Lord Byron's Novel (31 page)

Ali now of a sudden has recalled to mind this strange system of life, and remembered an old woman he knew as a child, who dwelt thus as a Nun alone and unhusbanded—and now he understands both
what
and
who
the maid before him is.

‘Iman!’ breathes he. ‘ ’Tis thou!’

She turns away, then, as though ashamed that
he
should see her thus—though when
alone,
she had stood in proud sufficiency, and gazed about the world as one in possession of it. Anon she raises her head, and looks to him—she, who was first to recognize
him,
the companion of her childhood—and she laughs—so changed is he—and he too laughs—and says that in his heart and mind she is still a Child—still as he last saw her—she too avers the same—then they must needs look long, on eyes and lips, hands, heads, and all, which are the eyes, lips, hands, &c., of the one each knew, and of
another,
whom they know
not,
at the same time—and they cannot speak, or speak but cannot
say
. At last with a soft and hesitant gesture—a gesture from which all the
man
is gone away—Iman pushes up Ali’s loose sleave, to show the old mark upon his arm that she remembers being made. And when she has seen it, she turns back her own sleave, and there upon her arm is the same mark—self-made, more roughly drawn, as though half-remembered—but the same. Then all the years that have divided them dissolve as though they had not passed, and they two are as they were,
one soul
that passes between two beings, without let or hindrance! And yet when Ali moves to take the hand that once he would not
relinquish
but at need, she draws away from him, as from danger.

‘Tell me,’ Ali beseeches. ‘Does our old Grandsire live? Tell me what befell you, that you are as I see you. Was there no one to protect you?’

‘He is dead,’ she replies. ‘Dead long ago—I will show you the place where he lies. He never ceased to grieve for your absence. Until he died I was permitted to live alone and serve him, but thereupon the Elders contracted a marriage for me—an old Widower eager for a Handmaid—and I refused.’

She had when taken to the Widower’s
han
refused his advances—fought him like the tyger Ali knew her to be—and as soon as opportunity presented itself, fled into the Desert alone—not caring if she died. Captured again by people of her own,
she
fought them, too, with fierce resolve—swore that if they returned her to her proposed
fiancé
she would flee again, or slit his throat as he slept, or do such things—what they were she knew not, but they would be ‘the terror of the earth’. They bound her in straps of hide to keep her from running away, and she bit through the bonds, and so escaped again—was caught again—and thereupon, though without sponsor or ally, she demanded to be allowed to take the vow of Chastity that one such as herself was permitted by their laws.

‘Did you so hate that old man, as to give up all to quit his claim on you?’ Ali asked—and she answered, ‘She had not hated him—nor any man—did not hate—no, ’twas not that,’ and she cast all down her eyes, and tugg’d her hood forward, that he might not see her face.

Then had she never loved? Had all those years, the Spring of her own life, been spent in nun-like renunciation? Had no Youth, of all those fine young men who guard the flocks, and ride for the Pacha, or hunt the Boar, caused her to regret what she had done, what choice she had made? ‘Why, what
choice
?’ said she then. ‘Little choice had I—to live a life with one I did not love, or to die. I chose not to die—’tis all—and thus—’—Here she lifted her head, and he saw she smiled, and her eyes were amused—‘Thus it is
I
who ride, I who hunt, I who speak in council. Is not this much? Is it more than love? Tell me.’

‘Little enough I know of love,’ responded he—‘except its cost—I know not what it may be traded for. Iman! Now I have found thee—and thou me—I see thou art lost to me as surely as if I had never returned from that curséd land where I was taken!’

Iman made no answer—she stood then, and summoned him too to rise. A great tenderness suffused her features, and a great sadness the eyes that gazed upon him—orbs that were unchanged, of all that belonged to her. ‘Come,’ said she. ‘I will take you to our Council, and my
fellows
will make you welcome—for you were thought to be dead, and you are returned. Ask no more!’

Silent they were, those stern Herdsmen, at the Prodigal’s return, when Ali made himself known to them—most expressed no delight—nor disapproval neither—one, tho’ unsmiling, took his hand—another wondered at his mount, and baggage, what it might contain, and asked to see his sword, mark of the old Pacha’s favor—but another turn’d away and refused his Salute, for the same reason, that Ali had been (last this fellow heard) a soldier of that Pacha who had despoiled their clan. He tried to describe to them his adventures among the Infidels, but they could little understand him—they laughed, as at a joke, or an extravagance—or grew bored by the Impossibility they perceived—and so he left off. Nevertheless his place among them was not disputed—he found shelter, and (when his soft hands had toughened) would find work to do too.

With Iman indeed ’twas otherwise—with her he opened, as it were, a book long closed and clasped, the time of his earliest youth—some pages he had forgotten, or misremembered—some he still had
by heart
. In a dim vale they lay together as they had once lain, to listen to the sleepy noontide—and remembering what he had then
felt,
yet had then no name for, Ali experienced the breaking-open within him of old sealed springs of purest serene. Now indeed he knew a name—knew whither his feelings
then
had tended—and so did Iman too—yet they were kept as chaste
now
by her vows, as they had been then by childish Ignorance—still as delighted, but now not satisfied. Her hand slipt into his—and as soon withdrew—her eye fell from his—yet her smile remained—and he sighed, and stirred—and anon they must depart from those solitudes—they
must,
and they know it.

When it appeared (as soon it did) that all Ali cared for was to be near Iman—and that
she
had changed—and cared for naught but to wake him in the morning, and ride with him at noon, and laugh with him at night—then the tempers of those clansmen darkened. The story of how he and she had been
as one
when they were but
kids
was remembered—at Fountain and Fire-side they were watched as suspiciously, and as closely, as any two Youths in silks and broadcloth are, who conspire together at a Ball or a Masquerade in London or in Bath—
more,
for the consequences were the more fatal, the punishment being
singular,
and each man an appointed Executioner, hand upon his weapon even as a smile is upon his lips. In the nations called Civilized, only those transgressions that involve two who are
truly
of one Sex, no matter how dressed or appurtenanced, are at risk of a hanging—
there,
the Law is otherwise. Nor in that well-trod and naked land were there those hundred convenient
spots
where a man and his leman might avoid the judging Eye—wherever she and he sat down, and spake their hearts, within an hour by the Sun would appear one as though by chance, to pass by in seeming indifference, yet note every particular of their suspicious retirement. Unbearable did it soon become to them—who were a world to each other, and yet could not shake the world from them!

‘Then I will be gone,’ Ali declared to her at last. ‘I bring nothing but danger to you here. Better far that we be parted—as before we were!—than that I should bring death upon you.’

‘Then be gone!’ cried Iman, starting up. ‘Now when thou hast found me, leave me! Yet know that that, too, is death to me!’

‘And to
me
—yet do not die—be what you were—let me go, and forgive me!’

‘Dost thou fear death? I do not!’ And here she drew forth the Pistol at her waist—prepared (Ali had little doubt) to make an end of him, and then herself—an
absolutist,
like all her people! Yet she allowed him to take the weapon from her gently—and in his arms like a girl she wept.

‘Iman,’ spoke he then. ‘If you will brave death—then seize
life
—it demands as much Courage—yet the reward is more than night & the Pyre—if it be had.’

‘What thou wilt dare, I will dare,’ cried she, and her dark eyes were alight as a tyger’s, all resolve, all courage. ‘Never doubt me!’

‘Never did I,’ said he, ‘and never shall. Now attend!’

So matters stood when Ali made it known publicly that he wished to address the clan’s general Council of Elders, who passed on all matters of importance, and settled all questions. His petition was not answered immediately, but, after some doubtful Consideration, was admitted—and, when still further time had passed to allow for the gathering of some far-flung personages of rank, the Council was duly called. A proper Solemnity soon obtained, and when a pipe had been smoked in thoughtful silence, Ali was invited to speak. He began by paying the company such high compliments as he could retrieve in his first tongue, and then gave to their Excellencies his humble apologies, that he had not sooner come before them, to make obeisance—a sentiment they received with grave demeanour, as befitting their dignities. Next he proposed to them a feast, in honour of himself—here there was some laughter at his presumption—or rather in honour of his returning to his home and people, never more to roam (and here his eye, as it were passing over all to
include
all, struck upon Iman, whose look remain’d solemn). All things, said he, would be furnished, and the Cost would all be his—which won much approval—and the proposal was thereupon consented to, man by man. Nodding and smiling were general at the conclusion, and a propitious day was fixed, tho’ indeed all days in that season were alike; and the pipes lit again; and to signal Unanimity, a few guns were discharged at the cloudless blue.

It is commonly thought that our vices differ from the Mussulman’s—in that he foregoes strong drink, and favours a pipe, and Pathic, where we like a bottle, and a Wench—but ’tis only true in part. In the realms of the Sultan and the Faith are many lands and peoples—and though in these Albanian parts drink is not often seen, the men call themselves the greatest swillers of all the Prophet’s followers, and can gape and swallow better than any—the only limit being the
bottom of the tun
. It was not long—yet it took a search—till Ali found enough skins of wine and jars of
rakia,
as they name their potent Brandy, to furnish forth the Celebration he conceived. It was to be
al fresco
of necessity, for there was no interior large enough for the clan’s men to foregather, and indoors is less convenient than out when guns are to be fired, and powder wasted with the proper extravagance. All were invited, of those not
in blood
with one another, or at least willing to vow to shoot only
upwards
for these few hours—all the
men,
I mean, which of course included the man Iman.

‘Do not
you
drink—only seem to,’ Ali said privily and as though in passing to Iman. ‘Nor shall I. Be ready upon my signal.’ To which Iman made no reply—no more than a Warrior might, to a Companion, not
needing
to reply to that which necessity ordains, and is agree’d to without words—and never had she seemed more a man to him, than in her composure and courage then—he smiled in secret, to know otherwise, and to think how strangely the world is arranged.

At sunset the celebration began—a great fire was lit, and the Elders led to seats of dignity (tho’ they were but carpets thrown over stone) and the Musicians set a-wailing in that music unimaginable till heard, and unforgettable ever after. A whole kid stuffed with Raisins and Rice had been turned upon the spit since noon, and now was parted, and the pieces eat with eager hands on plates of Flat-bread—and the Drink was broke out, and the skins passed and re-passed. The effect of those was instantaneous, and joy was unconfined—voices lifted in Song, if so it may be named—weapons discharged, and reloaded—and discharged again. As night darkened and the sparks of the fire soar’d into the black above to die, the dancing commenced—as the
moralizing
does in a Quaker meeting—when the Spirit moved one to begin, and then another. The supple boys the first, who in a snaking line proceeded thro’ the company, with languorous gesture and a demeanour at once proud and smouldering—
interpretation
being impossible—and as the pipe and tambour quicken’d so did they, and others then leapt up to join.

Through all this, Iman by removes withdrew, tho’ arousing no question—laughing with the rest, and lifting a Cup never emptied—to the outskirts of the gay circle—as she (though a
man
) by custom ought, lest some insult be offered her under Bacchus’ influence. There she noted where stood Ali’s swift horse—its panniers readied, its saddle on—as well as the best of the mounts the visitors had arrived on, the best being none too fine.

Now the drink flows as water in that land does
not
—all freely and overmuch—now the deepest guzzlers totter and sway—some old ones already wrapt in Oblivion—but others, in thrall to the laughing demon in wine, dance in abandon. The youths whirl with the speeding music, and some lift their shirts even to the brown paps, to show a
danse du ventre
. One grey-headed bright-eyed fellow, his beard flecked with foam, is so inflamed as to advance with felonious intent upon them, but confused as to which he would seize—they avoid this satyr with laughter, let him fall to his knees. Soon those not whirling are spewing or sleeping; and even the dancers themselves begin to fall like ninepins—and in the uproar that follows, which draws all eyes, Ali makes his sign to Iman.

In silence they slip separately from the throng—no one takes notice—they draw away their horses—till they are beyond the circle of light the fading fire makes, where they take hands for a breath’s duration, mount, and in a moment they are gone—silent—vanished, as ghosts vanish upon the sound of the morning-bell!