Mohammed Ali and His House [116]
custom, to a coffee-house, where merchants assembled and exchanged their views and opinions, smoked the chibouque together, and discussed the news received from foreign countries, he remained at home in the family circle. At his request, Osman had come to pass the evening with them, for Mohammed well knew that this was the young man's only happiness. These ten years did not benefit Osman's health; he was still the withered stalk that bows its head, but is not torn down by the wind, but only swayed to and fro by it at its pleasure.
Yes, Osman was weak, and firm and constant in one thing only, in his love for his friend.
With him this feeling took the place of all else; Mohammed was to Osman what the latter was to his father--his only joy in life! And for these two Osman sustained himself, bore his ill health and suffering, and let the sunlight shine upon, and the storms of life sweep over him.
Osman understood why Mohammed was so kind and genial to-day. He knew that the day had its significance, and that the wound bled within secretly and incessantly. In silence Mohammed is praying for forgiveness, for having on this day permitted his thoughts to wander back to the past, for having sunk down in sadness upon the spot on the brow of the rock that had once witnessed his happiness; and he desires to be mild and gentle to his family this evening. His wife Ada is thankful and very happy. Mohammed so rarely laughs and jests with her, so rarely plays with the boys! To be sure he has never grieved her, has always been kind and gentle, and has never opposed her wishes. But yet she knows she has no share in his inmost heart. He talks with her of the daily affairs of life, he allows her to participate in all such matters, but he never speaks to her of his heart's inmost thoughts, and whether he suffers and longs to leave these desolate cliffs, or whether he is discontented with the monotonous, matter-of-fact life he is leading--she knows not! Mohammed has never complained to her, neither has he to his friend. But the latter has read his friend's heart, and understands it better than Mohammed himself. And a day was soon to come which proved this.
A message came from Stamboul. A large ship arrived at Cavalla, and her sailors related that a number of ships still larger and handsomer had arrived in the Bay of Sta. Marmara. The ship put out a boat, which came to the shore and landed a richly-attired officer who went up to Cavalla. He repaired to the palace and delivered a letter, secured with magnificent seals, to the tschorbadji. The letter was from Cousrouf Pacha to his host of former years. He had not been heard from since that time, and the tschorbadji had supposed himself long since forgotten. He was familiar with the ways of the great, whose lips are ever ready to utter promises, which are forgotten, the next hour. Ten years have elapsed, and but rarely have Cousrouf Pacha, his new grandeur, and the great things the future had in store for him, been heard of in Cavalla. And now a letter announces that Cousrouf Pacha still remembers, and gladly remembers, former days.
"The Sublime Porte has determined," so read the pacha's letter to the governor, "the Sublime Porte has determined to oppose the French occupation of Egypt with energy. The rich land of Egypt belongs to the Sublime Porte, and without any color of right France takes possession of it as its own property."
Yes, the republic of France had done this, had landed at Alexandria with large armies, and had inundated almost the whole of Egypt with its soldiers. But the Mameluke Beys, who have so long considered themselves the masters of the country, had taken the field and fought the invaders. In Stamboul, also, they had long been preparing for war, and now that all preparations were made, and an army ready to take the field against the French, each province, yes, each village of the empire, was to furnish its quota of soldiers in addition. Messengers had been sent out to every city and village in the empire to call on the young men in the name of the grand-sultan
Yes, Osman was weak, and firm and constant in one thing only, in his love for his friend.
With him this feeling took the place of all else; Mohammed was to Osman what the latter was to his father--his only joy in life! And for these two Osman sustained himself, bore his ill health and suffering, and let the sunlight shine upon, and the storms of life sweep over him.
Osman understood why Mohammed was so kind and genial to-day. He knew that the day had its significance, and that the wound bled within secretly and incessantly. In silence Mohammed is praying for forgiveness, for having on this day permitted his thoughts to wander back to the past, for having sunk down in sadness upon the spot on the brow of the rock that had once witnessed his happiness; and he desires to be mild and gentle to his family this evening. His wife Ada is thankful and very happy. Mohammed so rarely laughs and jests with her, so rarely plays with the boys! To be sure he has never grieved her, has always been kind and gentle, and has never opposed her wishes. But yet she knows she has no share in his inmost heart. He talks with her of the daily affairs of life, he allows her to participate in all such matters, but he never speaks to her of his heart's inmost thoughts, and whether he suffers and longs to leave these desolate cliffs, or whether he is discontented with the monotonous, matter-of-fact life he is leading--she knows not! Mohammed has never complained to her, neither has he to his friend. But the latter has read his friend's heart, and understands it better than Mohammed himself. And a day was soon to come which proved this.
A message came from Stamboul. A large ship arrived at Cavalla, and her sailors related that a number of ships still larger and handsomer had arrived in the Bay of Sta. Marmara. The ship put out a boat, which came to the shore and landed a richly-attired officer who went up to Cavalla. He repaired to the palace and delivered a letter, secured with magnificent seals, to the tschorbadji. The letter was from Cousrouf Pacha to his host of former years. He had not been heard from since that time, and the tschorbadji had supposed himself long since forgotten. He was familiar with the ways of the great, whose lips are ever ready to utter promises, which are forgotten, the next hour. Ten years have elapsed, and but rarely have Cousrouf Pacha, his new grandeur, and the great things the future had in store for him, been heard of in Cavalla. And now a letter announces that Cousrouf Pacha still remembers, and gladly remembers, former days.
"The Sublime Porte has determined," so read the pacha's letter to the governor, "the Sublime Porte has determined to oppose the French occupation of Egypt with energy. The rich land of Egypt belongs to the Sublime Porte, and without any color of right France takes possession of it as its own property."
Yes, the republic of France had done this, had landed at Alexandria with large armies, and had inundated almost the whole of Egypt with its soldiers. But the Mameluke Beys, who have so long considered themselves the masters of the country, had taken the field and fought the invaders. In Stamboul, also, they had long been preparing for war, and now that all preparations were made, and an army ready to take the field against the French, each province, yes, each village of the empire, was to furnish its quota of soldiers in addition. Messengers had been sent out to every city and village in the empire to call on the young men in the name of the grand-sultan