In a certain town in North Africa, up a steep street in the neighborhood of the Kasbah, or fort, stood an old Moorish house inhabited by several families. Though all were respectable, and well thought of in the Arab town, none were so highly esteemed as the family of Sidi Abd-er-Rahman ben el Hadj Abd-er-Rahman, and it was to this family that Fatima belonged. (This name literally means “Mr. Slave of the Merciful One [God] son of the pilgrim [to Mecca]”.)
There were several reasons why the father of Fatima was respected by his fellow-townsmen. First, because he came of the best Arab stock, being descended, as was said, from Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet. Second, because he was considered a great taleb, or reader. Third, because he had remained in all respects a strict Moslem despite knowing French and working in a French government office.
Now Fatima had from her earliest days been her father’s darling. Indeed, he took almost as much pride in her, his only child, as if she had been that desire of every Moslem heart-a son.
From the very first Fatima had been beautiful, and that is a thing which few fathers can resist. On the seventh day of her life, when the customary feast took place, and she was solemnly bathed and perfumed with orange-flower water, when her hands and feet were stained with henna, and her eyebrows joined in one brown line above her tiny nose-on that day, I say, there was almost as much rejoicing over Fatima as if she had been a boy. And this is a rare thing in Arab society.
Yes, it was important to begin by being beautiful, but when she began to talk it was soon seen that she was clever as well, and this increased her father’s pride in his little Fatima. He made up his mind that she would not be ignorant like other Arab women, but that when she was old enough he would hire a sheikh-a Teacher-to teach her the Koran (the Moslem sacred book), and that later, when she might no longer be seen by a man who was not a relation, he would teach her himself.
Now as he thought about it all, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman considered the sorrows and evils that darken the lives of Moslem women. It pained him to think that in a few years his little Fatima would lose the innocent look in her eyes, and would learn to gossip and quarrel like the idle woman who, even in that respectable house, were always in and out of each other’s rooms, wasting their time, and often talking about things that it would be better not even to think of.
One evening, as he was coming back from the government office where he worked, he was thinking of Fatima’s future, and it surprised him to realize how much it burdened him. He felt so oppressed, that instead of going straight to his rooms, though he could smell his supper cooked and waiting, he went up the stone staircase that led to the roof, and stepped out into the moonlight to get a breath of air. As he walked across the bright white terrace, and leaned his arms upon the parapet, a beautiful scene opened before him. Below the flat-roofed houses, which crowded together down the steep hillside, the great Mediterranean Sea lay gray and silky in the moonlight, and across it, from the shore almost to the horizon, stretched a quivering pathway of silver light. Over this pathway, a long way off, a little sail boat was flitting along like a gray moth.
As he gazed over the shining water, some long-forgotten words flashed across Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s mind: “This is the way, walk ye in it.” Where had he heard them? Somewhere long ago-ah! yes, now he remembered-a low, whitewashed room, domed and pillared, and a lady, tall and gentle ...
“O, father, come, the supper is cooked!” It was a little voice at his side that spoke, and a small, soft hand was slipped into his, with a tinkle of silver bangles as it moved. His little Fatima had come to fetch him. Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, still thinking of his boyhood, followed her downstairs, not heeding her chatter, till a familiar word caught his attention.
“Oh, father,” Fatima was saying, “Zenib is here, the little grand-daughter of old Baya who lives on the third floor. And she says that now every day she is going to the house of Lalla Christabel, to work at embroidery with the daughters of the Arabs.”
“What?” cried her father. “What are you saying about Lalla Christabel?” Then, as they neared the door of their room, he gave a slight, warning cough, so that if there were any women there other than his own wife, they would have time to hide, or at least veil themselves, according to Arab custom.
“It is well,” said Fatima, reassuringly. “Only Zenib is here. Come, O Zenib,” as a little figure stole out of the shadows, her scarlet handkerchief making a bright spot of color in the twilight. “Come and tell father about the house of the English.”
“I know, I know,” said Sidi Abd-er-Rahman as he seated himself cross-legged on a cushion, without taking any notice of his wife, who at once placed before him a steaming dish of onions and potatoes. Then, going back a step or two, she stood and watched him eat, but not before he had muttered a hasty “Bismillah” (in the Name of God) which is the universal Moslem prayer before meals. “I know Lalla Christabel. She has lived in our town for years. She is a good woman, and Inshallah (if God will) you shall go to her and learn embroidery with Zenib.”
Fatima’s face shone with joy. “Is it the truth, O father?” she cried, putting her little arm round Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s neck, and bringing her face close to his.
“Let me alone,” said her father; “for what hungry man wishes for caresses till he has finished his meal? Yes, it is the truth, I will take you myself tomorrow.”
All this time Sidi Abd-er-Rahman had not consulted his wife by so much as a look. Now, however, he half turned towards her and said; “Do you understand, O woman? Tomorrow, I will take our daughter to learn embroidery at the House of the English.”
“It is well,” she replied, “I too have seen Lalla Christabel when she has visited old Baya. She told us a story.”
“What about?” interrupted Sidi Abd-er-Rahman.
“It was about Sidna Isa” (our Lord Jesus), Zubeida replied. But at this name Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s face grew troubled. He let go of Fatima, and rose abruptly.
Then, turning to his little daughter, who stood wondering, said, “When you are older, I will teach you the true way, the way of our Lord Muhammad.” And, drawing the hood of his burnous (hooded cloak) over his head, he went out into the night.
What were Sidi Abd-er-Rahman’s thoughts, as he descended the steep cobbled street that led to the Arab cafe? He was thinking of the difference between Christianity and his own faith of Islam, that difference which he had first seen as a boy under Lalla Christabel’s influence, and had tried with more or less success to banish from his mind. This evening’s little episode had stirred up the old memories, and, to his dismay, the conflict threatened to begin again.
“Two religions are at strife in my breast, O woe is me, that my heart should become a battleground.”
In self defense he repeated under his breath the Moslem creed, “La ilaha illa Allah; Muhammadu rasoul Allah.” (There is no God but God; Muhammad is the apostle of God!)
And even as he did so, there stole through the stillness of the night the haunting cry of the muezzin, he who five times a day stands on the gallery of the Mosque, the church of Islam, calling the faithful to prayer. “Allah hu Akbar! Allah hu Akbar!” (God is most great) it began, and Sidi Abd-er-Rahman listened, standing still in the moonlight, till the words of the creed he had just recited rang out also over the quiet town. He sighed deeply, as the tones of Lalla Christabel’s voice, even more haunting in their appeal, seemed once again to change the second phrase: “God is great,” he remembered her saying. “God is great, and Jesus is the Son of God.”
It is here, almost at the outset, that the Islam and Christianity part company. It is a very serious offense for a Moslem to say that God has a Son. Moreover, Moslems are taught that Jesus, even as a Prophet, is second in importance to Muhammed, the sixth century founder of their religion. They also deny that Jesus died, declaring that God caused another to take His place on the cross. These differences between Islam and Christianity were rapidly reviewed by Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, as he walked along. But there was another difficulty which began to trouble him afresh (how well he remembered it from the old days!) It was the knowledge of the fury aroused among Moslems if ever one of their number should “change his religion.” True, a man might believe what he chose, so long as he kept his beliefs to himself, but Sidi Abd-er-Rahman had not attended Lalla Christabel’s classes for several years without learning that real Christianity demands an open confession of faith in Christ. Also it involves breaking with certain Moslem social usages which are connected with religion, notably the annual fast of Ramadan. Only a few years before, a sensation had been caused in the town by the violent persecution of two men who had dared to break the fast openly. One of them had had to flee the country while the other had mysteriously disappeared, and the police had never got to the bottom of the mystery.
And yet with all this, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was going to place his only daughter under those same Christian influences! Well, he had come through them and remained a Moslem. They were good influences morally, and the happiest days of his childhood he knew had been passed in the “House of the English.”
The next day Fatima, clinging to her father’s hand, went happily down the many steps which led to the House of the English. She was rather silent, for she was shy by nature, and the more so today because she was dressed in some of her best clothes. Not her very best-those were of silk and velvet and hand-embroidered lace, and were kept for feast days-but her pink flowered jelabba, or loose robe, her muslin kamidja, or loose bodice, her head-handkerchief of several bright colors, and over all a proper little haik, or shawl, like her mother’s, of soft white stuff with silk stripes in it. Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, glancing down proudly at the little figure by his side, kept saying, every half-dozen steps or so, “Do not fear, O my daughter.” Yet he himself had a curious half-feeling of fear, due in some way to those old memories of his boyhood which still kept crowding in on him. A few minutes more, and they were standing in the central court of a tall Arab house like their own, open to the sky, and surrounded by pillars supporting a gallery, and there was Lalla Christabel herself, who happened to be crossing the courtyard at that moment and came towards them with a welcoming smile.
“It is you, O Abd-er-Rahman!” she exclaimed, “you, after so many years!” She spoke in good Arabic, with the foreign intonation which had so fascinated him as a boy. “No, I have certainly not forgotten you! And is this your little daughter?” She held out her hand to Fatima, who kissed it respectfully. But Lalla Christabel stooped low down to the child (she was very tall), kissed, and drew her close to her side.
“My daughter!” The touch of fatherly pride in the young man’s voice was not lost on Lalla Christabel. “She is called Fatima. I want her to come and learn embroidery,” he added, somewhat abruptly.
“I shall be very glad,” the lady replied. “Her fingers are small (caressing them) but I think they will be able to work quite nicely. And you, Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, oh! it is good to see you again. What! Do you have to go? Sit down and talk to me a little.” She led the way to a whitewashed room, the floor covered with matting, on which red, oblong cushions were laid in rows. “No, I have not forgotten you,” she repeated, after a pause. “Often I have wondered what had become of you.” And she looked at him a moment, with kind, inquiring eyes, then devoted herself again to the child at her knee. But the glance had abashed Sidi Abd-er-Rahman, and he, too, looked down. “And you are grown up since then, and are married, and a father? If Fatima will take me to the house, I will gladly come and see your wife.”
“I will write the name of the street, and the number of the house,” and Abd-er-Rahman drew from under his burnous a neat French pocket-book and pencil.”
“So you have learned to read and write French,” she said with interest, as he tore out the slip of paper and handed it to her. “And you read in Arabic, too. You are a great taleb, Abd-er-Rahman!”
“I am surprised,” he said, “after all these years, that you have not forgotten.”
“No,” she said again, “I have not forgotten. And you, O Abd-er-Rahman, have you forgotten? Or do you still read in the Gospel about our Lord Jesus? I remember I gave you the Gospel of John.”
“I do not read,” he replied.
“Do you still have the book?”
“It was taken from me,” he said, looking down. She rose and crossed the room to the bookshelves.
“Which is easier for you to read, French, or spoken Arabic?”
“French,” he replied.
She placed in his hand a small book, bound in red. It was the New Testament in French. “You are a man now, Abd-er-Rahman, and can keep your books to yourself, whatever they are. And I will continue to pray to God, as I have prayed all these years, that the light may shine on your soul.”
He took the book murmuring indistinct thanks, and rose to go.
“And this little one,” she said, rising also, “who is no longer afraid, will stay with us this morning, and I will send her safely back to you at mid-day.”
“Remain in health,” he said, and she replied, “God bless you, go in peace.”
Little Fatima, quite content and trustful, remained with her new friend.