Chapter IX: Literature and Politics

“I have made the acquaintance of your old friend,” Charlie said to Cecil a few Sundays after this conversation.

“Oh, you mean Dr Yehudi,” said she. “How do you like him?”

“My Western mind admires him extremely, because he is so tremendously in earnest, but my Eastern mind is disgusted by his restlessness. Why can’t he let people alone? He must always be attacking some one’s cherished beliefs or pet foibles. If I was really an Eastern, I suppose I should regard him as a prophet, and become a disciple. But I really do believe there is something in it.”

“Something in what?” asked Cecil.

“Well--in the conversion of Jews, in spite of the thousand pounds. Old Yehudi is such a splendid fellow--with his power and talents he might have done almost anything if he had remained a Jew, but he has given it all up, and the way the Jews here hate him for it! He has a fascination for them, though; they go and argue with him by the hour, and then leave the house tearing their clothes and calling down curses upon him. But he’s awfully good to them, and the Moslems respect him tremendously. He seems to do a great deal of good in one way and another, but I can’t help thinking he would do better as a medical man. It must be a hopeless kind of work preaching to a set of poor wretches so horribly afflicted as some of them are.”

“Why don’t you offer to go and help him?” asked Cecil.

Charlie looked confused.

“How did you know?” he said. “Of course I can’t give up my time to anything of the kind now, but I did say something to him one day about throwing up this place and working under him. What do you think he said to me? He looked me over very slowly, and said, ‘My goot yong friend, you are what we call a rolling stone, never staying long in one place. In the Missions this is as bad as in the worldly affairs. Let me see you staying where you are for five years, working faithfully under the goot Balio Bey, and then come to me again.’ That was rather rough on me, wasn’t it? I wonder how he knew that Sir Dugald and I didn’t exactly hit it?”

“He knows Sir Dugald, and he is beginning to know you,” said Cecil; “and by his putting it in that way, he meant to show that it was not Sir Dugald’s fault.”

“I am doomed to be snubbed to-day,” said Charlie, and went off laughing to visit his hospital. Cecil felt more light-hearted than usual about him that night. Generally his erratic ways and strange acquaintances weighed upon her mind a good deal, but she felt more at ease now that he had learnt to know the versatile and friendly Dr Yehudi. He would be better employed in discussing Talmudical theology or Syriac roots with him, even if no higher themes were touched upon, than in gathering scandal about Sir Dugald and the foreign consuls generally from old Isaac Azevedo. Cecil had taken a rather hastily founded dislike to this old man, of whom she knew only by hearsay. It even made her doubtful of the correctness of her own estimate of M. Karalampi, to find it confirmed by reports from such a quarter. But a corroboration of Charlie’s opinion of Azim Bey’s former teacher was speedily to be provided from an independent source.

Cecil’s relations with her pupil continued to be of the happiest character. In the seclusion of their own courtyard he was almost always with her. He was perfectly content to be silent if she was busy, and possessed the happy faculty of being able to do nothing and yet not get into mischief. But stories were what he delighted in, and all the pranks of Fitz, Terry, Patsy, and Loey were recounted over and over again, until he knew the boys as well as their sister did. It was a remarkable and gratifying thing about him that he never seemed inclined to imitate any of these tricks. He was too much grown up, indeed, to do anything of the kind, and it was from this very fact that Cecil’s first great difficulty in dealing with him arose.

It so happened that she was not called upon to face this difficulty until one day in the height of summer, when she was feeling unusually weak and exhausted. She was only just recovering from an attack of fever, and the heat seemed stifling, even in the semi-darkness of the cellar schoolroom, with its carefully shaded windows close to the ceiling. She had succeeded in getting through the morning’s lessons somehow, but she found it impossible to provide Azim Bey with his daily instalment of story. Upon this he volunteered to tell her a story instead, while one of the negresses sat by and fanned her, and she prepared herself to listen with considerable interest. Whatever the story was, Azim Bey seemed to be quite excited about it, and she wondered whether he had inherited the Arab gift of improvisation. He sat thinking for a few minutes, and then, with very little preface, began to pour into her horrified ears such a tale as made her hair almost stand on end. At first she could only gaze at him in speechless horror as he spoke, accompanying his words with much vigorous descriptive action, but at last she found her voice, and burst forth with crimson face--

“Bey, be silent! How dare you repeat such things? Where did you learn that?”

“In a book, mademoiselle, a delightful book. Ah, magnificent!” he added, slowly, smacking his lips as if he enjoyed the recollection.

“Who gave it you?” gasped Cecil.

“M. Karalampi: he has given and lent me many, for two--three years. Ah, the dear pink and yellow books, how I love them!”

“And you have been reading these books ever since I came, and you never told me!” said Cecil, in deep reproach. Her pupil became penitent at once.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” he cried, flinging himself down beside her, and seizing her hand, “he told me not to tell you. He said the English hated French books, and could not understand them, and he used to send them into my apartments at night. But at last I thought I would see whether you did understand. O mademoiselle, my dear mademoiselle, why are you weeping?”

“Because I am not fit to have the charge of you,” said Cecil, sadly, dashing away the gathering tears. “I never thought of this. Oh, Bey, I trusted you!”

“Don’t weep, mademoiselle, you are good; it is I that am wicked, vile, a beast! I will give them up--I will read no more. We will burn them all. I will never speak to M. Karalampi again. I promise, mademoiselle.”

“How did you first learn to know M. Karalampi?” asked Cecil.

“My father wished me to take lessons in French, mademoiselle, and M. Karalampi offered to teach me, and then he said that I should learn best in reading by myself, and he would borrow some books for me from the French Consul.”

“So he lent you these dreadful books?”

“Yes, mademoiselle. What do you think of him?”

“I am not going to say what I think. His behaviour is infamous.”

“Ah, he is a wicked man then, mademoiselle?”

“Wicked is no word for it. Bey, you will keep your promise--you will burn these books?”

“I will, mademoiselle, I have given you my word; but it is like burning a piece of myself. What shall I do with nothing to read and all my pocket-money gone? for I have just sent to M. Karalampi what I owed him.”

“You shall have English books,” said Cecil, with sudden resolution. “You have no idea of the delightful books English boys read--books that will do you good instead of harm. We will read them together first, and when you know more English you shall read them by yourself. I can borrow one or two from the Residency until we can write home for more.”

“Very well, mademoiselle. We will burn the bad books--we will not retain one. O women, bring wood into the courtyard, and fire.”

The negresses obeyed in some surprise, which was only natural, considering the character of the weather; but Cecil and her pupil were both too much in earnest to care for the heat, and mounted the stairs at once to the courtyard, where the servants arranged a goodly pile. It was not in Azim Bey’s nature to conduct such a ceremony as this without all the pomp possible, and having installed Cecil in an arm-chair in the verandah, he headed a small procession of slave-women to his own rooms and superintended their return with their arms full of pink and yellow volumes. Under his direction the leaves were torn out in handfuls and piled on the wood, and he himself heroically set fire to the pile. Cecil sat with a thankful heart watching the printed pages curl and blacken. She remembered now Um Yusuf’s remark about Azim Bey’s reading bad books, and the way Lady Haigh had laughed at it, but the possibility of such a constant inflow of corrupt literature as M. Karalampi had brought about had never occurred to her. On the principle of striking while the iron was hot, she proceeded next to cut off the supply. When Azim Bey had satisfied himself that not a scrap of the obnoxious books remained unburnt, he was summoned to write to M. Karalampi. Under Cecil’s superintendence, but in his own phraseology, the boy expressed his thanks for M. Karalampi’s kindness in the past, while remarking politely that he would not trouble him for any further specimens of French literature. When this letter had been despatched by a special messenger, Cecil breathed more freely, and wrote a little note to the Residency, asking Lady Haigh to send her any boys’ books she might happen to have.

Without Cecil’s intending it in the slightest, her hasty scribble produced an extraordinary effect at the Residency. As has already been said, she had been suffering from fever, and had not, in consequence, been able to avail herself of her Sunday liberty for a fortnight. She had been attended by the Pasha’s own physician, who had gone in person to the Residency to report to Lady Haigh on the condition of his patient, but Lady Haigh was not satisfied. She herself had hurt her foot and could not get to the Palace to see Cecil, and she was nervous and low-spirited about her, and feared that she was not properly taken care of. The hurried pencil note, with its uneven writing, seemed to her to confirm her fears, and she was hobbling to Sir Dugald’s office to look for him and insist upon his doing something, when she remembered that he had gone to see the Pasha. Happily she came across Charlie instead, and he sympathised fully with her apprehensions.

“Yes, Cousin Elma, it does look bad. It seems to me very much as if they were keeping her shut up and she couldn’t write without exciting suspicion. She gets hold of a scrap of paper and scribbles as plain a message as she dares without actually asking for help. You see from the writing that she must have been agitated and excited. I certainly think that this note ought to be answered in person.”

“And my wretched foot!” groaned poor Lady Haigh.

“Oh, I’ll go for you, Cousin Elma,” said Charlie, hastily. “It might not do to wait until Sir Dugald comes back. I don’t feel at all sure about that illness of Miss Anstruther’s. It may be all a fraud on the part of the _hakim bashi_ (doctor). At any rate, if you will write a note saying that I am the surgeon of the Residency come to see Mademoiselle Antaza professionally, they must let me in. Of course, if you have the books, I may as well take them with me, in case it’s all right.”

About an hour afterwards, in consequence of this colloquy, Cecil and her pupil, who had begun their evening lessons, were disturbed by hearing Masûd’s warning cry of “_Dastûr! Dastûr!_” Much surprised that the Pasha should pay his son a visit at this unwonted hour, Cecil and the other women hurriedly assumed their veils, presenting thereby an extremely grotesque aspect to Charlie as he approached, preceded by the much-perturbed Masûd. He could not help laughing to see the women instantaneously transforming themselves into closely swathed bundles at his appearance, and Azim Bey marked his levity with displeasure.

“This gentleman is an acquaintance of yours, mademoiselle?” he inquired frigidly, noticing that Cecil started.

“How do you do, Dr Egerton?” she asked, in some confusion. “May I present to you Dr Egerton from the English Consulate, Bey?”

Charlie composed his features and bowed with due solemnity, and then delivered his burden of books with a polite message from Lady Haigh. Having done this, he seemed to intend his visit to be considered as a friendly call, for he made several vain attempts to thaw the cool reserve of Azim Bey, who sat regarding him with disapproving eyes. Cecil was on thorns, fearing that her pupil would proceed to say something rude, and it was scarcely a matter of surprise to her when he remarked in his clearest tones--

“At this period of the day, monsieur, mademoiselle and I are engaged with our studies. As I am certain that mademoiselle has no desire that these should be interrupted by the visits of her acquaintances, I may remark that if Milady Haigh has any message to send after this, it will be unnecessary for M. le docteur to put himself to the pain of bringing it.”

Cecil turned crimson, and even Charlie looked confused for a moment. But his presence of mind did not forsake him, and he bowed politely, regretted that he had trespassed on the patience of mademoiselle and of the Bey, and took his departure.

“I do believe that little beggar’s inclined to be jealous,” he said to himself as he left the Palace and went back to the Residency, satisfied about Cecil, and thinking no more about Azim Bey and his ways.

Cecil dared not say anything to her pupil about his rudeness, fearing lest he should think she had some personal feeling in the matter. After all, she was not sorry that Dr Egerton should have received his _congé_ so decisively, for it would never have done if he had taken it into his head to call again, and she was only thankful that the incident of the books should have ended so happily.

But she was reckoning without her host, for the incident was not yet terminated. Two or three days after the destruction of the French novels, Azim Bey came in from a ride with his father in a state of high self-satisfaction.

“It is not good to speak kindly to a wicked man--to treat him with distinction--is it, mademoiselle?”

“To treat him with distinction? Certainly not,” said Cecil.

“Well, mademoiselle, I have treated the wicked man rightly; for M. Karalampi is a wicked man, is he not? You said so yourself.”

“I know I did; but I didn’t mean you to be rude to him, Bey,” answered Cecil, in some alarm. “What have you done?”

“We passed him to-day, mademoiselle, walking with the French Consul, and I refused to take the slightest notice of either of them; for the Consul must also be wicked, since he lent M. Karalampi the books at first. Well, presently, when we halted, M. Karalampi approached me with an air of familiarity, and inquired with sorrow how he had offended me. I told him that I did not desire any further association with him, and that I no longer considered him as one of my intimates.”

The boy was so well pleased with himself for this that none of Cecil’s lectures on rudeness could produce any effect on him, and she dropped the subject in despair. But the French Consul and M. Karalampi did not see the matter in the same light, and they did their best, happily with only partial success, to found a diplomatic complication upon the incident. A note to the French Government complained of the pernicious influence exercised by England in the household of Ahmed Khémi Pasha, and in ornate and highly complimentary language deprecated the interference of ladies in politics. Cecil was gallantly described as a young woman profoundly learned, with manners the most distinguished, a countenance charming and altogether spiritual, and a bearing at once modest and intrepid, _Anglaise des Anglaises_. The sting of this description was intended to be in its tail, and the writer went on to say that this young girl, so innocent, so unsuspicious, was only the tool of unscrupulous persons behind the scenes. Here followed a highly coloured portrait of Sir Dugald Haigh, who was described as “this inscrutable automaton of a man,” “this impassive murderer of poor Hindus” (it is scarcely necessary to remark that the latter was a purely fancy touch, probably borrowed from the colonial methods of the writer’s own nation), as a crafty schemer and a Machiavellian plotter.

The note produced a good deal of effect, and there was a debate upon the subject in the French Chamber, while at Westminster certain M.P.’s, whose tender consciences were wounded by the thought of England’s exercising influence anywhere, questioned the Government upon it, and Cecil received through Sir Dugald a vague and formal caution which might have meant anything or nothing, and the matter dropped.

The English books which Cecil procured to replace the vanished novels proved extremely successful in accomplishing her object. Azim Bey devoured them eagerly, and held long conversations upon them with his governess afterwards. To her great amusement, the characters he discussed with most appreciation were those of the villain and of the capable person who acted as _deus ex machinâ_, and cleared up everything at the end of the story. He pursued the history of the villain’s machinations with breathless interest, and generally carped at his ignominious downfall when virtue triumphed, declaring that such a man would never have let himself be conquered by such feeble means. On the other hand, the character of the wealthy old gentleman who adopts deserving orphan boys and starts them in life, takes necessitous heroes into partnership, and bestows timely fortunes on penniless heroines, suited the vein of rather eccentric benevolence which was noticeable in him. Further reading brought him to wish to do something for the poor--and this not only in the way of giving alms to beggars in the street, which he did carefully as a religious duty. He wished to go amongst them and help them to raise themselves; and when his father absolutely refused to allow him to do anything of the kind, he demanded that his governess should find him some substitute for this employment. After some cogitation, Cecil suggested that he should take an interest in Dr Yehudi’s Mission-schools, the best managed institution of their kind in Baghdad; and Azim Bey set to work at once, and gave the Pasha no peace until he had granted him leave to visit them.

It would be difficult to say whether the Bey or his entertainers felt the honour of this visit more acutely, but the programme was gone through in a thoroughly successful way. Azim Bey inspected all the buildings, listened to the children’s lessons, asked them a few questions himself, and finally sent out one of his servants to buy sweetmeats to distribute among them--all with a stately and paternal air modelled on that which the Pasha wore on similar occasions. He was so supremely well satisfied with himself that, when the ceremony was over, he accepted the Yehudis’ invitation to afternoon tea, and handled his cup and saucer as though to the manner born, or as if he had rehearsed the scene carefully beforehand, as he generally did when he was to meet Europeans. They were a very pleasant little party in the cellar of the Mission-house,--Mrs Yehudi pouring out her woes to Cecil in a corner on the subject of her husband’s irrepressible activity, and her conviction that he would kill himself with work; while Dr Yehudi, genial, rotund, and erudite, conversed with Azim Bey in the purest Arabic, when the harmony of the occasion was marred by the entrance of a visitor. Unfortunately, it was not one of the Jewish rabbis who were wont to come and argue with Dr Yehudi, nor even one of the Turkish gentlemen who sometimes honoured him with a visit for the sake of his many talents, but Charlie Egerton. As he advanced cautiously towards his hostess in the dim light, Azim Bey’s brow grew black, and Cecil turned first red and then white, as she realised that her pupil’s suspicious mind had instantly concluded that the meeting here was prearranged. Ever since Charlie’s visit to their courtyard, Azim Bey had maintained a violent dislike of him, and refused to hear his name mentioned, alleging that he had forced his way into the Palace with the express design of insulting him and of thrusting himself upon Mdlle. Antaza.

A prejudice of this kind could not be dealt with by argument, and Cecil had refrained from attempting it, but now she wished that she had not done so, for even the Yehudis perceived at once that something was wrong. The only unconcerned person was the intruder himself, who complimented Mrs Yehudi on her tea, chaffed the Bey on the subject of his gloomy countenance, and otherwise did his best to make things comfortable. But his efforts were in vain. No sooner had Cecil set down her tea-cup than her pupil rose.

“I am sorry to hasten you, mademoiselle, but it is time that we return. M. le pasteur, may I entreat you to command my servants to be summoned? Accept, madame, the assurance of my most distinguished consideration, and of my eternal gratitude for your hospitality. Allow me to enjoy the hope of one day partaking of it again.”

“May I ride with you as far as the Palace?” said Charlie to Cecil in a low voice, but Azim Bey heard him.

“No, monsieur, pray do not trouble yourself to move. Your attendance is not required. You understand me?”

“Perfectly, Bey,” responded Charlie, and Azim Bey and his attendants mounted and rode off, the Bey keeping a sharp eye upon Cecil, with the view of preventing any lingering farewells. When they were well on their way, he demanded--

“Is this Dr Egerton always at the Mission-house when you go there, mademoiselle?”

“Certainly not,” said Cecil.

“That means every time but once, I suppose?” he asked, rudely.

“You forget yourself, Bey,” said Cecil, in grave reproof. “I am not accountable for Dr Egerton’s movements, but I can tell you that I have never met him at the Mission-house before, and that I had no idea whatever that he would be there to-day.”

Azim Bey grunted and changed the subject, absolutely refusing to refer to it again. He refused also to attend the prize-giving at the school, to which he had been looking forward, and gave Cecil as few chances as possible of going to the Mission-house. Nor did his precautions end here. Dr Yehudi received a confidential hint from Denarien Bey, warning him not to entertain persons from the British Consulate so frequently at his house, as the fact of the constant presence there of such individuals was creating a suspicion in high quarters that the work was being carried on for political ends. The old missionary had no alternative but to lay the case before Charlie, who perceived that he was out-manœuvred, and was obliged to accept the situation. Lady Haigh laughed at him, but he felt himself an innocent and much injured individual.