Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 91
“Who is it?”
“It is my chief secretary, Toomuch Koffi. Yes, here he comes.”
As the Sultan spoke, the doors swung open and there entered an aged Turk, in a flowing gown and coloured turban, with a melancholy yellow face, and a long white beard that swept to his girdle.
“Who do you say he is?” I whispered to Abdul.
“My chief secretary,” he whispered back. “Toomuch Koffi.”
“He looks like it,” I murmured.
Meantime, Toomuch Koffi had advanced across the broad flagstones of the hall where we were sitting. With hands lifted he salaamed four times — east, west, north, and south.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
“It means,” said the Sultan, with visible agitation, “that he has a communication of the greatest importance and urgency, which will not brook a moment’s delay.”
“Well, then, why doesn’t he get a move on?” I whispered.
“Hush,” said Abdul.
Toomuch Koffi now straightened himself from his last salaam and spoke.
“Allah is great!” he said.
“And Mohammed is his prophet,” rejoined the Sultan.
“Allah protect you! And make your face shine,” said
Toomuch.
“Allah lengthen your beard,” said the Sultan, and he added aside to me in English, which Toomuch Koffi evidently did not understand, “I’m all eagerness to know what it is — it’s something big, for sure.” The little man was quite quivering with excitement as he spoke. “Do you know what I think it is? I think it must be the American Intervention. The United States is going to intervene. Eh? What? Don’t you think so?”
“Then hurry him up,” I urged.
“I can’t,” said Abdul. “It is impossible in Turkey to do business like that. He must have some coffee first and then he must pray and then there must be an interchange of presents.”
I groaned, for I was getting as impatient as Abdul himself.
“Do you not do public business like that in Canada?” the
Sultan continued.
“We used to. But we have got over it,” I said.
Meanwhile a slippered attendant had entered and placed a cushion for the secretary, and in front of it a little Persian stool on which he put a quaint cup filled with coffee black as ink.
A similar cup was placed before the Sultan.
“Drink!” said Abdul.
“Not first, until the lips of the Commander of the
Faithful—”
“He means ‘after you,’” I said. “Hurry up, Abdul.”
Abdul took a sip.
“Allah is good,” he said.
“And all things are of Allah,” rejoined Toomuch.
Abdul unpinned a glittering jewel from his robe and threw it to the feet of Toomuch.
“Take this poor bauble,” he said.
Toomuch Koffi in return took from his wrist a solid bangle of beaten gold.
“Accept this mean gift from your humble servant,” he said.
“Right!” said Abdul, speaking in a changed voice as the ceremonies ended. “Now, then, Toomuch, what is it? Hurry up. Be quick. What is the matter?”
Toomuch rose to his feet, lifted his hands high in the air with the palms facing the Sultan.
“One is without,” he said.
“Without what?” I asked eagerly of the Sultan.
“Without — outside. Don’t you understand Turkish? What you call in English — a gentleman to see me.”
“And did he make all that fuss and delay over that?” I asked in disgust. “Why with us in Canada, at one of the public departments of Ottawa, all that one would have to do would be simply to send in a card, get it certified, then simply wait in an anteroom, simply read a newspaper, send in another card, wait a little, then simply send in a third card, and then simply—”
“Pshaw!” said Abdul. “The cards might be poisoned. Our system is best. Speak on, Toomuch. Who is without? Is it perchance a messenger from Smith Pasha, Minister under Heaven of the United States?”
“Alas, no!” said Toomuch. “It is HE. It is THE LARGE ONE!”
As he spoke he rolled his eyes upward with a gesture of despair.
“HE!” cried Abdul, and a look of terror convulsed his face. “The Large One! Shut him out! Call the Chief Eunuch and the Major Domo of the Harem! Let him not in!”
“Alas,” said Toomuch, “he threw them out of the window.
Lo! he is here, he enters.”
As the secretary spoke, a double door at the end of the hall swung noisily open, at the blow of an imperious fist, and with a rattle of arms and accoutrements a man of gigantic stature, wearing full military uniform and a spiked helmet, strode into the room.
As he entered, an attendant who accompanied him, also in a uniform and a spiked helmet, called in a loud strident voice that resounded to the arches of the hall:
“His High Excellenz Feld Marechal von der Doppelbauch,
Spezial Representant of His Majestat William II, Deutscher
Kaiser and King of England!”
Abdul collapsed into a little heap. His fez fell over his face. Toomuch Koffi had slunk into a corner.
Von der Doppelbauch strode noisily forward and came to a stand in front of Abdul with a click and rattle after the Prussian fashion.
“Majestat,” he said in a deep, thunderous voice, “I greet you. I bow low before you. Salaam! I kiss the floor at your feet.”
But in reality he did nothing of the sort. He stood to the full height of his six feet six and glowered about him.
“Salaam!” said Abdul, in a feeble voice.
“But who is this?” added the Field-Marshal, looking angrily at me.
My costume, or rather my disguise, for, as I have said, I was wearing a poke bonnet with a plain black dress, seemed to puzzle him.
“My new governess,” said Abdul. “She came this morning.
She is a professor—”
“Bah!” said the Field-Marshal, “a woman a professor! Bah!”
“No, no,” said Abdul in protest, and it seemed decent of the little creature to stick up for me. “She’s all right, she is interesting and knows a great deal. She’s from Canada!”
“What!” exclaimed Von der Doppelbauch. “From Canada! But stop! It seems to me that Canada is a country that we are at war with. Let me think, Canada? I must look at my list” — he pulled out a little set of tablets as he spoke— “let me see, Britain, Great Britain, British North America, British Guiana, British Nigeria — ha! of course, under K — Kandahar, Korfu. No, I don’t seem to see it — Fritz,” he called to the aide-de-camp who had announced him, “telegraph at once to the Topographical Staff at Berlin and find out if we are at war with Canada. If we are” — he pointed at me— “throw her into the Bosphorus. If we are not, treat her with every consideration, with every distinguished consideration. But see that she doesn’t get away. Keep her tight, till we are at war with Canada, as no doubt we shall be, wherever it is, and then throw her into the Bosphorus.”
The aide clicked his heels and withdrew.
“And now, your majesty,” continued the Field-Marshal, turning abruptly to the Sultan, “I bring you good news.”
“More good news,” groaned Abdul miserably, winding his clasped fingers to and fro. “Alas, good news again!”
“First,” said Von der Doppelbauch, “the Kaiser has raised you to the order of the Black Dock. Here is your feather.”
“Another feather,” moaned Abdul. “Here, Toomuch, take it and put it among the feathers!”
“Secondly,” went on the Field-Marshal, checking off his items as he spoke, “your contribution, your personal contribution to His Majesty’s Twenty-third Imperial Loan, is accepted.”
“I didn’t make any!” sobbed Abdul.
“No difference,” said Von der Doppelbauch. “It is accepted anyway. The telegram has just arrived accepting all your money. My assistants are packing it up outside.”
Abdul collapsed still further into his cushions.
“Third, and this will rejoice your Majesty’s heart: Your troops are again victorious!”
“Victorious!” moaned Abdul. “Victorious again! I knew they would be! I suppose they are all dead as usual?”
“They are,” said the Marshal. “Their souls,” he added reverently, with a military salute, “are in Heaven!”
“No, no,” gasped Abdul, “not in Heaven! don’t say that! Not in Heaven! Say that they are in Nishvana, our Turkish paradise.”
“I am sorry,” said the Field-Marshal gravely. “This is a Christian war. The Kaiser has insisted on their going to Heaven.”
The Sultan bowed his head.
“Ishmillah!” he murmured. “It is the will of Allah.”
“But they did not die without glory,” went on the Field-Marshal. “Their victory was complete. Set it out to yourself,” and here his eyes glittered with soldierly passion. “There stood your troops — ten thousand! In front of them the Russians — a hundred thousand. What did your men do? Did they pause? No, they charged!”
“They charged!” cried the Sultan in misery. “Don’t say that! Have they charged again! Just Allah!” he added, turning to Toomuch. “They have charged again! And we must pay, we shall have to pay — we always do when they charge. Alas, alas, they have charged again. Everything is charged!”
“But how nobly,” rejoined the Prussian. “Imagine it to yourself! Here, beside this stool, let us say, were your men. There, across the cushion, were the Russians. All the ground between was mined. We knew it. Our soldiers knew it. Even our staff knew it. Even Prinz Tattelwitz Halfstuff, our commander, knew it. But your soldiers did not. What did our Prinz do? The Prinz called for volunteers to charge over the ground. There was a great shout — from our men, our German regiments. He called again. There was another shout. He called still again. There was a third shout. Think of it! And again Prinz Halfstuff called and again they shouted.”
“Who shouted?” asked the Sultan gloomily.
“Our men, our Germans.”
“Did my Turks shout?” asked Abdul.
“They did not. They were too busy tightening their belts and fixing their bayonets. But our generous fellows shouted for them. Then Prinz Halfstuff called out, ‘The place of honour is for our Turkish brothers. Let them charge!’ And all our men shouted again.”
“And they charged?”
“They did — and were all gloriously blown up. A magnificent victory. The blowing up of the mines blocked all the ground, checked the Russians and enabled our men, by a prearranged rush, to advance backwards, taking up a new strategic—”
“Yes, yes,” said Abdul, “I know — I have read of it, alas, only too often! And they are dead! Toomuch,” he added quietly, drawing a little pouch from his girdle, “take this pouch of rubies and give them to the wives of the dead general of our division — one to each. He had, I think, but seventeen. His walk was quiet. Allah give him peace.”
“Stop,” said Von der Doppelbauch. “I will take the rubies. I myself will charge myself with the task and will myself see that I do it myself. Give me them.”
“Be it so, Toomuch,” assented the Sultan humbly. “Give them to him.”
“And now,” continued the Field-Marshal, “there is yet one other thing further still more.” He drew a roll of paper from his pocket. “Toomuch,” he said, “bring me yonder little table, with ink, quills and sand. I have here a manifesto for His Majesty to sign.”
“No, no,” cried Abdul in renewed alarm. “Not another manifesto. Not that! I signed one only last week.”
“This is a new one,” said the Field-Marshal, as he lifted the table that Toomuch had brought into place in front of the Sultan, and spread out the papers on it. “This is a better one. This is the best one yet.”
“What does it say?” said Abdul, peering at it miserably,
“I can’t read it. It’s not in Turkish.”
“It is your last word of proud defiance to all your enemies,” said the Marshal.
“No, no,” whined Abdul. “Not defiance; they might not understand.”
“Here you declare,” went on the Field-Marshal, with his big finger on the text, “your irrevocable purpose. You swear that rather than submit you will hurl yourself into the Bosphorus.”
“Where does it say that?” screamed Abdul.
“Here beside my thumb.”
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” moaned the little Sultan.
“More than that further,” went on the Prussian quite undisturbed, “you state hereby your fixed resolve, rather than give in, to cast yourself from the highest pinnacle of the topmost minaret of this palace.”
“Oh, not the highest; don’t make it the highest,” moaned
Abdul.
“Your purpose is fixed. Nothing can alter it. Unless the Allied Powers withdraw from their advance on Constantinople you swear that within one hour you will fill your mouth with mud and burn yourself alive.”
“Just Allah!” cried the Sultan. “Does it say all that?”
“All that,” said Von der Doppelbauch. “All that within an hour. It is a splendid defiance. The Kaiser himself has seen it and admired it. ‘These,’ he said, ‘are the words of a man!’”
“Did he say that?” said Abdul, evidently flattered. “And is he too about to hurl himself off his minaret?”
“For the moment, no,” replied Von der Doppelbauch sternly.
“Well, well,” said Abdul, and to my surprise he began picking up the pen and making ready. “I suppose if I must sign it, I must.” Then he marked the paper and sprinkled it with sand. “For one hour? Well, well,” he murmured. “Von der Doppelbauch Pasha,” he added with dignity, “you are permitted to withdraw. Commend me to your Imperial Master, my brother. Tell him that, when I am gone, he may have Constantinople, provided only” — and a certain slyness appeared in the Sultan’s eye— “that he can get it. Farewell.”
The Field-Marshal, majestic as ever, gathered up the manifesto, clicked his heels together and withdrew.
As the door closed behind him, I had expected the little
Sultan to fall into hopeless collapse.
Not at all. On the contrary, a look of peculiar cheerfulness spread over his features.
He refilled his narghileh and began quietly smoking at it.
“Toomuch,” he said, quite cheerfully, “I see there is no hope.”
“Alas!” said the secretary.
“I have now,” went on the Sultan, “apparently but sixty minutes in front of me. I had hoped that the intervention of the United States might have saved me. It has not. Instead of it, I meet my fate. Well, well, it is Kismet. I bow to it.”
He smoked away quite cheerfully.
Presently he paused.
“Toomuch,” he said, “kindly go and fetch me a sharp knife, double-edged if possible, but sharp, and a stout bowstring.”
Up to this time I had remained a mere spectator of what had happened. But now I feared that I was on the brink of witnessing an awful tragedy.
“Good heavens, Abdul,” I said, “what are you going to do?”
“Do? Why kill myself, of course,” the Sultan answered, pausing for a moment in an interval of his cheerful smoking. “What else should I do? What else is there to do? I shall first stab myself in the stomach and then throttle myself with the bowstring. In half an hour I shall be in paradise. Toomuch, summon hither from the inner harem Fatima and Falloola; they shall sit beside me and sing to me at the last hour, for I love them well, and later they too shall voyage with me to paradise. See to it that they are both thrown a little later into the Bosphorus, for my heart yearns towards the two of them,” and he added thoughtfully, “especially perhaps towards Fatima, but I have never quite made up my mind.”
The Sultan sat back with a little gurgle of contentment, the rose water bubbling soothingly in the bowl of his pipe.
Then he turned to his secretary again.
“Toomuch,” he said, “you will at the same time send a bowstring to Codfish Pasha, my Chief of War. It is our sign, you know,” he added in explanation to me— “it gives Codfish leave to kill himself. And, Toomuch, send a bowstring also to Beefhash Pasha, my Vizier — good fellow, he will expect it — and to Macpherson Effendi, my financial adviser. Let them all have bowstrings.”
“Stop, stop,” I pleaded. “I don’t understand.”
“Why surely,” said the little man, in evident astonishment, “it is plain enough. What would you do in Canada? When your ministers — as I think you call them — fail and no longer enjoy your support, do you not send them bowstrings?”
“Never,” I said. “They go out of office, but—”
“And they do not disembowel themselves on their retirement?
Have they not that privilege?”
“Never!” I said. “What an idea!”
“The ways of the infidel.” said the little Sultan, calmly resuming his pipe, “are beyond the compass of the true intelligence of the Faithful. Yet I thought it was so even as here. I had read in your newspapers that after your last election your ministers were buried alive — buried under a landslide, was it not? We thought it — here in Turkey — a noble fate for them.”
“They crawled out,” I said.
“Ishmillah!” ejaculated Abdul. “But go, Toomuch. And listen, thou also — for in spite of all thou hast served me well — shalt have a bowstring.”
“Oh, master, master,” cried Toomuch, falling on his knees in gratitude and clutching the sole of Abdul’s slipper. “It is too kind!”
“Nay, nay,” said the Sultan. “Thou hast deserved it. And I will go further. This stranger, too, my governess, this professor, bring also for the professor a bowstring, and a two-bladed knife! All Canada shall rejoice to hear of it. The students shall leap up like young lambs at the honour that will be done. Bring the knife, Toomuch; bring the knife!”
“Abdul,” I said, “Abdul, this is too much. I refuse. I am not fit. The honour is too great.”
“Not so,” said Abdul. “I am still Sultan. I insist upon it. For, listen, I have long penetrated your disguise and your kind design. I saw it from the first. You knew all and came to die with me. It was kindly meant. But you shall die no common death; yours shall be the honour of the double knife — let it be extra sharp, Toomuch — and the bowstring.”
