This little world of women had its liberties. From the third hour of the day until the sunset call to prayer, the lord of the harîm was absent. If he happened to return, it was his duty to announce the fact beforehand, allowing time for visitors to veil and slip away. The inmates had their private interests, their games and jokes. The clash of tambourines, the quick soft beat of darabukkahs made a pulse of glee. They all seemed happy and in love with life, although they hardly ever saw the sun or breathed free air; for when they drove abroad it was in shuttered carriages; and the family mausoleum, where they went for picnics, was a second palace with its own haramlik.
But what surprised the Englishwoman more than anything was the charm of majesty—the exquisite prestige—which certain of these Eastern women radiated; making her feel small. They called her “Barakah”; it was her name thenceforward, and meant a Godsend, so the courtly Pasha told her. That name increased her awkwardness at first, sounding sarcastic from the lips of queenly women.
On the morning after she had written her indignant letter to the Consul, she was awakened by soft singing. A beautiful and stately girl sat by her bed, who, seeing her at last awake, sprang up and kissed her. Murjânah Khânum, claiming Yûsuf’s bride as her own guest until the wedding, had sent her slave Gulbeyzah to attend her to the bath, attire her in a robe of honour (which was shown), and then escort her to Murjânah Khânum’s rooms, where Barakah was asked to breakfast and to spend the day. It was useless to resist. Gulbeyzah knew her duties, and performed them scrupulously. By the time they left the bathhouse, Barakah arrayed in gorgeous silk, her fingers hennaed and her eyes enlarged with kohl, they were laughing friends.
Murjânah Khânum took the Englishwoman in her arms and kissed her; then sitting down beside her, subjected her to a prolonged inspection, none the less embarrassing for being tender.
“Ma sh´Allah!” she exclaimed, and added some soft words in Turkish, looking to Gulbeyzah, who translated:
“Madame says you are more beautiful than she was told. Your beauty is more excellent than the rose. Your eyes remind her of the Bosphorus. You make her think of her own country. The desire which you inspire is like home-sickness.”
Barakah could only blush and hang her head—a posture which drew down fresh compliments upon her modesty.
Slaves brought in trays of fruit and set them down, retiring silently. Then an old negress came in with a brazier and made coffee, with which was served a kind of fritter smeared with honey. Then a young girl appeared with ewer and basin and fine towels, going first to Barakah, who rinsed her hands. Murjânah and Gulbeyzah, she saw afterwards, used soap and washed their teeth as well—a cause of spluttering.
Murjânah Khânum rolled a cigarette. She lounged at ease with eyes intent on Barakah, and while she smoked, gave vent to her reflections, which Gulbeyzah rendered into French as best she could.
“It is a great distress to me not to be able to convey my loving thoughts directly to the mind of one so near. Ask the dear one if she speaks Romaic, or a little Persian. No? A pity! She is learning Arabic? In sh´Allah, she will soon acquire that tongue and Turkish too....