The Pacha of Many Tales

Thus, O pacha! was my beautiful mistress treated upon mere suspicion, for guilty she never was. I had been permitted to see her previous to her latter punishment, and she fancied, poor thing, that the emperor’s wrath had been appeased, and that she would have been permitted to return home, but her tongue was cut out without her receiving any warning of the second punishment which awaited her, and after that I was refused admittance, and I never saw my beautiful and ill-treated mistress any more. It was from the officer who had the charge of her that I learnt this cruel intelligence, and I went back to my lodgings with a heart bursting with grief and indignation.

I was resolved that, if possible, I would escape from a country where women’s tongues were cut out; but how to manage it I knew not. I had still some money and valuables, which had been left in my possession by my unfortunate mistress, and I made inquiry about the means of proceeding to Constantinople, where, at least, I should be in a civilised country. At last a Jew, who heard that I wished to go to the southward, offered to take me with him as soon as the snow was on the ground, for which I bargained to pay five hundred roubles. In a fortnight the winter had set in, and we got into a drotski, and went away. We arrived at Moscow, and from thence we at last gained Constantinople. On my arrival I selected my luggage, that I might pay the sum agreed; but it was snatched from me by the old rascal, who saluted me with a kick in the body which half killed me. I was locked up in a room, and in half an hour a slave merchant came, and I was sold for a low sum and taken away, remonstrating in vain against the injustice. My beauty was now gone, I was more than thirty years old, and hardship had done the rest.

My subsequent life has been nothing but a series of changes and disasters. I was sold to a pastry-cook, and broiled by standing over the oven. I grew obstinate and was punished by blows, but for those I cared not. The pastry was burnt, and I was resold to a barber, whose wife was a shrew, and half killed me; fortunately the barber was accused of shaving a criminal, who had escaped from prison, and one morning was stretched out before his own door, with his head under his arm. His wife and I were both sold again as slaves.

Thus did I go down hill each year, fetching less and less, and receiving worse treatment, until I was embarked with several others by an Armenian, who was bound to Smyrna. The vessel was captured by an Algerine pirate, and for a long while I was kept on board to cook their victuals. At last she was wrecked on this coast; how I escaped I know not, for I was weary of life. But I was thrown up, and made my way to this place—where I have for many years lived in company with an old wretch like myself, supplicating alms. He died about a year ago, and left me in the hovel by myself. I still beg for my subsistence; and now, pacha, you have my story, and I think you will acknowledge that I may well say that “Time has been.”

“It is your kismet, your destiny, good woman. There is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet,” observed the pacha. “You are dismissed.”

“And the gold, your highness,” whispered Mustapha.

“Let her retain it. Has she not been a sultana?” observed the pacha, with some appearance of feeling.

The old woman’s ears were keen, she had heard the question of Mustapha, and she easily imagined the rest; and she had heard the reply of the pacha.

“And now, pacha, before I quit your presence, as I have enjoyed your bounty, I will, with your permission, offer you a piece of advice, which, from my knowledge of the world and of people’s countenances, may be of no small service to you. Is it permitted, O pacha!”

“Speak,” replied the pacha.

“Then, pacha, beware of that man who sits beside you; for there is that in his face which tells me that he will raise himself upon your fall. Pacha, beware!”

“Hag of Jehanum,” exclaimed Mustapha, rising from his seat.

The old woman held up her finger, and walked out of the divan.

The pacha looked suspiciously at Mustapha, for he was of a suspicious nature; and Mustapha looked any thing but innocent.

“Doth my lord give ear to a lying tongue of an old woman?” said Mustapha, prostrating himself. “Hath not your slave proved himself faithful? Am not I as dust in thy presence? Take my life, O pacha! but doubt not the fidelity of thy slave.”

The pacha seemed pacified. “What is all this but bosh, nothing?” said he, rising and quitting the apartment.

“Bosh!” muttered Mustapha. “The cursed old hag! I know better—there is no time to lose—I must be quick. When will that renegade return from Stamboul? it is time.” And Mustapha, with a gloomy countenance, quitted the divan.

Volume Three–Chapter Seven

Although the pacha, with the usual diplomacy of a Turk, had, so far from expressing his displeasure against Mustapha, treated him with more than usual urbanity, he had not forgotten the advice of the old woman. Suspicion once raised was not to be allayed, and he had consulted with his favourite wife, Fatima. A woman is a good adviser on cases of this description. The only danger which could threaten the pacha was from the imperial court at Stamboul, for the troops were devoted to him, and the people of the country had no very serious cause of complaint. By the advice of the favourite, the pacha sent as a present to Mustapha a young and handsome Greek girl, but she was a spy in the service of the favourite, and had been informed that the vizier had been doomed. She was to discover, if she could, whether there was any intercourse between the renegade, who commanded the fleet, and the vizier, as from that quarter alone danger could be anticipated. The Greek had not been a week in the harem of Mustapha, before she ascertained more than was sufficient. The fleet had been sent to Constantinople, with presents to the sultan from the pacha, and its return was hourly expected.

It was on the afternoon of this eventful day that the fleet hove in sight, and lay becalmed a few miles in the offing. Mustapha hastened to report it to the pacha, as he sat in his divan, hearing complaints, and giving judgment, although not justice. Now when the pacha heard that the fleet had returned, his heart misgave him, and the more so, as Mustapha was more obsequious and fawning than ever. He retired for a short time from the divan, and hastened to his favourite, Fatima.

“Pacha,” said she, “the fleet has arrived, and Mustapha has already communicated with the renegade. Depend upon it you are lost, if you do not forestall them. Lose no time. But stop,” said she, “do not alarm the renegade by violence to Mustapha. To-morrow the fleet will anchor, and if there is mischief, it will not arrive until to-morrow—but this evening, you will as usual send for coffee, while you smoke and listen to the tales which you delight in. Drink not your coffee, for there shall be death in it. Be all smiles and good humour, and leave me to manage the rest.”

The pacha smoothed his brow and returned to the divan. Business proceeded as usual, and at length the audience was closed. The pacha appeared to be in high good humour, and so was the vizier.

“Surely,” said Mustapha, when the pipes were brought, “his imperial highness, the sultan, will have sent you some mark of his distinguished favour.”

“God is great, and the sultan is wise,” replied the pacha. “I have been thinking so too, Mustapha. Who knows but that he may add to the territory under my sway by another pachalik?”

“I dreamt as much,” replied Mustapha, “and I am anxious that the renegade should come on shore; but it is now dark, and he will not leave his vessel.”

“We must drive away the mists of suspense by the sunbeams of hope,” replied the pacha. “What am I but the sultan’s slave? Shall we not indulge this evening in the water of the Giaour.”

“What saith Hafiz? It is for wine to exalt men, and raise them beyond uncertainty and doubt. It overfloweth us with courage, and imparts visions of bliss.”

“Wallah thaib, it is well said, Mustapha,” said the pacha, taking a cup of coffee, presented by the Greek slave.

Mustapha also received his cup. “My heart is light this evening,” said the pacha, laying down his pipe, “let us drink deep of the forbidden juice. Where is it, Mustapha?”

“It is here,” replied the vizier, drinking off his coffee; while the pacha watched him from the corner of his small grey eye. And Mustapha produced the spirits, which were behind the low ottoman upon which he was seated.

The pacha put aside his coffee, and drank a large draught. “God is great; drink, Mustapha,” said he, handing him the bottle.

Mustapha followed the example of the pacha. “May it please your highness,” said Mustapha, “I have without a man, who they say hath stories to recount more delightful than those of Menouni. Hearing that he passed through this city, I have detained him, that he might afford amusement to your highness, whose slave I am. Is it your pleasure that he be admitted?”

“Let it be so,” replied the pacha.

Mustapha gave the sign, and to the surprise of the pacha, in came the renegade, commander of the fleet, accompanied by guards and the well-known officer of the caliph, the Capidji Bachi, who held up a firman to his forehead.

The pacha turned pale, for he knew that his hour was come. “Bismillah! In the name of the Most High, O officer, whom seekest thou?” exclaimed the pacha with emotion.

“The sultan, the Lord of Life, has sent this to you, O pacha! as a proof of his indulgence and great mercy.” And the capidji bachi produced a silken bowstring, and at the same time he handed the fatal scroll to the pacha.

“Mustapha,” whispered the pacha, “while I read this, collect my guards; I will resist. I fear not the sultan at this distance, and I can soften him by presents.”

But Mustapha had no such fellow feeling. “O pacha!” replied he, “who can dispute the will of heaven’s vice-gerent? There is but one God and Mahomet is his Prophet.”

“I will dispute it,” exclaimed the pacha. “Go out, and call my trustiest guards.”

Mustapha left the divan, and returned with the mutes and some of the guards, who had been suborned by himself.

“Traitor,” exclaimed the pacha.

“La Allah, il Allah; there is but one God,” said Mustapha.

The pacha saw that he was sacrificed. He read the firman, pressed it to his forehead, in token of obedience, and prepared for death. The capidji bachi produced another firman, and presented it to Mustapha. It was to raise him to the pachalik.

“Barik Allah, praise be to God for all things,” humbly observed Mustapha. “What am I but the sultan’s slave, and to execute his orders? On my head be it!”

Mustapha gave the sign, and the mutes seized the unfortunate pacha.

“There is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet,” said the pacha. “Mustapha,” continued he, turning round to him with a sardonic smile, “may your shadow never he less—but you have swallowed the coffee.”

The mutes tightened the string. In a minute a cloak was thrown over the body of the pacha.

“The coffee,” muttered Mustapha, as he heard the pacha’s last words. “I thought it had a taste. Now he’s sent to Jehanum for his treachery.” And all the visions of power and grandeur, which had filled the mind of the new pacha, were absorbed by fear and dismay.

The capidji bachi, having performed his duty, withdrew. “And now,” exclaimed the renegade, “let me have my promised reward.”

“Your reward—true. I had forgotten,” replied Mustapha, as the pain occasioned by the working of the poison distorted his face. “Yes, I had forgotten,” continued Mustapha, who, certain that his own end was approaching, was furious as a wild beast, with pain and baffled ambition. “Yes, I had forgotten. Guards, seize the renegade!”

“They must be quicker than you think for,” replied Huckaback, darting from the guards and drawing his scimitar, while, with his fingers in his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle. In rushed a large body of the soldiers and sailors of the fleet, and the guards were disarmed. “Now, pacha of one hour old, what sayest thou.”

“It is my destiny,” replied Mustapha, rolling on the floor in agony. “There is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet.” And Mustapha expired.

“The old fool has saved me some trouble,” observed the renegade. “Take away these carcases, and proclaim Ali, as the new pacha.”

Thus perished the two barbers, and thus did Huckaback, under the name of Ali, reign in their stead. But his reign, and how long it lasted, is one of the many tales not handed down to posterity.

The End