CHAPTER IX.
Death in the Revel—Marriage of the Princess Mihirmàh—The Imperial Victim—The First Lover—Court Cabal—Policy of the Seraskier—The Second Suitor—The Miniature—The Last Gift—Interview between the Sultan and Mustapha Pasha.
It is strange how often events, which to the crowd appear redolent of joy and happiness, are to the principal actors replete with heartburning and misery—how what is a pageant to the many may be a penance to the few—and how the triumphant acclaim of the multitude may be hollowly echoed back in bitterness from the depths of a bereaved and stricken spirit. The price of greatness must be paid, even although it should be in the coinage of despair, wrung slowly, through a long life, like blood-drops from the heart; and it is well for the shouting, holyday-seeking crowd, that the gaunt spectre of reality is not permitted, like the skeleton of the Egyptian banquets, to take its seat at the feast, and startle them into a knowledge of the heavy price paid for the “funeral-baked meats” of their empoisoned revel!
Only a few weeks had elapsed since Constantinople had held a general holyday; since her joy had been written in characters of fire; and her tens of thousands had collected together like one vast family, to celebrate the same happy event. Who that looked around and about him during the marriage festivities of the Imperial Bride of Saïd Pasha—the young, the fair, the high-born maiden, descended from a long-line of Emperors, “born in the purple,” and on whom no sunbeam had been suffered to rest, lest it should mar the brightness of her beauty—Who could have guessed, amid the flashing of jewels, the echo of compliments, and the lavish congratulation by which he was surrounded, that the idol to whom all this incense was offered up was already lying shivered at the foot of the altar on which it had been reared?—That the roses of the bridal wreath had fallen leaf by leaf, withered by the burning of the brow they cinctured?—and that the victim of an Empire’s holyday was seated heart-stricken and despairing in her latticed apartment, weeping hot tears over her compulsatory sacrifice?
And yet thus it was:—even I myself, when the rumour reached me, that had the Princess been free to chuse from among the many who sighed for, without venturing to aspire to her hand, she would have made another selection—even I, remembering only that she was an Oriental, and forgetting that she was also a woman, never doubted for an instant that she would resign herself to her fate with true Turkish philosophy, and find consolation for a passing disappointment in the gaud and glitter of her new state. But it was not so: the arrow had been driven home, and the wound was mortal!
Two long years had elapsed since the Sultan had announced to her his intention of bestowing her hand on Mustapha Pasha of Adrianople; and she had received with indifference the intimation of a resolve which made the heart of the Sultana-Mother throb with maternal pride. But ere long the fair Princess herself learnt to believe that her constellation had been a happy one; and to listen with smiling attention to the flattering accounts which the ladies of the Imperial Harem failed not to pour into her willing ears of the Pasha’s wealth, influence, and great personal beauty. The singing-women improvised in his honour, with all the gorgeous hyperbole of the East—the massaldjhes[1] told tales of his wisdom and valour that brought a brighter light to the dark eyes of their listener—and ultimately the Sultan forwarded to his daughter a miniature likeness of her intended bridegroom.
Then it was that the Princess became convinced that the personal qualifications of the Pasha had been by no means exaggerated even by his most partial chroniclers; and the young beauty sat for hours amid her embroidered cushions, silently gazing on the portrait which she held in her hand, and marvelling whether she should look as fair in the eyes of her destined lord as he already seemed in her own. She was not long to remain in doubt; for the Pasha, to whom his good fortune had been communicated by his Imperial Master, obeyed the summons that called him to the capital, and forwarded to his high-born mistress his first costly offering.
The heart of the Princess beat high. He was in Stamboul! The wife of the meanest camal[2] might look on him as his shadow fell upon her in the streets of the city; while she, his affianced bride, could only picture him to her fancy by gazing on the cold inanimate ivory. She turned from the diamonds that her slaves had officiously displayed upon the sofa on which she sat; they came from him, it was true, but they told no tale of love—they were the offering of ceremony—the tribute of the honoured Pasha to his honouring bride—they had pleased her fancy, but they had not touched her heart.
Night spread her sable robe upon the waters—the channel lay hushed, for the soft wind failed to disturb the ripple over which it lightly skimmed—the Sultana-mother and the affianced Princess were dwelling in the gilded saloons of the Asiatic Harem—in the fairy palace of Beglierbey, and the slaves had long been hushed in sleep—and it was at this still hour that the dark-eyed daughter of the Sultan, who had been leaning against the lattices of an open window, listening to the nightingales, and weaving sweet fancies into a graceful web of thought, turned from the casement to seek the rest which she had hitherto neglected to secure; when as she moved away, a sound of distant oars fell on her ear, and with a vague feeling of curiosity she paused and listened.
A solitary caïque neared the palace, and stopped beneath the terrace of the Harem: there was no moon; and the clear stars, which were dropped in silver over the purple mantle of the sky, did not betray the secret of the bold midnight visiter. The Princess bent her ear eagerly against the lattice: her brow flushed, and her breath came quick—her heart had not deceived her—it was indeed the Pasha; and soon a soft strain of music swelled upon the air; and words of passion blending with the melody, taught her that this was his first spirit-offering to his bright young love.
Oh! how, as she stood beside the casement, did she sigh for moonlight, when, despite the envious lattices, she might have looked upon her princely lover, and written his image on her heart! But the song ceased, and the caïque slowly dropped down with the current, and she scarcely knew, when she at length withdrew to the innermost recesses of her chamber, whether all had not been a dream.
Time passed on, and the wish of the fair Princess was accomplished. She had looked upon the Pasha, as his gilded boat passed lingeringly beneath the Imperial terrace—she had seen him as his proud steed curvetted gracefully under the palace windows—she had beheld him by the light of a bright moon when no eye save her’s was on him, and his low, soft accents came sweetly to her ear on the evening wind—and she had learnt to love him with all the fervour of a first affection. Now, indeed, she valued every gift which came to her from him, not because he made the world pay tribute to charm her fancy, but because he had first seen and approved the offering.
And the Pasha learned that he was loved—the rose withering in the hot sun amid the lattice-work of the Princess’s window—the long lock of dark hair waving in the wind beside it—the little flower which sometimes fell into the water beside the caïque during his midnight and solitary visit, told him the tale that he most wished to hear. It is even said that on one occasion he actually beheld by accident the face of his betrothed wife: be this as it may, however, it is certain that Mustapha Pasha returned to his Pashalik at Adrianople with his mind and thoughts full of the Princess Mihirmàh, and with little taste for the delay which was yet to take place ere his marriage.
The departure of the Pasha was the signal for court intrigue and court cabal, for the determination of the Sultan had spread dismay among the most influential of the nobles, who could ill brook the prospect of so dangerous a rival near the throne as the powerful and popular Mustapha Pasha. At the head of this party was the Seraskier, whose influence over the Sultan had long been unbounded, whose wealth had purchased friends, and whose favour had silenced enemies. He it was who first taught the light of Imperial favour to shine on Halil Pasha, who had originally been a groom in his own stables; and who ultimately determined Mahmoud to receive his protégé as the husband of his eldest daughter; a subtle stroke of policy which secured to him a firm adherent, knit to his cause by every bond of self-interest and gratitude; for the husband of the Princess Salihè was the adopted son of the Seraskier, the object of his munificence, and the sharer in his fortunes.
Thus, in lieu of a rival, whom his connexion with the Imperial family might have rendered dangerous, the old and wily courtier secured a new and influential ally, prompt to adopt his views and to further his ambition. The proposed marriage of the younger Princess involved the same risks, and demanded the same precautions; and it was consequently not without emotion that the Seraskier learnt from the lips of the Sultan that Mustapha Pasha was to be the new bridegroom.
He smiled as he heard it, and uttered the usual empty and meaningless compliment of congratulation; but his heart obeyed not the prompting of his words; and, as he left the Presence, he vowed a voiceless vow, that with the help of Allah, the Governor of Adrianople should never be the husband of the Princess Mihirmàh; for the more he reflected on the subject, the more he felt the necessity of exerting all his energies to prevent the domestication of Mustapha Pasha at court.
Young and handsome, he would be all powerful with his Imperial bride. Wealthy and high-spirited, he would neither from necessity nor inclination be amenable to his own dictation. Proverbially amiable, and chivalrously generous, he was already the idol of his province, and would soon become that of the capital; while his grasp of intellect and soundness of judgment, would render it equally impossible to degrade him into a dupe, or to use him as a tool.
Thus, then, the experienced courtier, whose career has been perhaps without parallel in Turkish history—whose beard has grown grey under the shadow of the Imperial throne—who has seen a hundred favourites rise into greatness, flourish for a brief season, and finally leave their dishonoured heads to bleach beneath a fierce sun, impaled above the fatal Orta Kapoussi, or Middle Gate of the Seraglio, or niched in gory grandeur beside the gilded entrance of the Sublime Porte; who throughout his long career has never failed in any important undertaking —the experienced courtier at once decided that Mustapha Pasha must not be permitted to fill a station, which would invest him with the privelege of thwarting his own plans, or of opposing his own party.[3]
Every Bey of the Imperial Household was in the interest of the Seraskier. It could not well be otherwise; for, during the long years of unchecked prosperity and unfailing favour which I have described, it will be readily conceived that there was not an individual among them who was not indebted to him for some benefit, which could be repaid only by devotion to his wishes.
Nor were there wanting many among the Pashas themselves who were easily taught to look with distrust and suspicion on the threatened rivalry of the young and high-spirited Mustapha; and who readily enlisted in the adverse party. Suffice it that the intrigue prospered: the Sultan first insisted—then wavered—and finally, driven, despite himself, to a compromise with the nobles in immediate contact with his person, ultimately proposed the extraordinary expedient to which I have already alluded; and with a weakness of purpose for which it were difficult to account in a despotic monarch, determined to cast the obloquy of irresolution from his own shoulders by leaving the fortunes of his daughter in the hands of Fate—that blind divinity in whom the Turks put such implicit trust, and on whom they philosophically fling the odium of every untoward circumstance.
One stipulation he, however, made; that the name of Mustapha Pasha should be among the seven chosen ones from whom the felech of the Princess was to select her a husband; and, having thus quieted his Imperial conscience, he made his namaz with all proper solemnity, ere he calmly drew from beneath his prayer-carpet the name of Mohammed Saïd Pasha!
But the affections cannot change so lightly as the will; and when it was announced to the young Princess that she was to receive a new suitor, and to banish all memory of him whom she had so long learnt to love, she sank beneath the tidings; and rejected the consolations which were officiously poured forth by her attendants. The Sultana-mother wept and entreated; but for the first time her tears and her entreaties were alike vain: the Princess only turned aside in despairing silence, or bade them leave her to die alone, since death was all that remained to her. Hours passed away; hours of dull, aching anguish that wrung and withered her young heart; and they brought her food, but she put it aside with loathing—and darkness came; but it yielded no rest to her; and on the morrow her dim eyes and haggard cheek so terrified the Sultana that she at once decided on communicating to her Imperial partner the effect of his decision.
The Sultan came, and used every blandishment that could win, and every threat that could terrify; but he failed to wrench the young fond heart from its allegiance. The same trite commonplaces which rise instinctively to the lips of all domestic despots, be they Christians or Islamites, were duly set forth; but love spurns at argument; and the Princess only replied by falling senseless into the arms of her slaves. Days of suffering followed, during which she lay like a blighted flower upon her cushions; hoping one moment against reason; and the next resigning herself without a struggle to the deepest anguish of despair.
Time wore on, and at length she learnt that her destined husband had arrived in the capital! Then came the gifts of the new suitor, and the ceremonies of the betrothal; and she knew and felt that there was indeed no longer any hope. The conviction was too much for her young strength; and the courtiers were pouring forth their offerings, and the Pashas of the provinces were pressing forward with their congratulations, while the victim of state policy was lying on a sick bed, surrounded by tears and lamentations.
And thus they decked her for the bridal, and carried her forth in her gilded carriage to her new home; and she submitted passively, for she knew that it was in vain to oppose her destiny. But when the proud and happy Saïd Pasha had borne her in his arms to the state saloon of the harem, preceded by dancing-girls, and fair slaves glittering with jewels, and swinging censers of costly incense upon her path, and had seated her on the brocaded divan only to throw himself at her feet, and to vow himself to an existence of fond and grateful obedience to her every wish; then did the woman-heart of the Princess flash forth as she sternly commanded him to leave her. The Pasha obeyed not; he believed this coldness to be only a caprice of his Imperial bride, and he lost himself in all the lover-like hyperbole which he doubted not would be expected from him.
But the young bridegroom was not long suffered to be deluded by so flattering a deceit, for the reply of the Princess to his protestations was too direct and convincing, to admit of his indulging the faintest doubt of his misfortune. Around her neck she wore a slight chain, wrought in dark silk, similar to those to which the Turkish ladies commonly attach an amulet; and for all answer she withdrew this chain, and revealed to the heart-stricken Pasha the portrait of her first suitor.
“It was the Sultan’s gift;” she said firmly, “I was told that he was to be my husband, and they taught me to love him—I loved him ere I knew that such a being as Saïd Pasha lived—I shall love him so long as this heart has power to beat against his likeness. I will not deceive you; I can look on you only with loathing: my fate is sealed; I shall soon lie in the tomb of my fathers. Inshallàh—I trust in God—life is not eternal, and the broken heart ceases at last to suffer.”
Saïd Pasha had triumphed: he had won an Imperial bride; but he was a blighted man. He had seen Mustapha Pasha ride in the marriage train which did honour to his own nuptials; but a few hours only had elapsed ere he envied his discomfited rival the comparative happiness of freedom.
That rival was, however, far from being reconciled to his fate, irrevocable as it was. He forgot that he had lost a proud bride in the memory of her youth, her beauty, and her affection. He lingered near her regal dwelling at midnight to catch the reflection of a taper through the lattices of one of its many windows, trusting that he might chance to look upon the light which beamed on her. His marriage gift was the most costly of all that glittered in her trousseau—and he saw the different Pashas who had been called to court to swell the pageant, depart to their provinces, without possessing the courage to follow their example.
Many wondered why Mustapha Pasha, who was supreme at Adrianople, remained in comparative subserviency at Stamboul; and all whispered mysteriously of the change which had come over his nature. He was still urbane and courteous, with a gracious word and a ready smile for all; but the words came less freely, and the smiles were fainter, and even wore at times a tinge of bitterness.
It was about three weeks subsequent to the Imperial marriage that an Armenian jeweller completed one of the most costly brilliant ornaments which had ever been seen, even in the Bezenstein of Constantinople. A mass of immense diamonds were clustered together in its centre in the form of a taper, at whose extremity a flame was burning brightly; and this device was surrounded by a wreath of ivy leaves, amid which a moth was nestled, mounted upon an elastic spring, that at the slightest motion threw the insect upon the flame.
This noble jewel was, immediately on its completion, carried to the palace of Mustapha Pasha, whence it was transported to the harem of the Princess by a trusty messenger. No written Word accompanied the gift—it told its own tale—and four-and-twenty hours had not elapsed from the time in which the “mourning bride” clasped it in her turban, ere it was intimated to Mustapha Pasha that he had the permission of his Sublime Highness to return to his Pashalik with all convenient speed.
On the morrow he requested his parting audience of the Sultan, when Mahmoud, probably regretting, as he looked upon the noble-minded Mustapha, the wrong which he had been compelled to do him, prevented him as he was in the act of kissing his foot, and, extending towards him his Imperial hand, said blandly:—“Forget the past—it was not the will of Allah that my intention in your favour should be fulfilled; but bear with you my assurance that the esteem which I have long felt for you is undiminished. Your presence is required at Adrianople—I am perfectly content with your government—and two years hence I shall recall you to Stamboul, to bestow on you the hand of my youngest daughter.”
The Pasha relinquished his hold of the Imperial fingers: the blood mounted to his brow, and settled there, and the tone was proud, even to haughtiness, with which he answered: “I obey the orders of your Highness: by tomorrow’s dawn I shall be on my way to my Pashalik; while I have life I will do my duty to my Sultan and to my province; but I shall never again aspire to make the happiness of an Imperial Princess—were I ten times more worthy than I am, still should I be no meet husband for a Sultan’s daughter. May the blessing of Allah rest on the representative of the Prophet; and may the hour not be far distant when Mustapha Pasha may lay down in the service of his sovereign a life which has now become valueless!”
The high-hearted noble departed from the court, bearing with him the memory of his passion and of his wrong. The Seraskier sought to console the disappointed bridegroom by heaping upon him the most munificent gifts; and the Princess, in the solitude of her harem, yet wastes her hours in tears, gazing upon the portrait of her lost lover, and imploring of the Prophet an early deliverance from the anguish of a breaking heart.