to menace them, under the influence of that fatalism which is almost a religious creed, and which teaches that what is not to be need not be anticipated by an anxiety for which there is no sufficient cause, and what is to be cannot be averted by giving way to solicitudes or sorrows. And even after an afflicting event there is an unwillingness to communicate the evil news. Of this there is a touching example in the history of David, whose servants feared to speak to him of the death of his child, for they said: “Behold, while the child was yet alive, we spake to him, and he would not hearken unto our voices; how will he then vex himself if we tell him the child is dead.”[1] But in the whispering of the servants David discovered his bereavement, and in the face of the Sheikh we could perceive his agitation. “Doctor! will you heal my child?” was his inquiry.
Now the infant boy had been born to the beautiful bride, and I own to a petty plot, which I then concocted in my thoughts, that I might possibly, through the desire of the father to save the suffering child, get a peep at the charming mother, the echoed fame of whose loveliness was still sounding in my ears, and, let me own it, much sharpened my curiosity.
“Well, then,” I answered, “take me to the harem, and I will see what is to be done!”
“Impossible!” said the Sheikh; “impossible.”
“But if the child die, and you should be visited by the thought that the Hakim could and would have saved it?”
“Impossible!” he repeated. “It cannot be.”
“If the child is not relieved, he will die.”
“Alas! but you cannot be permitted to enter the harem. Shall the infant be brought out?”
“By no means—the child must not be exposed. Besides, men know nothing about the complaints of children. We Western physicians have only one way of proceeding. We talk to the mother—that is invariably our practice. We hear from her the symptoms of the complaint, and we prescribe only after getting all possible information—information which the mother alone is able to give.”
“It cannot be! it cannot be!” he repeated with new emphasis.
“I am sorry for it,” was all my reply.
He hung down his head, saluted me, and quickly left the apartment.
Meanwhile I was amused by the extraordinary doings of a renowned magician, who had obtained the character of a prophet, whose presence alarmed many of our suit, especially a “jester,” who had been attached to our cavalcade by the Governor of Damascus, for the purpose of amusing us with his stories, so as to lighten the fatigues of travel. On hearing the magician was in the house, the jester—called by the Arabs a maskara—fled—but was ordered to be found and brought into the presence of the magician, who cried to him with a loud voice, “Be dumb!” And assuredly the man attempted to speak, but in vain. He exhibited the utmost agony, and trembled like an aspen leaf under the spell of the magician. Undoubtedly he believed himself to be wholly delivered into the hands of his tormentors. I interfered for his release from this extraordinary thraldom; and, having heard from the magician the word “Speak!” which was loudly and peremptorily pronounced, he ran immediately out of the house, hid himself in the mountain, and only rejoined our party when we had resumed our way towards Jerusalem.
It was some hours after this interlude that the Sheikh again made his appearance and approached me.
“It was very disagreeable—very annoying; but what must be, must. He could not run the risk of losing his child. Would I do him the favour to follow him?”
I bowed, of course, with great complacency, inwardly rejoicing on the success of my admirable arrangement, but giving no outward sign of self-gratulation or delight.
He preceded me with a slow and seemingly hesitating step. He unlocked, he opened the doors of several apartments, through which we advanced to the sanctum sanctorum of the women. Upon a many-coloured rug lay a poor emaciated suffering infant, which seemed two or three months old. It was encumbered with garments; it had the Mahomedan rosary round its neck, and its body was covered with amulets, charms, and verses from the Koran, to whose miraculous influence, aided by prayers to the Prophet, they had ventured to look for the recovery of the patient. Other hope there was none: and that hope had failed, as the child appeared sinking and to be past recovery.
Hanging over the child, looking like a statue of grief, a veiled woman was seated.
To her I addressed myself, but not a word did she reply. She seemed abandoned to sorrow and absorbed in contemplation of the little sufferer on the Persian rug. A sigh escaped her, and my sympathy was strongly excited. I pursued my inquiries as to the complaints of the infant. What was its age? How long had it been ill? What had been done for its recovery? Who had been consulted? What were the symptoms? Did it get any sleep? and so forth: but only indistinct replies were given to my questionings. I said, “You must speak more plainly. If your language were English, I should have difficulty in understanding you talking through that veil, and I comprehend your Syriac-Arabic very imperfectly. You must remove your veil, and you may then be intelligible, and I shall know better what to prescribe for your boy.” She shook her head; it seemed as if I made no impression. I insisted more strongly. I said I was an English doctor, only accustomed to the practice of English mothers. We talked to them with unveiled faces; they told us all we wished to know; they gave every particular of their children’s indisposition; and we were able then to see more clearly what ought to be done. Moved by my increasing urgency, she raised her hands, threw off her veil, stared me in the face—an ugly hag of a woman, worn and wrinkled. “I am the old wife,” were the only words she uttered.
“Sold, sold!” I exclaimed to the Sheikh; and I could not check an outburst of laughter as we- ↑ 2 Sam. xii. 18, 19.
