“He is a little tyrant!” said his hostess, laughing. “A young savage. He attacked my little girl as if to kill her, because she tried to get back her own doll. I had to shake him. I told him that his mother would be very angry at his conduct. He cursed my religion and then spat at me. By our lady Zeynab, thou shouldst beat him sometimes, O my soul!”
“His spirit is too high and needs restraining. Every one says so,” said Bedr-ul-Budûr.
“You must have thwarted him. He is not used to it. He has the noblest, the most generous nature,” answered Barakah.
“By Allah, it is difficult not to thwart a boy who claims the eyes from out one’s face as his to play with! He must be denied, and when denied he grows infuriated,” said Gulbeyzah mildly.
Barakah was on the point of making a fierce answer, when the glorious voice of Tâhir rose, compelling silence. She had heard a hundred singers, male and female, since she came to Cairo; but Tâhir’s voice alone had power to move her. The others mouthed and shrieked to individual passions; but Tâhir took the soul and soared with it, producing exaltation and a sense of peace. He sang from the pure heart of El Islâm, and shed its fervent calm on all who heard him. When the song died she had forgotten anger.
That wedding-feast became for ever memorable by reason of a shocking tragedy at its conclusion. Barakah and her friends were led by Umm ed-Dahak, who was a relative of Tâhir’s wife, to view the nuptial chamber. It was full of flowering plants; the bed, with silken coverings, was quite embowered. In addition to the odour of so many blossoms the air was thick with perfumes burnt and sprinkled. The room, they were informed, had been arranged, the flowers provided, by rich admirers of the singer’s talent.
“By Allah, pretty! But I should not like to sleep there!” had been Gulbeyzah’s comment, little guessing what would happen. For next morning it was known to high and low, through all the city, that the bridegroom and the bride had died of suffocation. When people went to rouse them in the morning they found corpses. The news was brought to Barakah by Umm ed-Dahak, who had herself been present at the sad discovery. She told the story with an artist’s relish.
“What did Tâhir do? The poor demented father? What did he? He took his lute and struck the chords and sang a song more mournful than was ever heard on earth till now. Many present had to leave the room in grievous pains. And then, with the last note—C-r-r-a-c-k!—he broke the lute, and swore the binding oath that he would never sing again. In sh´Allah he will change his mind,” said Umm ed-Dahak, in her ordinary tone. “The world would lack a soul without his singing. His oath has spread despair through all the town.”
For months the news of Tâhir was demanded eagerly. After his daughter’s death he went to Tantah for a while. Returning to the capital, prepared to keep his vow, he took a shop and furnished it with goods, intending to become a merchant. He thought to work out bargains over cups of coffee, by way of pastime only, for he was a wealthy man. But the people, his admirers, would not have it. They thronged his shop directly it was opened, and bought up all his goods in a few hours, paying the price first asked without a protest. He stocked his shop again; the same thing happened, till, finding himself debarred from occupation, he cursed the day when he was born; and in the end repaired to the Grand Câdi, and asked for liberation from his vow. The reverend judge released him with a grin and “Praise to Allah!” It was what his Honour and the whole of Egypt had been wanting. Enormous crowds assembled to hear Tâhir call to noonday prayer at the great mosque El Azhar—the first occasion of his singing since his daughter’s death.
“The praise to Allah, we possess him once again,” said Umm ed-Dahak, when reporting his defeat. “It has cost us trouble to regain him, Allah knows. He did wrong to swear that oath; which was as impious as swearing to cut off his hand or foot, the work of God; and so the Câdi told him in his judgment yesterday. He brought the grief upon himself by doting on the girl above her merits, calling her his soul of music, neglecting the son who is still with him—a fine lad. By the Prophet, it was courting sorrow to make all that fuss about a daughter. Now had it been his son, his source of honour——”