Mohammed Ali and His House [1]
destroys and grinds them to dust, and you can only fold your hands and let it act its will.
Today it is surging fiercely; its waves are black, and their white heads curl over upon the rock Bucephalus, that stretches far out into the bay of Contessa, pictured against the blue sky in the form of a gigantic black steed. Huddled together, at the foot of this rock, and leaning against its surface, is a group of men and boys. They are eagerly gazing out upon the water, and are perhaps speaking to each other; but no one hears what another says, for the waves are roaring, and the storm howling in the rocky caves, and the waves and storm, with their mighty chorus, drown the little human voices. The pale faces of the boys are expressive of terror and anxiety, the knit brows of the men indicate that they are expecting a disaster, and the trembling lips of the old men forebode that the next hour may bring with it some horrible event.
They stand upon the beach, waiting anxiously; but the monster--the sea--regards them not, and hurls one black wave after the other in upon the cliff behind which they stand, often drenching them with spray.
But these people pay no attention to this, hardly notice it; their whole soul is in their eyes, which are gazing fixedly out upon the waters. Thus they stand, these poor, weak human beings, in the presence of the grand, majestic ocean, conscious their impotence, and waiting till the monster shall graciously allow his anger to abate. For a moment the storm holds its breath; a strange, solemn stillness follows upon the roaring of the elements, and affords these people an opportunity to converse, and impart their terror and anxiety to each other.
"He will not return," said one of them, with a shake of the head and a sad look.
"He is lost!" sighed another.
"And you boys are to blame for it!" cries a third, turning to the group who stood near the men, closely wrapped in their brown cloaks, the hoods pulled down over their eyes.
"Why did you encourage him to undertake so daring a feat?" cried a fourth, pointing threateningly toward the boys.
"It is not our fault, Sheik Emir," said one of them, defiantly; "he would do so."
"Mohammed always was proud and haughty," exclaimed another. "We told him that a storm was coming, and that we would go home. But he wouldn't, sheik."
"That is to say," said the sheik, angrily--"that is to say, you have been ridiculing the poor boy again?"
"He is always so proud, and thinks himself something better than the rest of us," murmured the boy, "though he is something worse, and may some day be a beggar if--"
The storm now began to rage more furiously; the waves towered higher, and threw their spray far on to the shore and high upon the rock, as though determined to make known its dread majesty to the inhabitants of the city of Cavalla, which stands with its little houses, narrow streets, and splendid mosque, on the plateau of the rock of Bucephalus. On the summit of the rock a woman is kneeling, her hands extended imploringly toward heaven; she has allowed the white veil to fall from her face, and her agonized features are exposed to view, regardless of the law that permits her to reveal her countenance in the harem only. What are the laws to her? where is the man to command her to veil her countenance? who says to her: "You belong to me, and my heart glows with jealousy when others behold you"?
No one is there who could thus address her; for she is a widow, and calls nothing on earth her own, and loves nothing on earth but her son, her Mohammed Ali.
She knows that he has gone out to sea in a frail skiff to cross over to the island-rock Imbro. The boys have told her of the daring feat which her son had undertaken with them. Filled with anxiety, they had come up to the widow of Ibrahim to announce that her son had refused to return with them after they had started in their fisher- boats for the island of Imbro. "I have begun it and I'll carry it out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and think yourselves better oarsmen
Today it is surging fiercely; its waves are black, and their white heads curl over upon the rock Bucephalus, that stretches far out into the bay of Contessa, pictured against the blue sky in the form of a gigantic black steed. Huddled together, at the foot of this rock, and leaning against its surface, is a group of men and boys. They are eagerly gazing out upon the water, and are perhaps speaking to each other; but no one hears what another says, for the waves are roaring, and the storm howling in the rocky caves, and the waves and storm, with their mighty chorus, drown the little human voices. The pale faces of the boys are expressive of terror and anxiety, the knit brows of the men indicate that they are expecting a disaster, and the trembling lips of the old men forebode that the next hour may bring with it some horrible event.
They stand upon the beach, waiting anxiously; but the monster--the sea--regards them not, and hurls one black wave after the other in upon the cliff behind which they stand, often drenching them with spray.
But these people pay no attention to this, hardly notice it; their whole soul is in their eyes, which are gazing fixedly out upon the waters. Thus they stand, these poor, weak human beings, in the presence of the grand, majestic ocean, conscious their impotence, and waiting till the monster shall graciously allow his anger to abate. For a moment the storm holds its breath; a strange, solemn stillness follows upon the roaring of the elements, and affords these people an opportunity to converse, and impart their terror and anxiety to each other.
"He will not return," said one of them, with a shake of the head and a sad look.
"He is lost!" sighed another.
"And you boys are to blame for it!" cries a third, turning to the group who stood near the men, closely wrapped in their brown cloaks, the hoods pulled down over their eyes.
"Why did you encourage him to undertake so daring a feat?" cried a fourth, pointing threateningly toward the boys.
"It is not our fault, Sheik Emir," said one of them, defiantly; "he would do so."
"Mohammed always was proud and haughty," exclaimed another. "We told him that a storm was coming, and that we would go home. But he wouldn't, sheik."
"That is to say," said the sheik, angrily--"that is to say, you have been ridiculing the poor boy again?"
"He is always so proud, and thinks himself something better than the rest of us," murmured the boy, "though he is something worse, and may some day be a beggar if--"
The storm now began to rage more furiously; the waves towered higher, and threw their spray far on to the shore and high upon the rock, as though determined to make known its dread majesty to the inhabitants of the city of Cavalla, which stands with its little houses, narrow streets, and splendid mosque, on the plateau of the rock of Bucephalus. On the summit of the rock a woman is kneeling, her hands extended imploringly toward heaven; she has allowed the white veil to fall from her face, and her agonized features are exposed to view, regardless of the law that permits her to reveal her countenance in the harem only. What are the laws to her? where is the man to command her to veil her countenance? who says to her: "You belong to me, and my heart glows with jealousy when others behold you"?
No one is there who could thus address her; for she is a widow, and calls nothing on earth her own, and loves nothing on earth but her son, her Mohammed Ali.
She knows that he has gone out to sea in a frail skiff to cross over to the island-rock Imbro. The boys have told her of the daring feat which her son had undertaken with them. Filled with anxiety, they had come up to the widow of Ibrahim to announce that her son had refused to return with them after they had started in their fisher- boats for the island of Imbro. "I have begun it and I'll carry it out," the proud boy had replied to them. "You have ridiculed me, and think yourselves better oarsmen