SITTA NEFYSSEH.
She was reposing in her garden-kiosk. She had ordered her female slaves to place themselves in the rear of some rose-bushes in the background, and make sweet harmony with their cymbals and clarinets.
She wished to be left alone with her thoughts. She lay reclining at full length on her silver-embroidered silken cushions. The white silk dress, inworked with crimson roses, enfolded her closely, displaying the contour of her graceful form. The sunlight pierced the airy latticework of the kiosk, around which clustered roses and orange-blossoms, and shed a soft light over her charming countenance. The veil, which Sitta Nefysseh only wears when she goes into the streets or meets strangers in her house, is laid aside.
Beautiful is Sitta Nefysseh, more beautiful than a young girl, than the unblown rose, radiant with loveliness and dignity. "Queen of the Roses," thus is she called by all Cairo.
Who does not know her--who has not heard of her, of the Rose of Cairo, of the wife of the great Mourad Bey, the Mameluke chieftain?
Even the Franks bowed humbly before her grace and dignity, and the scha-er sings and relates, on the street-corners, of the French general, Kleber, who loved Mourad's beautiful wife, and who often, in the stillness of the evening, haunted the vicinity of his palace, awaiting, perhaps, an opportunity to invade the harem in which the Rose of Cairo dwelt. And in his songs he also intimates that the dagger-stroke which lay the general low near the palace, was dealt at the instigation of the jealous bey.
Who does not know Sitta Nefysseh, the benefactress of the poor, the proud heroine who fought at her husband's side, who shared with Mourad the dangers of war, a heroine in battle, a gentle, modest woman in the harem?
All is still about her. The waters of the fountains near the kiosk murmur gently as they fall in the basins beneath, as if to lull the beautiful woman to rest with their music, and now the soft music from behind the rose-bushes is also wafted over, to the kiosk.
The slaves accompany the instruments with their voices.
What are they singing? What song is this that exults and is yet filled with sadness? whose strains are so passionate, so lamenting, so longing?
Sitta Nefysseh well knows what they are; although the words are inaudible, yet she knows them, knows the sad love-song "of her whom he loved, of him who slew her." The song is a familiar one. But why does it excite such emotion in her heart, why do her large black eyes fill with tears? She would permit no one to see these tears, she would quickly brush them from her sparkling eyes with her hand, white as the lily, if the eye of any human being could now behold her.
But no one sees her--Sitta Nefysseh is alone.
At least she thinks so. The pair of black eyes that peer out from behind the shrubbery and flowers near the garden-wall, she does not see, and yet these eyes are fixed with such anguish and longing, with such passionate ardor, on the lovely woman who lies there dreamily on her cushions.
Of what is she dreaming? The slaves are singing of love and bliss;the waters murmuring of love and bliss, and, in the heart of the beautiful Sitta Nefysseh, there are also singing, sighing, and murmuring of love and bliss!
People say that Sitta Nefysseh is proud and has a cold heart. Love has never dared to approach her since the death of her husband, Mourad Bey. She is kindly in her manner toward all, yet no one dares suppose she views him with more favor than others. She keeps all men at a distance; they all love her and bow down in reverence and adoration before her, but Sitta Nefysseh remains proud and cold; she loves no one!
This the people say, and, if she heard it, she would nod her beautiful head, would smile and say: "They are right, I love no one.
Mourad Bey, my husband and my hero, him I loved! Since he is dead, Iam alone and love no one!"
The black eyes are still peering out through the shrubbery and flowers, fixed on her with passionate ardor. She does not see them;but now, as she raises her head as if to rise from her cushions, these eyes quickly disappear, and a tall, manly figure, stooping forward behind the trees and shrubbery, glides noiselessly along to the gate that leads into the inner court-yard. But, before he steps out, young Youssouf stands still, draws a long breath, and seems to summon all his resolution to his aid to resist the charm that carries him away.
"If she knew that I watched her, she would drive me from her, and then Youssouf would die. Alas! she may not dream that I love her, she is proud and unapproachable, and what am I to her? The poor kachef of her deceased husband! She tolerates me as she tolerates the dog that is accustomed to lie on the threshold of her door.
Alas, I should die if she knew of Youssouf's love for her!"Kachef Youssouf is handsome, and, were it not the noble Sitta Nefysseh, exception would be taken to a woman's having so handsome a kachef in her service. But Sitta Nefysseh is unapproachable, virtue attends her in all her ways, modesty and dignity are everywhere her companions. No one dares approach her chaste reputation with even a breath of reproach.
Youssouf steps into the inner court-yard; he lays his hand on his brown beard and strokes its curly locks.
"Be a man," murmur his lips. "Be resolute. Alas! I could endure not being the one if no other dared approach her. But here comes one of them already. He can approach her and speak of love. Woe is me!"With profound deference, and forcing his features into a smile, Youssouf approached Osman Bey Bardissi, who at this moment came into the court, mounted on his proud, splendidly-equipped steed, and followed by a body of his Mamelukes.
"Is your mistress at home?" asked Bardissi, springing lightly to the ground, and throwing the purple-silk reins to the Mameluke who hurried forward.
