for an interpreter, and found his fellow countryman at his side.

“T say, can you tell them to get a bandage, and some sort of antiseptic?” he asked. “If they can, I canfix him up. I’ve done quite a bit of amateur doctoring, first and last.”

Manlove did as he was requested, and in a few minutes the patient was skillfully bandaged, and seemed little the worse for his encounter.

_ “That was a ripping fight,” the young Englishman said. “Will you tell these chaps I never saw anything finer in my life?”

The carriers’ were childishly pleased with the stranger’s praises, and the wounded man begged his excellency to tell the young Englishman that he had nothing with which to repay him except his two arms; but if he ever needed them, his, Kipruli Ali’s, were at his service.

“You had better write that name down,” counseled Manlove Pasha. “It’s a great piece of luck, and not to be despised, if you intend to stay here any length of time.”

The younger Englishman drew from the pocket of his shabby suit an old notebook, and wrote down, not only the name of the man, but some directions by which he could find him. The carriers, meanwhile, had ordered coffee and sweetmeats, and begged the two foreigners to do them the honor of partaking of them. The bemedaled Englishman accepted the invitation at once, and the other followed his example. Having tasted the sweetmeats and drunk the coffee, they rose and bade their hosts good-bye.

“May I go your way?” asked Manlove _ Pasha of his young compatriot, as they left the carriers.

“T don’t know which way I am going,” the other replied. |

“Pardon me if I seem intrusive,’ Manlove Pasha persisted, “but though you do not know me, I know you —or, at least, I knew your family, and I have known your mother very well, indeed. From your resemblance to her, you must be the son of Lady Eunice —”

“Stop!” cried the younger man. “My name is Burton Adams.”

“It is immaterial to me what you call yourself. But you are in a strange land, which is not strange to me, and I offer you my hospitality.

My name is Arthur Manlove. Where are you Staying?”

“T landed to-day,” the other answered egruffly.

Arthur Manlove had not for many years seen the woman for whose sake he had expatriated himself, but he had kept in touch with her life, and even after her death had taken an interest in the three sons she had left. The two elder had inherited the hard rectitude of their father: between them and the youngest — the image of his mother — there had never been sympathy. After the mother’s death there had been misunderstandings, quarrels, and, as a black sheep, he had been turned adrift. Only recently Manlove’s sister had written him that Lionel was supposed to have died somewhere in the Far Kast. Yet here he now stood in the flesh. Manlove Pasha had not the slightest doubt of his identity — the vehemence with which the young man had stopped him before he finished his mother’s name was proof enough, if confirmation were needed.

Lionel Deguerney had, indeed, been a black sheep. After the last quarrel with his father, he had left his home, vowing never to reénter it; and then, by easy gradations, he had landed in the gutter. Fortunately for him, instead of becoming a part of it, its smell nauseated him and brought him to his senses. His manliness and his British doggedness awoke at the same time, and he resolved to climb out of the gutter. It did not take him long to discover the vast difference between sliding down and climbing up. In fact, he soon realized that it was easier for those to climb up who had never rolled down than for those who had once been on the heights and had acquired a bad name. Perhaps so much energy is spent in rolling down that little is left for climbing up again. Then he resolved at least to walk on the clean roadway till chance offered him an opportunity to rise again. At this time he changed his name to Burton Adams.

Adams was surprised, almost resentful, that this uniformed Englishman should have recognized him. He had learned that rolling into the gutter changes a man beyond the power of recognition of many of his polite friends.

“Tf no other engagement claims you, dine with me at Ghanni’s,”’ Manlove Pasha said.

“You will find it easily — on the Grande rue de Péra.”

Adams hesitated. From most of his one-time friends he would have refused the invitation on the spot; but Manlove’s manner was so entirely lacking in condescension that he felt an unwonted impulse to accept it. A surge of loneliness swept over him, and an intolerable longing for a few words with some one connected with his former life. And then Manlove, he knew, had been something of a rolling stone himself, though he had always rolled on the level. »

, “My clothes —” muttered Adams.

“Pooh! They’re good enough to consort with this old uniform of mine. You’ll come?”

Adams nodded and turned quickly away.

That evening Manlove gave him a good dinner, with good wine and good cigars. He treated him, not as a black sheep, but as if Adams still held the position he once had held. He asked no embarrassing questions. Only over the excellent Turkish coffee, he inquired casually : —

“What are you doing now?”

It was so many months since the fallen

Il gentleman had been decently treated that he was touched. Before he knew it, he laid bare his whole life to his new-found friend.

Manlove heard him out in sympathetic silence. At the end he said: —

“‘T may be able to help you a bit, if you will let me.”

There have been Englishmen in Turkey of whom the world has known little, who have had considerable to do with the shaping of the destinies of that empire. One of these was Arthur Manlove, to whom was due whatever efficiency the navy of the Sultan possessed. For the time being he was honored with a share of that monarch’s suspicious confidence.

“Would you like to be a kind of tutor to a number of boys?”? Manlove went on.

“T was two years at Oxford,” Adams stammered, “‘but I can’t say I distinguished myself. I never was much of a hand at books, you know. What should I have to teach them?”

Manlove smiled. “Only plain English, and some riding and driving.”

Adams’s face lighted. Horseflesh was something he understood.

“They are Turkish boys,” Manlove continued. He had been speaking in low tones; he dropped his voice still lower as he went on: ‘They are the Ottoman imperial princes, and are virtual prisoners, you know. They ride and drive within the precincts of the palace gardens; and the general scheme of their education is to teach them as little as possible. How do you think you would like the post?”

Englishmen are supposed to be stolid and unemotional, but the man who chose to call himself Burton Adams felt a tightness in his throat as he said in a husky voice: —

“You would be willing to answer for me?” -

“TI know the blood, and when it’s fit, I’d wager considerable on its running true. You have been out of form for some time, but you look as if you were coming around right, now.” Manlove held out his hand, rather as one who seeks than as one who bestows a favor. “Shall we shake hands on that?” he asked.

Burton Adams placed his calloused hand in the well-kept hand of the other; and thus it came to pass that the one-time younger son of a noble house, and the later vagabond adrift, presented himself at the palace for the position of glorified groom and unglorified tutor to the imperial household.

When Manlove took him there, Burton Adams had little in common with the man who had stood and watched the street brawl, only a few days before. He had responded not so much to good baths and good clothes as to the trust a man of his class had placed in him.

The head eunuch received them and studied the proposed tutor quite openly. Then he nodded to Manlove.

The older Englishman touched the shoulder of his friend.

“You have just passed the hardest examination you ever tried, old chap.” Turning to the powerful official, he added: “You will be good to my friend, won’t you, Lala Sheddin?”

The eunuch gave a broad grin. “It all de pends, your excellency,” he answered. “And now I will take charge of your friend. Good-bye!”

““Good-bye!” said Manlove, and with a grip of Adams’s hand, he added: “‘Come to see me when you are able to leave the palace.”

Chapter II Bayazet’s Mother

In a sumptuous room of the imperial haremlik, in the Sultan’s palace, a heap of silken materials lay on a divan. In that heap was Kizatesh Sultana, mother of Prince Bayazet. She had lain thus for hours, ever since dawn, ° ever since she had awakened and found the nest of her little son empty — her son who had been taken away from her while she had been asleep, by the command of his father, the Sul- ’ tan of Turkey. It was a barbarous act, and the enormity of it left her stunned. Her sorrow was dumb: it had crushed her.

Two young slaves suddenly entered the room, prostrated themselves before their mistress, and announced: “'The Padishah!”’

The heap of silken materials moved, and from it rose and stood, trembling like a reed, holding her face hidden in her hands, a small, delicately built woman.

The Padishah entered, and the slaves, crouching on their hands and knees, left the room.

The Sultan of Turkey came near the woman. “Well?” he asked.

He received no reply.

“How dost thou like thy empty arms?”

The woman remained silent.

“Dost thou understand that Bayazet, thy son, has been taken away from thee — forever?”

The delicate frame shook a little more, but the woman remained silent, her face always hidden in the small, white hands.

“Thou knowest that thou canst have Bayazet back, if thou wishest.”

No answer.

The Shadow of Allah on Earth waited, intently watching the little figure before him, which was lost in the ample and costly imperial garments. It was several days since he had seen her proud, disdainful face. He took a step nearer her, and touched her on the shoulder. She only shivered.

“Kizatesh Sultana, I wish to see thy face to-day. I command thee to show me thy face.”

She dropped her hands, and raised her small head, though her eyes were cast downward. He noticed that the face was not tear-stained.

“‘T wish thee to raise thine eyes to mine.”

She obeyed. They were dark and deep, and full of thoughts.

“T used to think that thou didst love thine only child. Was I mistaken?”

It was as if the shadow from a cloud passed over the mobile and sensitive face. Otherwise one might have thought that she had not heard him. ©: “Thou understandest that he has been taken away from thee — never to be returned?”

A tightening of her lips, and that was all.

Because she bore her misery with pride, the Sultan desired her the more. * “Thou dost not love thy master — thou dost not love thine only son! Art thou a woman, or some fleshless djinn? If thou continuest in thy obstinacy, if thou openly defiest me, I shall treat thee as no wife at all — and give thee to whomsoever I choose, as a woman.”

A flush spread over the pale face. ‘The law of the holy Koran protects me, Padishah. I am the mother of a living imperial prince. I cannot be given away.”

Her voice was low and musical, yet in it one felt that the woman had both character and strength.

“Thou art the mother of an imperial prince, to-day, — living —” He shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand.

A spasm shook the frail body of the woman. She clasped her hands tightly together. Her eyes held his entreatingly. “You will not — Be merciful! Be merciful!”

He laughed. It was the laugh of the strong, who felt that he could whip the weak into obedience. He moved away and stretched himself on a divan.

“Why shouldst thou implore for mercy — thou, of all women?”

She hid her face in her hands.

The Sultan laughed again. “Thou preferrest to beg as a mendicant — rather than to bestow as a sultana: to be of those who receive alms, rather than to be able to give riches?”

.“T gave you all I had, my lord.”

“T wish thee to give me thy love.”

“Love is a gift from Allah, O Calif of the Faithful. It is Allah who puts it into the breast of a woman for her to give. He has put none into my heart. How can I be greater than Allah, and give what he has forgotten to give me?”

“Come here!”? He repeated the command twice before she obeyed him. ‘‘Come and kneel here by my couch.”

She knelt. |

The Sultan drew her close to him. “Hast thou never loved me — never — never?”

‘So many women have loved you —so many women do love you, O Padishah — whose beauty is wonderful. What matters, Lord of this Earth, the love of a woman such as [?”

*““T want it. Look at me!”’

She obeyed.

“Give me thy lips.”

She became rigid, and he, watching her face, saw her expression change, saw her face harden.

“‘Give me thy lips,” he repeated.

In spite of her obedient attitude, her teeth snapped viciously over her lips.

“Thou hatest me, woman, and I can crush thee as I can crush an ant.”

“T do not hate you, lord, for you are Bayazet’s father. In the love I have for him, I also love you. How can I hold him in my arms and hate you — his father? How can I give him my tenderness, unless a part of it is for you? I love you in your son, and this is the only love Allah has given me for you.”

_ “So you love Bayazet. Very well.” He rose, a sardonic smile on his lips. “‘Rise!”? he commanded.

She obeyed him.

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. He spoke very slowly: —

““T have many sons, and many more can be born to me. What is one, more or less, to me?”

“Padishah! Little Bayazet is yours, since he drew life from your life. Because a mere woman has not known how to please you, you will not hurt what is preciously your own! You will not cut a small but rare blossom from your own tree!”? Her voice was rich in its anguish. It thrilled him to hear it.

He eagerly watched the play of emotions on her delicate face. It pleased him, because it excited him. For the first time since she had been his wife was he fully aware why he desired her above every other one of his wives. It was because she roused him from his apathy: she gave a variety to his love for women. All others had bowed and acquiesced. She alone fearlessly proclaimed that there was no love in her heart for him.

' It was a new experience for the great potentate. No longer a leader of his own armies; a prisoner in his own palace; denied all sports to exercise his man’s faculties, — she alone had changed the terrible routine of his life. She was his sport. He laughed again; he meant to play the game to the limit, and derive from it all the satisfaction he could, since the love he wished was denied him. He would hunt her spirit and her courage, play with her heart and torture it, since it would not give him joy. Exquisitely Oriental, he knew neither mercy nor pity.

‘Have I not shown I could defy the law by taking Bayazet away from thee, at his age?” he asked gravely, as if seeking information.

- “Surely my lord will give the child back to his mother!” 21

**As I took the baby away from the mother, so I may hand the mother over to another man — if it please me.”

“A woman is but a small thing in this world, my lord; but at least she has power over her own life.”

‘Art thou threatening?”

“No, Padishah, only my thoughts made themselves audible.”? She crossed her hands over her breast, and slowly went on: “Because Allah meant that your son Bayazet should come to life, he created me. There are flowers with but one blossom. I am such a one.” She bowed very low before him. “Now that you have the blossom, my lord, you may crush the flower, but spare the blossom.”

‘Thou speakest well, my beautiful Kizatesh, but the great Allah gives the power of deciding to his representative on earth. As such I choose that thy son shall be taken away from thee; and” — he pursed up his lips judicially — “since thou defiest the wishes of thy lord, thou shalt furthermore be given to another man. I shall take some thought as to who that man shall be.”

With these words and a graceful wave of his hand — as if favorably dismissing some petitioner— he went from the room. She remained behind, motionless, her eyes closed, her hands loosely clasped. After many minutes a spasm passed over her. She opened her eyes and raised them to the ceiling. Slowly she outstretched her arms, palms upward, and in this darkest and most desperate hour of her life, she turned to him whom she called Allah. She prayed that he might guide her, might show her the road she must take, which she could not see because of the darkness all around her. ‘There must be a way, great Allah, there must be one. It cannot be that thou leavest thy child in darkness. Show me the way, Lord of Eternity, show me the way, so that I may do as thou wishest!”’

After her prayer, a certain peace descended upon her. Slowly she went to the latticed window and sat by it, and watched what she could see of the blue sky. ‘There, beyond it, lived the great Allah, far above his children of the earth, yet never forgetting that he was their heavenly father. Now and again, as from a child who has ceased to weep, a sob escaped her, but when it came, it contained the name of Allah.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman old and wrinkled entered. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and a large apron covered her entirely. At her entrance the room was filled with an overpowering perfume.

“My sultana, will you come now and see? The perfume is nearly perfect.”

Kizatesh Sultana slowly turned her attention from the sky to the woman, but made no other movement.

“Come, my sweetest sultana, come and see. It has never risen to such a beautiful foam as it has to-day.”

Kizatesh Sultana sighed. ‘No, I do not wish to come. I have no heart for perfumes to-day.”

The old hanoum took a couple of rapid strides and planted herself in front of her mistress, astonishment and indignation depicted on her countenance.

“You do not care to come? You have no heart for perfumes?”

“Please, Melek, not to-day.”

“You will find your heart while looking into the perfume,” the old woman said with deep reproach. “No matter how troubled you may be, you cannot neglect your perfume. Remember, Kizatesh Sultana, your perfume is you— the best in you — the you that attracts. Did I not work for over ten years to bring together this combination? And then did I not keep it a secret, until I should find one most suited to it? Three years I waited, and on the day of your marriage, when your foster mother asked me if I could produce a perfume that would express you, did I not cry out at once: ‘I have it!’ And was it not the most wonderful circumstance to learn afterwards that I had dreamed about it the very year you were born? There is not another of the sultanas who has such a perfume. They have all tried to bribe me to give them the recipe. They think it is your perfume that makes you so dear to the Commander of the Faithful.”

Kizatesh Sultana started. If it was her perfume that enthralled the Sultan, then instantly she would discard it. But she remembered that the Sultan had chosen her before 25 this perfume had been hers. She was glad of this, for her perfume is much to the woman of the East. Among the women favored by fortune, the acquisition of a personal perfume is one of the great events of life. She who produces such a perfume is given an honored place in the household, and never divulges the secret of its making till her end approaches. On her death-bed she will confide the recipe as a valued legacy to her dearest friend.

Kizatesh Sultana rose — wearily, it is true, yet she rose. “Let us go, then.”

They walked down a long hall to the perfume room. Melek unlocked it, and they entered, while the two eunuchs who had guarded the door of the sultana followed, and stationed themselves outside. The perfume room was fitted up like a chemist’s. A tall iron tripod, filled with burning charcoal, stood in the middle of the room. On the embers sat a polished vessel containing an iridescent, green liquid. The two women stood reverently watching its bubbling contents. A wonderful emerald green was the predominating color, but tremors of gold and red and aqua-marine shot through it, as the aurora borealis shoots through the summer night.

Kizatesh Sultana had no thought now except for the precious liquid in the pot. “Do you think the bubbles have enough of the blue?” she asked.

The older woman leaned forward and peered into the pot. “ Just watch till the red begins to strive for the upper hand,” she said excitedly. “In a minute, now, you will see the perfect blue.”

Tensely they waited, till the bubbles began to come more thickly, rising up in' the middle, and scuttling to the sides of the pot, the red and the blue seeming to fight for the mastery in the iridescent surface, until it broke.

“Yes, it is perfect,” the sultana admitted, delighted as a child. With keen pleasure she inhaled the powerful yet delicate perfume. Melek was right, the perfume gave her heart, its essence expressed her individuality, and in its iridescence were the colors she always wore. Her gown was a soft satin of the emerald green, while the gold and blue and red formed the embroideries on it,