Three Sons of Hali
by
Till his eighteenth birthday the young Neangir lived happily in a village about forty miles from Constantinople, believing that Mohammed and Zinebi his wife, who had brought him up, were his real parents.
Neangir was quite content with his lot, though he was neither rich nor great, and unlike most young men of his age had no desire to leave his home. He was therefore completely taken by surprise when one day Mohammed told him with many sighs that the time had now come for him to go to Constantinople, and fix on a profession for himself. The choice would be left to him, but he would probably prefer either to be a soldier or one of the doctors learned in the law, who explain the Koran to the ignorant people. ‘You know the holy book nearly by heart,’ ended the old man, ‘so that in a very short time you would be fitted to teach others. But write to us and tell us how you pass your life, and we, on our side, will promise never to forget you.’
So saying, Mohammed gave Neangir four piastres to start him in the great city, and obtained leave for him to join a caravan which was about to set off for Constantinople.
The journey took some days, as caravans go very slowly, but at last the walls and towers of the capital appeared in the distance. When the caravan halted the travellers went their different ways, and Neangir was left, feeling very strange and rather lonely. He had plenty of courage and made friends very easily; still, not only was it the first time he had left the village where he had been brought up, but no one had ever spoken to him of Constantinople, and he did not so much as know the name of a single street or of a creature who lived in it.
Wondering what he was to do next, Neangir stood still for a moment to look about him, when suddenly a pleasant-looking man came up, and bowing politely, asked if the youth would do him the honour of staying in his house till he had made some plans for himself. Neangir, not seeing anything else he could do, accepted the stranger’s offer and followed him home.
They entered a large room, where a girl of about twelve years old was laying three places at the table.
‘Zelida,’ said the stranger, ‘was I not quite right when I told you that I should bring back a friend to sup with us?’
‘My father,’ replied the girl, ‘you are always right in what you say, and what is better still, you never mislead others.’ As she spoke, an old slave placed on the table a dish called pillau, made of rice and meat, which is a great favourite among people in the East, and setting down glasses of sherbet before each person, left the room quietly.
During the meal the host talked a great deal upon all sorts of subjects; but Neangir did nothing but look at Zelida, as far as he could without being positively rude.
The girl blushed and grew uncomfortable, and at last turned to her father. ‘The stranger’s eyes never wander from me,’ she said in a low and hesitating voice. ‘If Hassan should hear of it, jealousy will make him mad.’
‘No, no,’ replied the father, ‘you are certainly not for this young man. Did I not tell you before that I intend him for your sister Argentine. I will at once take measures to fix his heart upon her,’ and he rose and opened a cupboard, from which be took some fruits and a jug of wine, which he put on the table, together with a small silver and mother-of-pearl box.
‘Taste this wine,’ he said to the young man, pouring some into a glass.
‘Give me a little, too,’ cried Zelida.
‘Certainly not,’ answered her father, ‘you and Hassan both had as much as was good for you the other day.’