CHAPTER XXVIII
At seven years old Muhammad went to school. It was customary for the scions of great houses to be taught at home by private tutors, but the family council had decreed that so exceptional a child must feel the yoke of public discipline and mix with other boys as soon as possible. The school, just founded by the widow of a former ruler, was reckoned modern, for the simple reason that the scholars learnt geography and history, and handled other books as well as the august Corân.
Ghandûr led off Muhammad every morning, and brought him home at evening through the perils of the streets. Barakah’s thoughts were with him all day long; she liked to guess at his employment at a given moment; while Umm ed-Dahak painted flattering pictures of his skill in learning, the astonishment of all his masters at his brilliant genius.
When she was driven out to pay her calls, Barakah arranged beforehand with the eunuch that the carriage should pull up before the school. Then through the shutter she would watch the iron screen which filled each window-arch and listen to the drone of children’s voices.
The school was an octagonal kiosk of marble, touching the wall of a world-famous mosque. Its salient bulk half throttled an important thoroughfare, forming a narrow strait where traffic battled, and on each side a little bay or backwater where the carriage could draw up without obstruction. There, underneath the windows with their arabesques of iron screen-work, sat street sorcerers with trays of sand before them, venders of sugar-cane and slabs of bread and divers nuts; and holy beggars slumbered in the shade. Barakah knew exactly where Muhammad had his seat and, waiting upon that side, watched a certain opening in the iron-work, from which there presently emerged a little hand. It fluttered for a moment and was then withdrawn. She waited for a second signal and a third before she gave the order to drive on.
At school Muhammad’s aim was to excel by all means. The counsels of Murjânah Khânum, who used religious and inspiring words, had fired his brain. He had but one ambition now—to please his father. He would prove the best of Muslims, the most zealous, the most learned, and then his father would forget his former wickedness. In pursuance of this end he chafed at every obstacle and was infuriated by stupidity or sloth in others. He beat his foster-brother more than once through mere impatience, and in the end put zeal into that vacant but receptive youth. And Barakah, whose worship of her paragon extended to the son of Ghandûr as his shadow, became the confidante of all their thoughts and projects.
The report which the headmaster made to Yûsuf Bey after Muhammad’s first few weeks at school was satisfactory.
“The boy, thy son,” remarked the reverend man, “is highly gifted and extremely diligent. In sh´Allah, he will live to be a light to El Islâm, a glory to this land of Masr, and a worthy slave of the Most High. We have only one small fault to find with his behaviour, which is that, in his eagerness, he answers questions we address to other boys, and is inclined to argue with the teacher as if instruction were for him alone.”
His mother was delighted with this verdict, whose one restriction seemed to her the highest praise. She began to cherish visions of his future greatness, and with the aid of Umm ed-Dahak built grand castles in the air.