Halil the Pedlar: A Tale of Old Stambul by Mór Jókai (most important books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: Mór Jókai
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The Grand Vizier turned first of all to Halil, whom he addressed with benign condescension.
"The Padishah assures thee through me of his grace and favour, and of his own good pleasure appoints thee Beglerbeg of Rumelia."
And with that a couple of dülbendars advanced with the costly kaftan of investiture.
Halil Patrona reflected for an instant.
The Sultan indeed had always been gracious towards him. He evidently wanted to favour him with an honourable way of retreat. He was offering him a high dignity whereby he might be able to withdraw from the capital, and yet at the same time gratify his ambition. The Sultan really had a kindly heart then. He rewards the man whom his ministers would punish as a malefactor.
But his hesitation only lasted for a moment. Then he recovered himself and resolutely answered:
"I will not accept that kaftan. For myself I ask nothing. I did not come here to receive high office, I came to hear war proclaimed."
The Grand Vizier bowed down before him.
"Thy word is decisive. The Padishah has decided that what thou and thy comrades demand shall be accomplished. The Grand Seignior himself awaits[Pg 264] thee in the Porcelain Chamber. There war shall be proclaimed, and the kaftans of remembrance distributed to thee and thy fellows."
And with that the Ulemas and Halil's comrades were led away to the kiosk of Erivan.
"And ye who are the finest fellows of us all," said Kabakulak, turning to Halil and Musli—"ye, Halil and Musli, come first of all to kiss the Sultan's hand."
Halil with a cold smile pressed Musli's hand. Even now poor Musli had no idea what was about to befall them. Only when at "the gate of the cold spring" the Spahis on guard divested them of their weapons, for none may approach the Sultan with a sword by him—only, then, I say, did he have a dim sensation that all was not well.
In the Sofa Chamber, where the Divan is erected, is a niche separated from the rest of the chamber by a high golden trellis-work screen, behind whose curtains it is the traditional custom of the Sultan to listen privately to the deliberations of his counsellors. From behind these curtains a woman's face was now peeping. It was Adsalis, the favourite Sultana, and behind her stood Elhaj Beshir, the Kizlar-Aga. Both of them knew there would be a peculiar spectacle, something well worth seeing in that chamber to-day.
The curtains covering the doors of the Porcelain[Pg 265] Chamber bulged out, and immediately afterwards two men entered. They advanced to the steps of the Sultan's throne, knelt down there, and kissed the hem of the Sultan's garment.
Mahmud was sitting on his throne, the same instant Kabakulak clapped his hands and cried:
"Bring in their kaftans!"
At these words out of the adjoining apartment rushed Pelivan and the thirty-two Janissaries with drawn swords.
Mahmud hid his face so as not to see what was about to happen.
"Halil! we are betrayed!" exclaimed Musli, and placing himself in front of his comrade he received on his own body the first blow which Pelivan had aimed at Halil.
"In vain hast thou written thy name above mine, Patrona," roared the giant, waving his huge broadsword above his head.
At these words Halil drew forth from his girdle a dagger which he had secreted there, and hurled it with such force at Pelivan that the sharp point pierced his left shoulder.
But the next moment he was felled to the ground by a mortal blow.
While still on his knees he raised his eyes to Heaven and said:[Pg 266]
"It is the will of Allah."
At another blow he collapsed, and falling prone breathed forth his last sigh:
"I die, but my son is still alive."
And he died.
Then all his associates were brought into the Sofa Chamber one by one from the Erivan kiosk where they had been robed in splendid kaftans, and as they entered the room were decapitated one after the other. They had not even time to shut their eyes before the fatal stroke descended.
Six-and-twenty of them perished there and then.
Only three survived the day, Sulali, Mohammed the dervish, and Alir Aalem, the custodian of the sacred banner and justiciary of Stambul. All three were Ulemas, and therefore not even the Sultan was free to slay them.
Accordingly the Grand Vizier appointed them all Sandjak-Begs, or governors of provinces.
As they knew nothing of the death of their comrades they accepted the dignities conferred upon them, renouncing at the same time as usual their office of Ulemas.
The following day they were all put to death.
On the third day after that the people of the city in their walks abroad saw eight-and-thirty severed heads stuck on the ends of spears over the central[Pg 267] gate of the Seraglio. All these heads, with their starting eyes and widely parted lips, seemed to be speaking to the amazed multitudes; only Halil Patrona's eyes were closed and his lips sealed.
Suddenly a great cry of woe arose from one end of the city to the other, the people seized their arms and rushed off to the Etmeidan under three banners.
They had no other leader now but Janaki, all the rest had escaped or were dead. So now they brought him forward. The tidings of Halil's death wrought no change in him, he had foreseen it long before, and was well aware that Gül-Bejáze had departed from the capital. He had himself prepared for her the little dwelling in the valley lost among the ravines of Mount Taurus, which was scarce known to any save to him and the few dwellers there, and he had brought back with him from thence a pair of carrier-pigeons, so that in case of necessity he might be able to send messages to his daughter without having to depend on human agency.
When the clamorous mob invited him to the Etmeidan he wrote to his daughter on a tiny shred of vellum, and tied the letter beneath the wing of the pigeon.
And this is what he wrote:
"God's grace be with thee! Wait not for Halil, he[Pg 268] is dead. The Janissaries have killed him. And I shall not be long after him, take my word for it. But live thou and watch over thy child.—Janaki."
With that he opened the window and let the dove go, and she, rising swiftly into the air, remained poised on high for a time with fluttering pinions, and then, with the swiftness and directness of a well-aimed dart, she flew straight towards the mountains.
"Poor Irene!" sighed Janaki, buckling on his sword with which he certainly was not very likely to kill anybody—and he accompanied the insurgents to the Etmeidan.
In Stambul things were all topsy-turvy once more. The seventh Janissary regiment, when the two-and-thirty Janissaries returned to them with bloody swords boasting of their deed, rushed upon them and cut them to pieces. The new Janissary Aga was shot dead within his own gates. Kabakulak retired within a mosque. Halil Pelivan, who had been appointed Kulkiaja, hid himself in a drain pipe for three whole days, and never emerged therefrom so long as the uproar lasted.
Three days later all was quiet again.
A new name came to the front which quelled the risen tempest—the last scion of the famous Küprili family, every member of which was a hero.
Achmed Küprilizade collected together the ten[Pg 269] thousand shebejis, bostanjis, and baltajis who dwelt round the Seraglio, and when everyone was in despair attacked the rebels in the open streets, routed them in the piazzas, and in three days seven thousand of the people fell beneath his blows—and so the realm had peace once more.
Janaki also fell. They chopped off his head and he offered not the slightest resistance.
As for Pelivan and Kabakulak they were banished for their cowardice.
So Achmed Küprilizade became Grand Vizier.
As for Achmed III. he lived nine years longer in the Seven Towers, and tradition says he died by poison.[Pg 270]
[17] Tiger.
[18] Mouse.
CHAPTER XIII. THE EMPTY PLACE.Everything was now calm and quiet, and the world pursued its ordinary course; but far away among the Blue Mountains dwells a woman who knows nothing of all that is going on around her, and who every evening ascends the highest summit of the hills surrounding her little hut and gazes eagerly, longingly, in the direction of Stambul, following with her eyes the long zig-zag path which vanishes in the dim distance—will he come to-day whom she has so long awaited in vain?
Every evening she returns mournfully to her little dwelling, and whenever she sits down to supper she places opposite to her a platter and a mug—and so she waits for him who comes not. At night she lays Halil's pillow beside her, and puts their child between the pillow and herself that he may find it there when he comes.
And so day follows day.
One day there came a tapping at her window. With joy she leaps from her bed to open it.[Pg 271]
It is not Halil but a pigeon—a carrier-pigeon bringing a letter.
Gül-Bejáze opens the letter and reads it through—and a second time she reads it through, and then she reads it through a third time, and then she begins to smile and whispers to herself:
"He will be here directly."
From henceforth a mild insanity takes possession of the woman's mind—a species of dumb monomania which is only observable when her fixed idea happens to be touched upon.
At eventide she again betakes herself to the road which leads out of the valley. She shows the letter to an old serving-maid, telling her that the letter says that Halil is about to arrive, and a good supper must be made ready for him. The servant cannot read, so she believes her mistress.
An hour later the woman comes back to the house full of joy, her cheeks have quite a colour so quickly has she come.
"Hast thou not seen him?" she inquires of the servant.
"Whom, my mistress?"
"Halil. He has arrived. He came another way, and must be in the house by now."
The servant fancies that perchance Halil has come secretly and she, also full of joy, follows her mistress[Pg 272] into the room where the table has been spread for two persons.
"Well, thou seest that he is here," cries Gül-Bejáze, pointing to the empty place, and rushing to the spot, she embraces an invisible shape, her burning kisses resound through the air, and her eyes intoxicated with delight gaze lovingly—at nothing.
"Look at thy child!" she cries, lifting up her little son; "take him in thine arms. So! Kiss him not so roughly, for he is asleep. Look! thy kisses have awakened him. Thy beard has tickled him, and he has opened his eyes. Rock him in thine arms a little. Thou wert so fond of nursing him once upon a time. So! take him on thy lap. What! art thou tired? Wait and I will fill up thy glass for thee. Isn't the water icy-cold? I have just filled it from the spring myself."
Then she heaps more food on her husband's platter, and rejoices that his appetite is so good.
Then after supper she links her arm in his and, whispering and chatting tenderly, leads him into the garden in the bright moonlit evening. The faithful servant with tears in her eyes watches her as she walks all alone along the garden path, from end to end, beneath the trees, acting as if she were whispering and chatting with someone. She keeps on asking[Pg 273] him questions and listening to his replies, or she tells him all manner of tales that he has not heard before. She tells him all that has happened to her since they last separated, and shows him all the little birds and the pretty flowers. After that she bids him step into a little bower, makes him sit down beside her, moves her kaftan a little to one side so that he may not sit upon it, and that she may crouch up close beside him, and then she whispers and talks to him so lovingly and so blissfully, and finally returns to the little hut so full of shamefaced joy, looking behind her every now and then to cast another loving glance—at whom?
And inside the house she prepares his bed for him, and places a soft pillow for his head, lays her own warm soft arm beneath his head, presses him to her bosom and kisses him, and then lays her
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