A "TURKISH OCCUPATION;" OR, VISIONS IN SMOKE.
"The Khedive has been the object of numerous marks of personal friendship on the Sultan's part."
—Times Correspondent at Constantinople.
Sultan (amicably). Welcome, dear Abbas! Take a seat, and a pipe—take anything you have a mind to, and "make yourself at home," as the accursed Giaours say.
Khedive (squatting). Thanks, my dear—Suzerain! Yildiz Kiosk feels, indeed, very home-like. More than my own Cairo does—when Cromer's there. This Nichan-i-Imtiaz Order is really very becoming. Pity you and I, Abdul, have to take "orders" from anybody west of Alexandria!
Sultan (sotto voce). And why should we?
Khedive (sulkily). Well, the sons of burnt fathers have got the upper hand of the Faithful, somehow—confound them!
Sultan (reading). "Intelligence received here of late, from trustworthy quarters in Egypt, indicates that the Khedive's journey is to be made the point of departure for a grande action diplomatique against British influence in the Valley of the Nile." That's from the Times, my Abbas!
Khedive (moodily). Humph! Wish the Egyptian quarters were "trustworthy." Grande action diplomatique? Quite makes one's mouth water!
Sultan. Doesn't it? The same infernal—but influential—news-sheet says: "The young Khedive knows that not only would he meet with a personally kindly reception, but that the grievances he is known to be anxious to pour out would fall on ready ears." There, at least, the Giaour "rag" is right. Pour away, my Abbas! "Keep your eye on your father—or Suzerain—and he will pull you through."
[Winks and whiffs.
Khedive (whiffing and winking). Will he, though? And that Turkish Bodyguard?
Sultan (warmly). At your service at any moment, my dear Abbas!
Khedive (smoking furiously with closed eyes). Ah! if they would only let me alone, let me rule my subjects in my own Oriental way—as you do yours in Armenia, for example—then, indeed, I could have a good time, and plenty of treasure.
Sultan (significantly). Out of which my little formal trifle of Tribute might come easily and regularly—eh, Abbas?
Khedive. Quite so, Padishah! Bah! These brutal, blundering Britishers don't understand the Art of Government as adapted to Eastern Ideas.
Sultan (soothingly). Well, never mind, Abbas. We'll lay our heads together, anon, now you are here, and—who knows? Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves. Something like a "Turkish Occupation" this—eh? And how do you like this Turkish tobacco?
Khedive (blowing vigorously). Smokes easily, and makes a big cloud. In which I fancy I can see myself driving the British Lion out of the Nile Valley at the point of the bayonet.
Sultan (dreamily). And I picture myself comfortably replenishing my Treasury with that Tribute! Like music, ABBAS?
Khedive (uneasily). Ye-e-e-s. Why!
Sultan (promptly). Then I'll tip you something soothing.
[Sings.
I'll sing thee songs of Arabi,
And tales of far Cash ne-ar!
Strange yarns to move thee to a smile,
Or melt thee to a te-ar!
And dreams of delight shall hover bright,
And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise
Of artful "fake," which well may wake
Wild wonder in thine eyes.
I'll move thee to a smile
With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar!
[Left dreaming.
