Sitanthy nodded. “She was going to her hour of happiness. She lives for that hour. She has it from time to time.”
In vain I begged for more particulars. Sitanthy was the most Asiatic of all the Turkish children I have known. She could tell me stories of her world; but her world appeared to her as matter-of-fact and unromantic as the world of the elders.
Whenever I saw the halaïc she was lovely to me. She smothered me with kisses, and she scolded me kindly whenever I needed it, which was pretty often. But there was a patrician reserve about her which kept me from questioning her.
She was tender, but at times cruel. She would laugh at things which choked my throat with a big lump. Damlaly Pasha’s household was poor. They lived on his pension, which was generally in arrears; for the Oriental knows no fixed time, and the Turkish government is the most oriental factor in their oriental lives.
There came days when the exchequer of the household was reduced to small coins, which the hanoum kept tied in a knot in one of the corners of her indoor veil. She always gave us a penny, when I visited there; and Sitanthy and I would call the simitzi, passing by with his wares on his head, and we would buy four of his delectable simit, big enough to wear as bracelets—until we had eaten them.
Then came afternoons when we were given only a halfpenny, and each of us had only one simit; and then there was a time when the hanoum had not even a halfpenny, and she wept because she could not buy us simit. That was the day that the halaïc was cruel. She laughed at the sorrow of her mistress, and derided her; and the old hanoum was so mortified that she stopped crying at once.
It happened that one day I was taken suddenly ill while playing with Sitanthy; and the old hanoum sent word to my home, begging leave to keep me in her house, in order that I should not be moved, and imploring to be trusted.
It was the halaïc who took care of me. She made up two little beds, and slept herself between them. The old hanoum brought a brazier into the room, filled with lighted charcoal, and on it she heated olive oil in a tin saucer. When it was very hot they took off my nightgown, sprinkled dried camomiles all over me; and the halaïc, dipping her hands into the scorching oil, began to rub me. She rubbed and rubbed, till I screamed, and was limp as a rag. But I fell into refreshing slumber immediately afterwards.
When I awoke, dripping with perspiration, the halaïc was changing my nightgown. Then she put me into the other little bed, which was warm and dry.
Some hours later, I again awoke, and saw the halaïc moving about the room on tiptoe. She threw a cloak over her shoulders, and, with the caution of a cat about to lap forbidden milk, stole out of the room.