These apprehensions were greatly increased by the desire which King
Mehevi and several of the inferior chiefs now manifested that I should
be tattooed. The pleasure of the king was first signified to me some
three days after my casual encounter with Karky the artist. Heavens!
what imprecations I showered upon that Karky. Doubtless he had plotted
a conspiracy against me and my countenance, and would never rest until
his diabolical purpose was accomplished. Several times I met him in
various parts of the valley, and, invariably, whenever he descried me,
he came running after me with his mallet and chisel, flourishing them
about my face as if he longed to begin. What an object he would have
made of me!
When the king first expressed his wish to me, I made known to him my
utter abhorrence of the measure, and worked myself into such a state of
excitement, that he absolutely stared at me in amazement. It evidently
surpassed his majesty’s comprehension how any sober-minded and sensible
individual could entertain the least possible objection to so
beautifying an operation.
Soon afterwards he repeated his suggestion, and meeting with a like
repulse, showed some symptoms of displeasure at my obduracy. On his a
third time renewing his request, I plainly perceived that something
must be done, or my visage was ruined for ever; I therefore screwed up
my courage to the sticking point, and declared my willingness to have
both arms tattooed from just above the wrist to the shoulder. His
majesty was greatly pleased at the proposition, and I was
congratulating myself with having thus compromised the matter, when he
intimated that as a thing of course my face was first to undergo the
operation. I was fairly driven to despair; nothing but the utter ruin
of my “face divine,” as the poets call it, would, I perceived, satisfy
the inexorable Mehevi and his chiefs, or rather that infernal Karky,
for he was at the bottom of it all.
The only consolation afforded me was a choice of patterns: I was at
perfect liberty to have my face spanned by three horizontal bars, after
the fashion of my serving-man’s; or to have as many oblique stripes
slanting across it: or if, like a true courtier, I chose to model my
style on that of royalty, I might wear a sort of freemason badge upon
my countenance in the shape of a mystic triangle. However, I would have
none of these, though the king most earnestly impressed upon my mind
that my choice was wholly unrestricted. At last, seeing my
unconquerable repugnance, he ceased to importune me.
But not so some other of the savages. Hardly a day passed but I was
subjected to their annoying requests, until at last my existence became
a burden to me; the pleasures I had previously enjoyed no longer
afforded me delight, and all my former desire to escape from the valley
now revived with additional force.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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