Ṣabrī had grown weary of life and had come to hold its pleasures in quite light an esteem, though he had not yet passed beyond the season of youth. He was wont, therefore, to speak often in disparagement of the world, and to lament the folly of placing one’s peace of mind in it, or rejoicing in the serenity of its days. Yet it was not because some cherished end had eluded him, nor because failure had overtaken him, that he found the world burdensome; he had rather tasted of its distinctions enough to whet the appetite of the most covetous; he had attained to offices such as might well have been the envy of others; and in the abundance of fortune, the ease of living, and the honours of renown, he had received a portion exceeding that which had fallen to the lot of many who came after him.
But his was a nature delicately wrought, and his sensibility exceedingly fine: the sudden flash of lightning, if it appeared out of season, was enough to pain him; the lightest breath of the breeze, if it passed where it ought not, could wound him. Thus it was that he wearied of the world, because he wearied of those who dwelt in it; he grew impatient with life, because he could not abide the frailty of the living; and he rose in revolt against society, because he was himself in revolt against its morals.
The waters of shame have ebbed from every face,
And left the world, grim-cheeked, a barren waste.
Virtue’s neglect has spread among mankind,
Till scarce to return a greeting counts as kind. [From a somewhat long poem by the Pasha]
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| A portrait of Ismāʿīl Ṣabrī Pasha |
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