Now it can hardly be said that a Frenchman knows what domestic bliss signifies. With him the Café is a sine quâ non; he may have an amiable and charming wife, a young and attractive family, every charm of domestic happiness that should link his heart and thoughts with home, and draw him towards it as the only true and rational source of enjoyment; but he leaves all these, and looks upon them as insipid; his sole delight is to wander about from café to café, varying his amusements by an occasional game at billiards or a petit verre, else he strays from theatre to operas, from operas to balls, and some of the wealthier classes live for weeks, and sometimes months, in the country in the strictest seclusion, practising an economy amounting to penuriousness, in order that they may, on their return to town, be enabled to gratify this passion. The wives of these gentlemen, continually deserted, left to themselves, and naturally of a gay turn, which in many instances arises from a neglect of a proper moral education, form those liaisons with others, which are publicly known and talked about with the utmost nonchalance, and which, in my humble opinion, are an outrage to the name of Christianity, and a disgrace to a nation acknowledged in every other respect to stand high in the scale of civilization. I cannot describe what a painful effect it has upon the mind of Syrian strangers to witness such things countenanced in France; they leave the country
with very poor opinions of its civilization—poorer still of its Christianity; and they disseminate these opinions amongst our own people on their return to Syria; hence it arises that oftentimes the poorer and more ignorant inhabitants of Syria, who cannot distinguish one European nation from another, but who set all down under the head of Franks, and suppose all to be of one creed and manner of thinking, are apt to imagine that the English are only next-door to infidels, and consequently a people to be feared, if not entirely avoided; but this is an error which I will occupy myself in rectifying as soon as I can find time to distribute tracts in Syria descriptive of the laws, manners, customs, and religions, of the different nations of Europe.
But to return to the French, or rather the middle classes of the French. I found it almost invariably the case that should a Frenchman invite you to a café, he does so in the full expectation that you in your turn will give him a treat. His character is inconsistency personified—he is fickle and capricious—he enters freely into conversation with you, and lets you into all his secrets during the first five minutes of his acquaintance, and he entertains you with a string of personal adventures. With him every one is mon cher! mon brave! mon ami! He could kiss and hug you on parting, and swears eternal fidelity. The next day his ardour has cooled—the third he restricts himself to a bow—the fourth, and he mingles with the crowd—and you never meet him again perhaps in a life-time.
For a ball-room society give me Paris—for a quiet untiring friend, give me England. And of the two my heart prefers the latter.
From France I travelled to Vienna. After delivering my letters to the minister in that city, I proceeded to Constantinople. On arriving there I took up my abode with my old friend the Emir Sayed, the grandson of the Emir Beschir.
CHAPTER X.
STAY AT CONSTANTINOPLE.
Even at this distance of time, my spirit is filled with melancholy, when I think of that kind friend with whom I passed the greater portion of my time whilst at Constantinople: perhaps a description of one evening spent in his society may be of interest.
The Emir Sayed—a wreck of greatness, whose fond dream of life’s realities can only find an echo in the past—the shattered fragment of one born to command—second only to a supreme sovereign—he is a helpless broken-hearted man, supported on the alms of those who could once barely claim the high honour of admission into his presence. So much does misfortune level the creatures of the Creator—so great the fall from a princely estate to a beggarly dependence; thank God, however, even the gloomiest hours of existence, a light, however feeble, of the brighter hopes of life, breaks in upon the soul like an April sunbeam, and chases from its darkened caverns all the moist drops of a tearful heart. It was thus with the Emir Sayed. His favorite resort in Stamboul was a café, where of an evening, furnished with a chibūk and a cup of coffee, he would sit, surrounded by his most intimate friends, and listen from hour to hour to the marvellous or amusing tales told there nightly by professional tale-tellers. On such occasions it was a privilege to me to accompany the fallen
prince, for, besides the instruction I derived in learning au fond the technicalities of the Turkish language, I learnt a lesson in the experiences of life—how to bear up against misfortunes like a man—how to bow the head to the will of Providence, and submit to what might appear a calamity, and still doubtless might be intended as a safeguard or a blessing to him, whom the Great Benefactor has seen fit to surround with troubles, lest his soul should stray from the narrow path of righteousness.
We will now, by the reader’s permission, fancy ourselves threading the narrow streets of the Turkish capital, following a servant, who carries a fannar, or lantern. At length we reach the café. A thousand lights, strung upon every conceivable hook, lend their enlivening brilliancy to light up the salon; the open space in front is filled with attentive auditors, all seated on diminutive stools, or carpets, all silent, all sedate, mostly wearing beards, and every one smoking or sipping his coffee. We pass through a kind of human alley. We enter the coffee-shop: the seat at the furthermost end—the seat of honour—is always reserved for the Emir. “He is a Bey still, and also a stranger.”