On the opening of the gate, we found ourselves in a small covered court, choked with rubbish. A house, literally “tottering to its fall,” and propped on the garden side with heavy pieces of timber, presented itself as the palace of the Pasha; and the door of the harem, which one rude blow would have shivered to atoms, was immediately before us.
We looked at each other in wonder; but, as the servant who had given us admittance assured us that we had made no mistake, which we were not only inclined, but really anxious to believe that we had done, we desired to be conducted to the Buyuk Hanoum. A loud blow on the door of the harem, most portentously echoed by the void beyond, was instantly answered by the appearance of a tall, bony, grinning negress; who, having bade us welcome, invited us to follow her to her mistress.
The stairs by which we ascended to the harem creaked and quivered beneath our weight; the window that lighted them was uncurtained, and its missing panes were replaced by rags and paper—there was no matting upon the floor of the empty, chilly, comfortless hall into which the apartments opened—and the whole appearance of the place was so desolate and wretched, that I shivered as I remembered that I had engaged myself to pass the night there.
Having traversed the hall, the slave lifted the heavy curtain veiling the door of one of the inner apartments; and, having obeyed her bidding, we found ourselves in a small, snug, well-heated room, closely carpeted and curtained; and at the instant of our entrance a beautiful girl rose from the sofa where she had been seated, and welcomed us with a smile and a blush that made us forget at once “the ruin of her house.” There was one circumstance connected with the greeting, however, that struck us as very singular; she made no allusion to our having been expected: but there was, on the contrary, a sort of wonder and curiosity in her manner, which, with intuitive good-breeding, she did not express.
We were both still haunted by the idea that there must be some mistake; and this impression was heightened by the timid and constrained bearing of the young beauty, who, after having clapped her hands, and desired the two or three slaves who hastily obeyed the summons to prepare sweetmeats and coffee, suddenly sank into silence, as though waiting to learn the purport of our visit. My companion, acting upon the presumption that some mistake must exist, although she was unable to comprehend its nature, once more inquired if she were correct in supposing that we were in the palace of the Scodra Pasha.
Again she was answered affirmatively.
“And you are then the beautiful daughter of the Pasha, of whom I have heard so much?”
“I am the wife of his son,”—was the reply, which, concise as it was, brought a brighter blush to the cheek of the speaker.
And she was beautiful, according to the strict rule of Turkish loveliness; with rich red lips, large dark sleepy eyes, and a throat as white and dazzling as the inner leaf of the water-lily.
“You are young to be a wife; have you been long married?”