French And Oriental Love In A Harem - French and Oriental Love in a Harem Part 4
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French and Oriental Love in a Harem Part 4

Next, out of consideration for your poor intellect, let me inform you also that under the blessed skies of Turkey the wife has no such presumptuous ambition as that of possessing a husband all to herself.

Reared with a view to the harem, the young girl aims no higher in her ambitious fancy than to become the favourite and outshine her rivals; but never, never in the world, does she conceive the outlandish notion of becoming the sole object of the affections of lover, master, or husband. The ideal of girls like Zouhra, Nazli, Hadidje, and Kondje-Gul, is the life which I am now giving them; they abandon themselves to it, as to the realisation of their hopes. Their notions respecting the destiny of woman do not go beyond this happiness, which they now possess, of pleasing their master and being loved in this way by him. It is no use, therefore, for you to string together a lot of conventional abstractions with a view to drawing from them any deductions applicable to the laws of the Kingdom of Love.

The truth is that Hadidje, Nazli, and Zouhra burst into transports of joy when Kondje-Gul repeated to them my promise to be "faithful to all four of them."

My dear fellow, there is a great deal of the child remaining in these creatures, who seem to have been only created to expand their beauty, as flowers are to exhale their perfume. Cloistered in the life of the harem, their ideas do not reach beyond the horizon of the harem. Their hearts and their minds have only been cultivated by recitals of wonderful legends and of superstitious romances of love; they know nothing else.

You may say, if you like, that they are just pretty little animals without souls--but you would be wrong. Again I repeat, most of our so-called refined and civilised ideas about sentiment, virtue, propriety, and modesty, are conventional ideas, differing according to place, climate, and habits; and this you will see clearly by following my story, which I may with good reason call natural history, for when I take the instincts of my little animals by surprise, they display for a moment bold impulses which bear much more resemblance to genuine innocence of mind than do certain affectations of modesty practised by the young ladies of our educated society.

The slipper being nearly dry, Kondje-Gul put it on her little arched foot, with its famous light green silk stocking, and we recommenced our course through the park. I will say nothing about a row we took in a boat on the lake, with great willows on its banks. The swans and the Mandarin ducks followed us in procession.

Mohammed, like a wise man, had foreseen that I should stay at the Kasre.

The dinner this time was served in the French style. He did not sit down with us as he had done the day before; I had no longer need of him, and he returned to the obscure position which he was henceforth to occupy during my visits. I sat down to table, therefore, with my houris; and this meal, in which everything was new to them, became a veritable feast. They nibbled and tasted a bit of everything with exclamations of surprise, with careful investigations, and with little gourmandish airs of inexpressible charm. I should tell you that my cook only won their unanimous approbation at dessert, when they commenced to make a sort of second dinner of sweets and cakes, creams and fruit. The champagne pleased them above all things, and would have ended by turning their little heads, but for my careful attention. Whilst they vied with each other in merriment and gay prattle, I was thinking of that oriental meal of the night before in which I had seated myself by them in the reserved attitude of a stranger. What a dream fulfilled! What fairy's wand had produced this magical effect? I tell you it was a regular transformation scene. At dessert Hadidje bent her head down to me with a mischievous look, and laughed as she spoke some Turkish word.

"Sana yanarim!" I replied, emphasizing the sentence with a kiss on her hand. I had learnt from Kondje-Gul that it means "I love you," or more literally, "I am burning for you."

You may guess how successful this was, and with what shouts of joy it was received. Of course there followed a little make-believe scene of jealousy on the part of the others.

"Kianet! ah, Kianet!" they repeated, laughing, and threatening me with uplifted fingers. This expression signifies "ungrateful."

When evening arrived I took them into the park to calm the warmth of their emotions down a little. It was a splendid moonlight night, and the long black shadows of the trees stretched over the walk. As we passed these dark places the timid creatures pressed close about me.

Ah! well, you don't expect me, I suppose, to tell you how this day was concluded? Affairs of the harem, my dear fellow!--affairs of the harem!

As to my other news, I hardly need tell you that nobody in this neighbourhood has a suspicion of the secrets of El-Nouzha. In my external life I conform to all the social requirements of my position. I visit my uncle's old friends, Feraudet the notary, and the good old vicar, who calls me the Providence of the place. Once a week I dine with the doctor, Morand; who has a son, George Morand, an officer in the Spahis, on leave for the present at Ferouzat; and an orphan niece, a young lady of nineteen, lively and sympathetic. She is engaged to her cousin the captain, who is a regular _Africain_, a fire-eater you may call him, but a good fellow in the full sense of that word--one of those open natures made for devotion, like a Newfoundland dog, or a poodle. He is both formidable and patient. Such is my friend! We were playmates as children, and he would not brook the slightest insult to me in his presence. He wonders very much at my anchorite's life, and in order to divert me from it, endeavours to draw me into the hidden current of rustic gallantries which he indulges in while awaiting the day of Hymen.

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CHAPTER III.

In the detailed account which I gave you, my dear Louis, of my honeymoon, I described pretty nearly the history of every day which has passed since I last wrote. "Happy nations have no history," said a wise man; happiness requires no description. First then, you must understand that I am now writing after recovery from the natural excitement into which my strange adventures had plunged me. Three months have passed; I am now enjoying my life like a refined vizir, and no longer like a simple troubadour of Provence, transported of a sudden into the Caliph's harem. I have recovered my analytical composure.

As you may well imagine I set to work, after the second day, to learn Turkish, an easy task after my studies in Sanscrit. Add to this that, with the aid of love, my houris have learnt French, with all the marvellous facility and linguistic instinct of the Asiatic races. You will not be astonished to learn, then, that I can now share with them all the pleasures of conversation; a happy result which will permit me henceforth to furnish a more complete description of their different characters.

Having said this, I will give you in the present letter, with a view of enabling you to understand this narrative more perfectly, the most precise details upon the following subjects:

First--The organisation, laws, and internal regulations of my harem;

Second--Full-length portraits of my odalisques, and a description of their characters;

Third--A careful dissertation upon the advantages of polygamy, and its applicability to the moral regeneration of mankind.

I will first confess, without any presumption, that the ingenious system established for the conduct of my harem is all due to my uncle Barbassou, who, as much as any man in the world, was always particularly careful to maintain what the English term "respectability." In the eyes of the whole neighbourhood, nay, even of my own household, Mohammed-Azis is an exile, a person of high political rank, to whom my uncle had given a hospitable retreat.

Barbassou-Pasha always addressed him respectfully as "Your Excellency,"

nor did any servant in the chateau speak in different terms of him. He had had the misfortune to lose one of his daughters--so the story goes--for he seems to have had originally five. Whether his daughters are young or old, no one knows. In the interior of the Kasre all the services are performed by Greek women, who do not know a word of French; they never go out of doors. The gardeners have to leave the gardens at nine o'clock in the morning. All these arrangements, as you will perceive, are extremely correct. The story about Mohammed is a very plausible one; his solemn and melancholy expression together with his solitary life, are thoroughly in conformity with the fallen grandeur of a minister in disgrace. He is writing, according to report, a memoir in justification of his conduct. He works at it both day and night, and it is well-known that I very often sit up quite late with him, in order to assist him in this task.

As for me, I do not suppose you imagine that, like the Knight Tannhauser on the Venusberg, I am continually wasting my spirit and my strength over what Heine calls "the sweets and dainties of love;" or that the philtres of Circe have transformed me into a hog like the companions of Ulysses.--Go gently, my dear fellow! I am a representative of the learned cohort, please to remember! I keep a careful diary of my observations, from which I intend to draw up a report for the Academy.

Like those bold investigators of pathological science who inoculate themselves with a deadly virus in order to study its effects upon themselves, I, a serious analytical student, am devoting myself to a course of experiments in pure sensualism, to the sole profit of Science. Without restrictions, but in full consciousness of the high mission which I have undertaken; without cheating myself with too small a dose of the intoxicating draught, I act like an honest Epicurean. I take of the voluptuous delights of my harem as large a dose as an intelligent and refined student of nature ought to require, but without imprudently overstraining the springs of sensation. Armed with the dexterity of superior wisdom, I, floating on this Oriental stream of Love, know how to remain faithful to my charge, by avoiding the rocks of satiety and the shipwreck of illusions.

Every day then, about three o'clock, after having devoted the morning to my business affairs or to my "Essays on Psychology," I go to El-Nouzha, and stay there usually until the middle of the night. However, I sometimes go there of a morning, for a bath; I am teaching my houris to swim. I must tell you that in this matter, indispensable for the comfort of the sultanas, Barbassou-Pasha designed a marvel. In the middle of an island in the lake (which is taken from the delightful garden of See-ma-Kouang, the famous Chinese poet), picture to yourself a great marble basin surrounded by a circular arcade, a sort of _atrium_ open to the sky. Under a colonnade and in its cool shade, a fine Manilla mat covers the flag-stones. The base of the inner walls is enlivened with frescoes, after Pompeian and Herculanean models. Round the white pillars cling myrtles and climbing roses, reaching up to the terrace ornamented with vases and statues, which stand out in relief against a mass of purple drapery. Here are set capacious divans in leather, hammocks, carpets, and cushions to recline upon. Such is the aspect of this enchanting place. On many a hot morning we have breakfasted there, and it is from there that I write to you to-day, dressed in a Persian robe with wide sleeves, while around me sports my harem; affording me, therefore, an excellent excuse for at once proceeding to sketch the portraits of my _almees_.

In all beings the internal character is so closely allied to the external form, that it appears to be only an equation of the latter.

Thus certain features of the face announce peculiarities of nature, inclinations, and instincts even to the vulgar; the physiologist, with his more special knowledge, discovers quite a series of concealed revelations in the innermost recesses of that pretty sphinx which constitutes God's masterpiece, and which we call woman. In the same way grace is always the result of the harmony of lines; from the slightest outline, from the position of a dimple, or the tension of a smile, from a glance, or from the most transient gesture, one can always trace the origin of a feeling, and lay bare the mind. Thus, at this moment, I behold Hadidje leave the water, and saunter quietly in the direction of Nazli and Zouhra, who are reclining on cushions and smoking cigarettes.

By the air of indifference that she affects I could wager that she contemplates playing them some trick!

And indeed, when close to the smokers, she suddenly shook her hair. The two others jumped up under the spray of sparkling water, and ran after her, beating her with their fans and fly-flaps.

Kondje-Gul, the heedless beauty, who is rocking herself in her hammock beside me, scarcely raises her lazy head to follow them with a glance, at the sound of their cries and laughter. Since her name is at the end of my pen, I will begin my series of portraits with her.

Kondje-Gul is a Circassian by race. Her name in Turkish signifies a variety of rose which we are not acquainted with in France; she was brought when quite a child to Constantinople by her mother, attached to the service of a cadine of the Sultan. She is now eighteen. Imagine the Caucasian type in the flower of its beauty, tall, with the figure of a young goddess, an expression of natural indolence which appears to indicate a consciousness of her sovereign beauty, and a fine head crowned with thick chestnut hair falling down to her waist. Her features are clean cut, and of a remarkably pure type. Large brown eyes with heavy eyelids, imparting a languishing expression; lips somewhat sensual, which from her habit of carrying her head erect, she seems always to be holding out for a kiss; a mixture of Greek beauty with a strange sort of grace peculiar to this Tcherkessian race, which still remains a trifle savage. All these characteristics make up an _ensemble_ both exotic and marvellous, which I could no more describe to you than I could explain the scent of the lily. Of a loving and tender nature, she exhibits the disposition of a child in whom ardent impulses are united with a profound gentleness of sentiment. She is the jealous one of my household--but, hush! the others know nothing of this.... Certainly she is the most remarkable and the most perfect of my little animals.

Hadidje is a Jewess of Samos, a Jewess of a type singularly rare among the descendants of Israel. She is a blonde of a mingled tint, soft and golden, of which the Veronese blonde will give you no idea. Her beauty is undoubtedly one of those effects of selection and crossing admitted as the foundation of Darwin's system.... England has left her trace there! Picture to yourself one of those "Keepsake" girls escaped from Byron's "Bride of Abydos" or his "Giaour;" take some such charming creature, fair and fresh-complexioned, white and pink, and plunge her in the atmosphere of the harem, which will orientalise her charms and give her that--whatever it is--which characterises the undulating fascinations of the sultanas.

My dear friend, an incredible event has happened--an event astounding, unheard of, supernatural! Don't try to guess; you will never succeed, _never!_ It surpasses the most prodigious and miraculous occurrence ever imagined by human brain.

Yesterday I had broken off my letter, distracted by Hadidje, at the very moment when I was tracing her portrait for you. The day passed away before I again found leisure to finish it. This morning I was breakfasting at the chateau all alone in my study, where I generally have my meals, in order not to interrupt my work. While I was ruminating over the last number of a scientific magazine, my ear was struck by the noise of a carriage rolling over the gravel walk. As I very seldom receive visits, and my friend George, the spahi, always comes on foot, I thought it must be my notary coming to stir me up about some business matters; he had been reproaching me the last fortnight for neglecting them. The carriage stopped in front of the doorsteps. I heard the servants running across the antichamber. Suddenly I heard a cry, followed by confused voices, which sounded as though trembling with fright, and finally fresh sounds of steps, rushing headlong, as in a sudden rout. Wondering what this might mean, I listened, when all of a sudden a stentorian voice shouted out these words:--

"But what's the matter with those blockheads? How much longer are they going to leave me here with my bag?"

Louis, imagine my amazement and stupefaction! I thought I recognised the voice of my dead uncle, which in the brazen notes of a trumpet grew louder and louder, adding in a pompous, commanding tone--

"Francois! if I catch you, you rascal, you'll soon know what for!"

I jump up, run to the window, and see quite distinctly my uncle, Barbassou Pasha himself.

"Hullo! you here, my boy?" says he.

As for me, I leap over the balcony, and fall into his arms; he lifts me up from the ground, as if I were a child, and we embrace each other. You may guess my emotion, my surprise, my transports of joy! The servants watched us from a distance, frightened and not yet daring to approach near.

"Ah, well!" repeated my uncle; "what on earth's the matter with them?

Have I grown any horns?"

"I will explain everything," I said; "come in, while they take up your luggage."

"All right!" he replied; "and get some breakfast for me, quick! I'm as hungry as a wolf."

All this was said with the dignity of a man who never allows himself to be surprised at anything, and in that meridional accent, the ring of which is sufficient to betray the origin of the man. My uncle speaks seven languages; at Paris, as you know, he pronounces with the pure accent of a Parisian, but directly he sets foot in Provence, that's all over; he resumes his brogue, or as they call it down here, the _assent_.

He came in, stepping briskly, and holding his head erect; I followed him. Once in my study, and seeing the table laid, he sat down as naturally as if he had just returned from a walk in the park, poured out two large glasses of wine, which he swallowed one after the other with a gulp of deep satisfaction; and then made a cut at a pie, which he attacked in a serious manner, rendering it quite impossible to mistake him for a spectre. I let him alone, still contemplating him with amazement. When I considered him ready to answer my questions, I said--

"Well, uncle, where have you come from?"