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diff --git a/29257-h/29257-h.htm b/29257-h/29257-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8887579 --- /dev/null +++ b/29257-h/29257-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11355 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani. +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + p {margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + body {margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%;} + a {text-decoration: none;} + @media screen { + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none;border-top:thin dashed silver;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; position: absolute; right: 2%; padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; background-color: inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color: silver;} + } + @media print { + hr.pb {border:none;page-break-after: always;} + .pagenum { display:none; } + } + span.hang {display:block; margin:0em; padding-left:2em; text-indent:-2em;} + h3 {font-size:1.2em;} + hr.fn {width:3em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; margin-left:0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em;} + .trnote {background-color: #EEE; color: inherit; margin: 2em 5% 1em 5%; font-size: 80%; padding: 0.5em 1em 0.5em 1em; border: dotted 1px gray;} + h4 {font-size:1.0em;margin:1px;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + ins.trchange {text-decoration: none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + .nowrap {white-space:nowrap;} + .fnanchor {font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + .figcenter {margin: 2em auto 2em auto; text-align: center;} + blockquote {display: block; margin:.75em 10% .75em 5%; font-size:0.9em;} + p.tp {font-size:1em; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-align:center;} + p.poem {margin:0em; text-indent:-2em;} + .caption {font-size:smaller;} + hr.tb {border:none; margin-top: 2em;} + table {text-align:justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} + p.h2 {font-size:1.3em; text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} + div.poem {font-size:0.9em; margin:1.2em 10% 1.2em 5%;} + h1 {font-size:1.5em;} + hr.major {width: 65%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; clear:both;} + span.leadquote {display:inline-block;width:0.5em;} + h2 {font-size:1.3em;} +</style> + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of Khalid + +Author: Ameen Rihani + +Release Date: June 27, 2009 [EBook #29257] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF KHALID *** + + + + +Produced by Todd Fine, Dan Horwood and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2>THE BOOK OF KHALID</h2> +<hr class='pb' /> +<h1>THE<br /> +BOOK OF KHALID</h1> + +<h2 style="margin-top:2em;">BY<br /> +AMEEN RIHANI</h2> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_1' id='linki_1'></a> +<img src='images/illus-002.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 232px; height: 190px;' /><br /> +</div> +<h3>NEW YORK<br /> +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY<br /> +1911</h3> +<hr class='pb' /> +<p class="tp" style="margin-bottom:0px; font-size:0.7em;"><span style="font-variant:small-caps">Copyright</span>, 1911</p> +<p class="tp" style="margin-top:0px; font-size:0.7em;"><span style="font-variant:small-caps">By</span> DODD, MEAD & COMPANY</p> +<p class="tp" style="font-size:0.7em"><i>Published, October</i>, 1911</p> +<hr class='pb' /> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<h4>BOOK THE FIRST</h4> +<h4>IN THE EXCHANGE</h4> +<table border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'> +<tr> + <td align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-size:small;'>CHAPTER</span></td> + <td></td> + <td align='right'><span style='font-size:small;'>PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Al-Fatihah</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ALFATIHAH'>v</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To Man</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_MAN'>3</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Probing the Trivial</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL'>5</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The City of Baal</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL'>14</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Via Dolorosa</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA'>25</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>On the Wharf of Enchantment</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT'>34</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Cellar of the Soul</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL'>46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Summer Afternoon of a Sham</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM'>58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>In the Twilight of an Idea</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA'>70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>With the Huris</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS'>83</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan='3'><h4 style="margin-top:1.5em">BOOK THE SECOND</h4></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan='3'><h4>IN THE TEMPLE</h4></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To Nature</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_NATURE'>97</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Dowry of Democracy</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY'>99</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Subtranscendental</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL'>115</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The False Dawn</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN'>125</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Last Star</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR'>130</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Priesto-Parental</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL'>143</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Flounces and Ruffles</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES'>154</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Howdaj of Falsehood</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD'>167</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Kaaba of Solitude</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE'>181</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IX</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Signs of the Hermit</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT'>192</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>X</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Vineyard in the Kaaba</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA'>202</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan='3'><h4 style="margin-top:1.5em">BOOK THE THIRD</h4></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan='3'><h4>IN KULMAKAN</h4></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To God</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_GOD'>217</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Disentanglement of the Me</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME'>219</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Voice of the Dawn</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN'>231</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Self Ecstatic</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC'>239</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>On the Open Highway</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY'>249</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Union and Progress</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS'>274</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Revolutions Within and Without</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT'>287</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Dream of Empire</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE'>298</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Adumbrations</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS'>311</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IX</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Stoning and Flight</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT'>325</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>X</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Desert</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT'>333</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Al-Khatimah</span> </td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ALKHATIMAH'>341</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_v' name='page_v'></a>v</span> +<a name='ALFATIHAH' id='ALFATIHAH'></a> +<h2>AL-FATIHAH</h2> +</div> +<p>In the Khedivial Library of Cairo, among the Papyri +of the Scribe of Amen-Ra and the beautifully +illuminated copies of the Korân, the modern Arabic +Manuscript which forms the subject of this Book, was +found. The present Editor was attracted to it by the +dedication and the rough drawings on the cover; which, +indeed, are as curious, if not as mystical, as ancient +Egyptian symbols. One of these is supposed to represent +a New York Skyscraper in the shape of a Pyramid, +the other is a dancing group under which is written: +“The Stockbrokers and the Dervishes.” And around +these symbols, in Arabic circlewise, these words:––“<i>And +this is my Book, the Book of Khalid, which I +dedicate to my Brother Man, my Mother Nature, and +my Maker God.</i>”</p> +<p>Needless to say we asked at once the Custodian of the +Library to give us access to this Book of Khalid, and +after examining it, we hired an amanuensis to make a +copy for us. Which copy we subsequently used as the +warp of our material; the woof we shall speak of in +the following chapter. No, there is nothing in +this Work which we can call ours, except it be the +Loom. But the weaving, we assure the Reader, was +a mortal process; for the material is of such a mixture +that here and there the raw silk of Syria is often spun +with the cotton and wool of America. In other words, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_vi' name='page_vi'></a>vi</span> +the Author dips his antique pen in a modern inkstand, +and when the ink runs thick, he mixes it with a slabbering +of slang. But we started to write an Introduction, +not a Criticism. And lest we end by writing +neither, we give here what is more to the point than +anything we can say: namely, Al-Fatihah, or the Opening +Word of Khalid himself.</p> +<p>With supreme indifference to the classic Arabic +proem, he begins by saying that his Book is neither +a Memoir nor an Autobiography, neither a Journal nor +a Confession.</p> +<p>“Orientals,” says he, “seldom adventure into that +region of fancy and fabrication so alluring to European +and American writers; for, like the eyes of huris, our +vanity is soft and demure. This then is a book of +travels in an impalpable country, an enchanted country, +from which we have all risen, and towards which we +are still rising. It is, as it were, the chart and history +of one little kingdom of the Soul,––the Soul of a philosopher, +poet and criminal. I am all three, I swear, +for I have lived both the wild and the social life. And +I have thirsted in the desert, and I have thirsted in the +city: the springs of the former were dry; the water +in the latter was frozen in the pipes. That is why, to +save my life, I had to be an incendiary at times, and +at others a footpad. And whether on the streets of +knowledge, or in the open courts of love, or in the +parks of freedom, or in the cellars and garrets of +thought and devotion, the only <i>saki</i> that would give +me a drink without the asking was he who called himself +Patience.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_vii' name='page_vii'></a>vii</span></p> +<p>“And so, the Book of Khalid was written. It is +the only one I wrote in this world, having made, as +I said, a brief sojourn in its civilised parts. I leave +it now where I wrote it, and I hope to write other +books in other worlds. Now understand, Allah keep +and guide thee, I do not leave it here merely as a certificate +of birth or death. I do not raise it up as an epitaph, +a trade-sign, or any other emblem of vainglory or +lucre; but truly as a propylon through which my race +and those above and below my race, are invited to pass +to that higher Temple of mind and spirit. For we are +all tourists, in a certain sense, and this world is the +most ancient of monuments. We go through life as +those pugreed-solar-hatted-Europeans go through +Egypt. We are pestered and plagued with guides and +dragomans of every rank and shade;––social and political +guides, moral and religious dragomans: a Tolstoy +here, an Ibsen there, a Spencer above, a Nietzche below. +And there thou art left in perpetual confusion +and despair. Where wilt thou go? Whom wilt thou +follow?</p> +<p>“Or wilt thou tarry to see the work of redemption +accomplished? For Society must be redeemed, and +many are the redeemers. The Cross, however, is out +of fashion, and so is the Dona Dulcinea motive. Howbeit, +what an array of Masters and Knights have we, +and what a variety! The work can be done, and +speedily, if we could but choose. Wagner can do it +with music; Bakunin, with dynamite; Karl Marx, +with the levelling rod; Haeckel, with an injection +of protoplasmic logic; the Pope, with a pinch of salt +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_viii' name='page_viii'></a>viii</span> +and chrism; and the Packer-Kings of America, with +pork and beef. What wilt thou have? Whom wilt +thou employ? Many are the applicants, many are +the guides. But if they are all going the way of +Juhannam, the Beef-packer I would choose. For verily, +a gobbet of beef on the way were better than +canned protoplasmic logic or bottled salt and +chrism....</p> +<p>“No; travel not on a Cook’s ticket; avoid the guides. +Take up thy staff and foot it slowly and leisurely; +tarry wherever thy heart would tarry. There is no +need of hurrying, O my Brother, whether eternal +Juhannam or eternal Jannat await us yonder. Come; +if thou hast not a staff, I have two. And what I +have in my Scrip I will share with thee. But turn +thy back to the guides; for verily we see more of them +than of the ruins and monuments. Verily, we get +more of the Dragomans than of the Show. Why then +continue to move and remove at their command?––Take +thy guidebook in hand and I will tell thee what +is in it.</p> +<p>“No; the time will come, I tell thee, when every +one will be his own guide and dragoman. The +time will come when it will not be necessary to write +books for others, or to legislate for others, or to make +religions for others: the time will come when every +one will write his own Book in the Life he lives, and +that Book will be his code and his creed;––that Life-Book +will be the palace and cathedral of his Soul in +all the Worlds.”</p> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<p class="h2" >BOOK THE FIRST</p> +<p class="h2" >IN THE EXCHANGE</p> +</div> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_2' id='linki_2'></a> +<img src='images/illus-012.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 462px; height: 346px;' /><br /> +</div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='TO_MAN' id='TO_MAN'></a> +<h2>TO MAN</h2> +</div> +<p><i>No matter how good thou art, O my Brother, +or how bad thou art, no matter how high or how +low in the scale of being thou art, I still would believe +in thee, and have faith in thee, and love thee. +For do I not know what clings to thee, and what +beckons to thee? The claws of the one and the wings +of the other, have I not felt and seen? Look up, +therefore, and behold this World-Temple, which, to +us, shall be a resting-place, and not a goal. On the +border-line of the Orient and Occident it is built, on +the mountain-heights overlooking both. No false gods +are worshipped in it,––no philosophic, theologic, or +anthropomorphic gods. Yea, and the god of the +priests and prophets is buried beneath the Fountain, +which is the altar of the Temple, and from which +flows the eternal spirit of our Maker––our Maker +who blinketh when the Claws are deep in our flesh, +and smileth when the Wings spring from our Wounds. +Verily, we are the children of the God of Humour, +and the Fountain in His Temple is ever flowing. +Tarry, and refresh thyself, O my Brother, tarry, and +refresh thyself.</i></p> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:right'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid</span>.<br /></p> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL' id='CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<h3>PROBING THE TRIVIAL</h3> +</div> +<p>The most important in the history of nations and +individuals was once the most trivial, and vice +versa. The plebeian, who is called to-day the man-in-the-street, +can never see and understand the significance +of the hidden seed of things, which in time +must develop or die. A garter dropt in the ballroom +of Royalty gives birth to an Order of Knighthood; +a movement to reform the spelling of the English +language, initiated by one of the presidents of a great +Republic, becomes eventually an object of ridicule. +Only two instances to illustrate our point, which is +applicable also to time-honoured truths and moralities. +But no matter how important or trivial these, he who +would give utterance to them must do so in cap and +bells, if he would be heard nowadays. Indeed, the +play is always the thing; the frivolous is the most +essential, if only as a disguise.––For look you, are +we not too prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous +preachment? And when you bring it to us +in book form, do you expect us to take it into our +homes and take you into our hearts to boot?––Which +argument is convincing even to the man in the barn.</p> +<p>But the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript +can make his Genius dance the dance of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span> +seven veils, if you but knew. It is to be regretted, +however, that he has not mastered the most subtle of +arts, the art of writing about one’s self. He seldom +brushes his wings against the dust or lingers among +the humble flowers close to the dust: he does not +follow the masters in their entertaining trivialities and +fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts +the turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography +that he really could, and often did, enjoy +a game of cards in the evening. And Rousseau, in +a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions +that he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens’ +bed when he was alone in her room. And Spencer +devotes whole pages in his dull and ponderous history +of himself to narrate the all-important narration of +his constant indisposition,––to assure us that his ill +health more than once threatened the mighty task he +had in hand. These, to be sure, are most important +revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue. Inspiration +does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion.</p> +<p>He would have done well, indeed, had he studied +the method of the professional writers of Memoirs, +especially those of France. For might he not then +have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my +Stick Pin, The Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal +of my Red Flannel, The Conquest of my Silk Socks, +The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like? But +Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the +outward self. He wrote of other Romances and other +Tragedies. And when his Genius is not dancing the +dance of the seven veils, she is either flirting with the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span> +monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to something +in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory +to the present Editor, who, unlike the Author of the +Khedivial Library MS., must keep the reader in mind. +’Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a few of the mysteries +of one’s palingenesis, but why conceal from us his +origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion +at least, that one writing his own history should first +expatiate on the humble origin of his ancestors and the +distant obscure source of his genius? And having +done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved +in his boyhood; whether or not he made anklets of +his mother’s dough for his little sister; whether he did +not kindle the fire with his father’s Korân; whether +he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach +the end of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not +write verse when he was but five years of age. About +these essentialities Khalid is silent. We only know +from him that he is a descendant of the brave sea-daring +Phœnicians––a title which might be claimed with +justice even by the aborigines of Yucatan––and that +he was born in the city of Baalbek, in the shadow of +the great Heliopolis, a little way from the mountain-road +to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction +is obscure.</p> +<p>And the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow +for thirteen days and nights, was beginning to +worry us. After all, might it not be a literary hoax, +we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth. +And yet, he does not seem to have sought any material +or worldly good from the writing of his Book. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span> +Why, then, should he resort to deception? Still, we +doubted. And one evening we were detained by the +sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged +on the sidewalk in front of the mosque. “I +know your mind,” said he, before we had made up our +mind to consult him. And mumbling his “abracadabra” +over the sand spread on a cloth before him, +he took up his bamboo-stick and wrote therein––Khalid! +This was amazing. “And I know more,” +said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his +head regretfully and wrote in the sand the name of +one of the hasheesh-dens of Cairo. “Go thither; and +come to see me again to-morrow evening.” Saying +which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his +fee, and walked away.</p> +<p>In that hasheesh-den,––the reekiest, dingiest of the +row in the Red Quarter,––where the etiolated intellectualities +of Cairo flock after midnight, the name +of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm, +and laughter.</p> +<p>“You mean the new Muhdi,” said one, offering us +his chobok of hasheesh; “smoke to his health and prosperity. +Ha, ha, ha.”</p> +<p>And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel +of a hasheesh jag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon +had something to say on the subject. The contagion +could not be checked. And Khalid was called +“the dervish of science” by one; “the rope-dancer +of nature” by another.</p> +<p>“Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness +of New York for five years,” remarked a third. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span></p> +<p>“And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a +bicycle instead.”</p> +<p>“The Young Turks can not catch him now.”</p> +<p>“Ah, but wait till England gets after our new +Muhdi.”</p> +<p>“Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies.”</p> +<p>“Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all +the virgins of Egypt we can not find a consumptive +for him?”</p> +<p>“And when he pulls down the pyramids to build +American Skyscrapers with their stones, where shall +we bury then our Muhdi?”</p> +<p>All of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing, +was none the less reassuring. For Khalid, +it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even see him, +we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak.</p> +<p>“Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and +disciple, will bring you into the sacred presence.”</p> +<p>“You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of +our new Muhdi, ha, ha, ha!”</p> +<p>And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. +But their humour, like the odor and smoke of gunjah, +(hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we lay our chobok +down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, +we struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the +open air.</p> +<p>In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the +poet Shakib, who was then drawing his inspiration +from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he was +drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! +has mysteriously disappeared. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span></p> +<p>“I have not seen him for ten days,” said the Poet; +“and I know not where he is.––If I did? Ah, my +friend, you would not then see me here. Indeed, I +should be with him, and though he be in the trap of +the Young Turks.” And some real tears flowed +down the cheeks of the Poet, as he spoke.</p> +<p>The Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation +at the gate of the desert, stands, like man himself, +in the shadow of two terrible immensities, the +Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End. +And in the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda, +we presume to solve in few words the eternal mystery. +But that is not what we came for. And to +avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led, +we suggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet +waxed more eloquent, and shed more tears.</p> +<p>“This is our favourite haunt,” said he; “here is +where we ramble, here is where we loaf. And Khalid +once said to me, ‘In loafing here, I work as hard as +did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these +pyramids.’ And I believe him. For is not a book +greater than a pyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace +better than a tomb? An object is great in proportion +to its power of resistance to time and the elements. +That is why we think the pyramids are great. But +see, the desert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea +is greater than the desert, and the heavens are greater +than the sea. And yet, there is not in all these that +immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating soul, +which you find in a great book. A man who conceives +and writes a great book, my friend, has done +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span> +more work than all the helots that laboured on these +pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no exaggeration +in Khalid’s words. For when he loafs, he +does so in good earnest. Not like the camel-driver +there or the camel, but after the manner of the great +thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and Jelal’ud-Deen +Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid +loafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness +by merely working? Are you going to waste +your time and power in useless unproductive labour, +carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle, which +is the English equivalent), that you might not be +called an idler, a loafer?”</p> +<p>“Indeed not,” we reply; “for the Poet taking in the +sea, or the woods, or the starry-night, the poet who +might be just sharing the sunshine with the salamander, +is as much a labourer as the stoker or the bricklayer.”</p> +<p>And with a few more such remarks, we showed our +friend that, not being of india-rubber, we could not +but expand under the heat of his grandiosity.</p> +<p>We then make our purpose known, and Shakib is +overjoyed. He offers to kiss us for the noble thought.</p> +<p>“Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and +only through you and me can this be done. For you +can not properly understand him, unless you read the +<i>Histoire Intime</i>, which I have just finished. That +will give you <i>les dessous de cartes</i> of his character.”</p> +<p>“<i>Les <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'dessous'">dessons</ins></i>”––and the Poet who intersperses +his Arabic with fancy French, explains.––“The lining, +the ligaments.”––“Ah, that is exactly what we want.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span></p> +<p>And he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript, +if we link his name with that of his illustrious +Master in this Book. To which we cheerfully agree. +For after all, what’s in a name?</p> +<p>On the following day, lugging an enormous bundle +under each arm, the Poet came. We were stunned as +he stood in the door; we felt as if he had struck us in +the head with them.</p> +<p>“This is the <i>Histoire Intime</i>,” said he, laying it +gently on the table.</p> +<p>And we laid our hand upon it, fetching a deep sigh. +Our misgivings, however, were lighted with a happy +idea. We will hire a few boys to read it, we thought, +and mark out the passages which please them most. +That will be just what an editor wants.</p> +<p>“And this,” continued the Poet, laying down the +other bundle, “is the original manuscript of my forthcoming +Book of Poems.––”</p> +<p>Sweet of him, we thought, to present it to us.</p> +<p>“It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.––”</p> +<p>Fortunate City!</p> +<p>“And if you will get to work on it at once,––”</p> +<p>Mercy!</p> +<p>“You can get out an English Translation in three +month, I am sure––”</p> +<p>We sink in our chair in breathless amazement.</p> +<p>“The Book will then appear simultaneously both in +London and Cairo.”</p> +<p>We sit up, revived with another happy idea, and +assure the Poet that his Work will be translated into a +universal language, and that very soon. For which +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span> +assurance he kisses us again and again, and goes away +hugging his Muse.</p> +<p>The idea! A Book of Poems to translate into +the English language! As if the English language +has not enough of its own troubles! Translate it, +O Fire, into your language! Which work the Fire +did in two minutes. And the dancing, leaping, singing +flames, the white and blue and amber flames, were +more beautiful, we thought, than anything the Ms. +might contain.</p> +<p>As for the <i>Histoire Intime</i>, we split it into three +parts and got our boys working on it. The result +was most satisfying. For now we can show, and +though he is a native of Asia, the land of the Prophets, +and though he conceals from us his origin after the +manner of the Prophets, that he was born and bred +and fed, and even thwacked, like all his fellows there, +this Khalid.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL' id='CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3>THE CITY OF BAAL</h3> +</div> +<p>The City of Baal, or Baalbek, is between the +desert and the deep sea. It lies at the foot of +Anti-Libanus, in the sunny plains of Coele-Syria, a +day’s march from either Damascus or Beirut. It +is a city with a past as romantic as Rome’s, as +wicked as Babel’s; its ruins testify both to its glory +and its shame. It is a city with a future as brilliant +as any New-World city; the railroad at its gate, the +modern agricultural implements in its fields, and the +porcelain bath-tubs in its hotels, can testify to this. +It is a city that enticed and still entices the mighty +of the earth; Roman Emperors in the past came to +appease the wrath of its gods, a German Emperor to-day +comes to pilfer its temples. For the Acropolis in +the poplar grove is a mine of ruins. The porphyry pillars, +the statues, the tablets, the exquisite friezes, the +palimpsests, the bas-reliefs,––Time and the Turks +have spared a few of these. And when the German +Emperor came, Abd’ul-Hamid blinked, and the Berlin +Museum is now the richer for it.</p> +<p>Of the Temple of Jupiter, however, only six standing +columns remain; of the Temple of Bacchus only +the god and the Bacchantes are missing. And why +was the one destroyed, the other preserved, only the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span> +six columns, had they a tongue, could tell. Indeed, +how many blustering vandals have <i>they</i> conquered, +how many savage attacks have they resisted, what +wonders and what orgies have they beheld! These +six giants of antiquity, looking over Anti-Lebanon +in the East, and down upon the meandering Leontes +in the South, and across the Syrian steppes in the +North, still hold their own against Time and the +Elements. They are the dominating feature of the +ruins; they tower above them as the Acropolis towers +above the surrounding poplars. And around their +base, and through the fissures, flows the perennial grace +of the seasons. The sun pays tribute to them in gold; +the rain, in mosses and ferns; the Spring, in +lupine flowers. And the swallows, nesting in the +portico of the Temple of Bacchus, above the curious +frieze of egg-decoration,––as curious, too, <i>their</i> art of +egg-making,––pour around the colossal columns their +silvery notes. Surely, these swallows and ferns and +lupine flowers are more ancient than the Acropolis. +And the marvels of extinct nations can not hold a +candle to the marvels of Nature.</p> +<p>Here, under the decaying beauty of Roman art, +lies buried the monumental boldness of the Phœnicians, +or of a race of giants whose extinction even Homer +deplores, and whose name even the Phœnicians could +not decipher. For might they not, too, have stood +here wondering, guessing, even as we moderns guess +and wonder? Might not the Phœnicians have asked +the same questions that we ask to-day: Who were the +builders? and with what tools? In one of the walls +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span> +of the Acropolis are stones which a hundred bricklayers +can not raise an inch from the ground; and +among the ruins of the Temple of Zeus are porphyry +pillars, monoliths, which fifty horses could barely +move, and the quarry of which is beyond the Syrian +desert. There, now, solve the problem for yourself.</p> +<p>Hidden in the grove of silver-tufted poplars is the +little Temple of Venus, doomed to keep company with +a Mosque. But it is a joy to stand on the bridge +above the stream that flows between them, and listen +to the muazzen in the minaret and the bulbuls in the +Temple. Mohammad calling to Venus, Venus calling +to Mohammad––what a romance! We leave the +subject to the poet that wants it. Another Laus +Veneris to another Swinburne might suggest itself.</p> +<p>An Arab Prophet with the goddess, this time––but +the River flows between the Temple and the Mosque. +In the city, life is one such picturesque languid stream. +The shop-keepers sit on their rugs in their stalls, counting +their beads, smoking their narghilahs, waiting indifferently +for Allah’s bounties. And the hawkers +shuffle along crying their wares in beautiful poetic +illusions,––the flower-seller singing, “Reconcile your +mother-in-law! Perfume your spirit! Buy a jasmine +for your soul!” the seller of loaves, his tray on his +head, his arms swinging to a measured step, intoning +in pious thankfulness, “O thou Eternal, O thou +Bountiful!” The <i>sakka</i> of licorice-juice, clicking his +brass cups calls out to the thirsty one, “Come, drink +and live! Come, drink and live!” And ere you exclaim, +How quaint! How picturesque! a train of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span> +laden camels drives you to the wall, rudely shaking +your illusion. And the mules and donkeys, tottering +under their heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins> +here, a counter of spices there, must share the +narrow street with you and compel you to move +along slowly, languidly like themselves. They seem +to take Time by the sleeve and say to it, “What’s +your hurry?” “These donkeys,” Shakib writes, quoting +Khalid, “can teach the strenuous Europeans and +hustling Americans a lesson.”</p> +<p>In the City Square, as we issue from the congested +windings of the Bazaar, we are greeted by one of +those scrub monuments that are found in almost every +city of the Ottoman Empire. And in most cases, +they are erected to commemorate the benevolence and +public zeal of some wali or pasha who must have made +a handsome fortune in the promotion of a public enterprise. +Be this as it may. It is not our business here to +probe the corruption of any particular Government. +But we observe that this miserable botch of a monument +is to the ruins of the Acropolis, what this modern +absolutism, this effete Turkey is to the magnificent +tyrannies of yore. Indeed, nothing is duller, more +stupid, more prosaic than a modern absolutism as +compared with an ancient one. But why concern +ourselves with like comparisons? The world is better +to-day in spite of its public monuments. These little +flights or frights in marble are as snug in their little +squares, in front of their little halls, as are the majestic +ruins in their poplar groves. In both instances, +Nature and Circumstance have harmonised between +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span> +the subject and the background. Come along. And +let the rhymsters chisel on the monument whatever +they like about sculptures and the wali. To condemn +in this case is to praise.</p> +<p>We issue from the Square into the drive leading +to the spring at the foot of the mountain. On the +meadows near the stream, is always to be found a +group of Baalbekians bibbing <i>arak</i> and swaying languidly +to the mellow strains of the lute and the monotonous +melancholy of Arabic song. Among such, one +occasionally meets with a native who, failing as <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'pedler'">peddler</ins> +or merchant in America, returns to his native town, +and, utilising the chips of English he picked up in the +streets of the New-World cities, becomes a dragoman +and guide to English and American tourists.</p> +<p>Now, under this sky, between Anti-Libanus rising +near the spring, Rasulain, and the Acropolis towering +above the poplars, around these majestic ruins, amidst +these fascinating scenes of Nature, Khalid spent the +halcyon days of his boyhood. Here he trolled his favourite +ditties beating the hoof behind his donkey. For +he preferred to be a donkey-boy than to be called a +donkey at school. The pedagogue with his drivel and +discipline, he could not learn to love. The company of +muleteers was much more to his liking. The open +air was his school; and everything that riots and rejoices +in the open air, he loved. Bulbuls and beetles +and butterflies, oxen and donkeys and mules,––these +were his playmates and friends. And when he becomes +a muleteer, he reaches in his first venture, we are told, +the top round of the ladder. This progressive scale +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span> +in his trading, we observe. Husbanding his resources, +he was soon after, by selling his donkey, +able to buy a sumpter-mule; a year later he sells his +mule and buys a camel; and finally he sells the camel +and buys a fine Arab mare, which he gives to a tourist +for a hundred pieces of English gold. This is what +is called success. And with the tangible symbol of it, +the price of his mare, he emigrates to America. But +that is to come.</p> +<p>Let us now turn our “stereopticon on the screen +of reminiscence,” using the pictures furnished by Shakib. +But before they can be used to advantage, they +must undergo a process of retroussage. Many of the +lines need be softened, some of the shades modified, +and not a few of the etchings, absolutely worthless, we +consign to the flames. Who of us, for instance, was +not feruled and bastinadoed by the town pedagogue? +Who did not run away from school, whimpering, +snivelling, and cursing in his heart and in his +sleep the black-board and the horn-book? Nor can +we see the significance of the fact that Khalid once +smashed the icon of the Holy Virgin for whetting not +his wits, for hearing not his prayers. It may be he +was learning then the use of the sling, and instead +of killing his neighbour’s laying-hen, he broke the sacred +effigy. No, we are not warranted to draw from these +trivialities the grand results which send Shakib in +ecstasies about his Master’s genius. Nor do we for a +moment believe that the waywardness of a genius or +a prophet in boyhood is always a significant adumbration. +Shakespeare started as a deer-poacher, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span> +Rousseau as a thief. Yet, neither the one nor the +other, as far as we know, was a plagiarist. This, +however, does not disprove the contrary proposition, +that he who begins as a thief or an iconoclast is likely +to end as such. But the actuating motive has nothing +to do with what we, in our retrospective analysis, are +pleased to prove. Not so far forth are we willing to +piddle among the knicknacks of Shakib’s <i>Histoire Intime</i> +of his Master.</p> +<p>Furthermore, how can we interest ourselves in his +fiction of history concerning Baalbek? What have +we to do with the fact or fable that Seth the Prophet +lived in this City; that Noah is buried in its vicinity; +that Solomon built the Temple of the Sun for the +Queen of Sheba; that this Prince and Poet used to +lunch in Baalbek and dine at Istachre in Afghanistan; +that the chariot of Nimrod drawn by four phœnixes +from the Tower of Babel, lighted on Mt. Hermon +to give said Nimrod a chance to rebuild the said Temple +of the Sun? How can we bring any of these +fascinating fables to bear upon our subject? It is +<ins class="trchange" title="Was 'neverthelesss'">nevertheless</ins> significant to remark that the City of +Baal, from the Phœnicians and Moabites down to the +Arabs and Turks, has ever been noted for its sanctuaries +of carnal lust. The higher religion, too, +found good soil here; for Baalbek gave the world many +a saint and martyr along with its harlots and poets +and philosophers. St. Minius, St. Cyril and St. Theodosius, +are the foremost among its holy children; Ste. +Odicksyia, a Magdalene, is one of its noted daughters. +These were as famous in their days as Ashtarout or +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span> +Jupiter-Ammon. As famous too is Al-Iman ul-Ouzaai +the scholar; al-Makrizi the historian; Kallinichus +the chemist, who invented the Greek fire; Kosta ibn +Luka, a doctor and philosopher, who wrote among +much miscellaneous rubbish a treaty entitled, On the +Difference Between the Mind and the Soul; and +finally the Muazzen of Baalbek to whom “even the +beasts would stop to listen.” Ay, Shakib relates +quoting al-Makrizi, who in his turn relates, quoting +one of the octogenarian Drivellers, <i>Muhaddetheen</i> +(these men are the chief sources of Arabic History) +that he was told by an eye and ear witness that +when this celebrated Muazzen was once calling the +Faithful to prayer, the camels at the creek craned their +necks to listen to the sonorous music of his voice. And +such was their delight that they forgot they were +thirsty. This, by the way of a specimen of the +<i>Muhaddetheen</i>. Now, about these historical worthies +of Baalbek, whom we have but named, Shakib writes +whole pages, and concludes––and here is the point––that +Khalid might be a descendant of any or all of +them! For in him, our Scribe seriously believes, are +lusty strains of many varied and opposing humours. +And although he had not yet seen the sea, he longed +when a boy for a long sea voyage, and he would sail +little paper boats down the stream to prove the fact. +In truth, that is what Shakib would prove. The devil +and such logic had a charm for us once, but no more.</p> +<p>Here is another bubble of retrospective analysis to +which we apply the needle. It is asserted as a basis +for another astounding deduction that Khalid used to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span> +sleep in the ruined Temple of Zeus. As if ruined +temples had anything to do with the formation or deformation +of the brain-cells or the soul-afflatus! The +devil and such logic, we repeat, had once a charm for +us. But this, in brief, is how it came about. Khalid +hated the pedagogue to whom he had to pay a visit of +courtesy every day, and loved his cousin Najma whom +he was not permitted to see. And when he runs away +from the bastinado, breaking in revenge the icon of the +Holy Virgin, his father turns him away from home. +Complaining not, whimpering not, he goes. And hearing +the bulbuls calling in the direction of Najma’s +house that evening, he repairs thither. But the crabbed, +cruel uncle turns him away also, and bolts the door. +Whereupon Khalid, who was then in the first of his +teens, takes a big scabrous rock and sends it flying +against that door. The crabbed uncle rushes out, +blustering, cursing; the nephew takes up another of +those scabrous missiles and sends it whizzing across his +shoulder. The second one brushes his ear. The third +sends the blood from his temple. And this, while +beating a retreat and cursing his father and his uncle +and their ancestors back to fifty generations. He is +now safe in the poplar grove, and his uncle gives up +the charge. With a broken noddle he returns home, +and Khalid with a broken heart wends his way to the +Acropolis, the only shelter in sight. In relating this +story, Shakib mentions “the horrible old moon, who +was wickedly smiling over the town that night.” A +broken icon, a broken door, a broken pate,––a big +price this, the crabbed uncle and the cruel father had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span> +to pay for thwarting the will of little Khalid. “But +he entered the Acropolis a conqueror,” says our +Scribe; “he won the battle.” And he slept in the +temple, in the portico thereof, as sound as a muleteer. +And the swallows in the niches above heard him sleep.</p> +<p>In the morning he girds his loins with a firm resolution. +No longer will he darken his father’s door. +He becomes a muleteer and accomplishes the success of +which we have spoken. His first beau idéal was to +own the best horse in Baalbek; and to be able to ride +to the camp of the Arabs and be mistaken for one of +them, was his first great ambition. Which he realises +sooner than he thought he would. For thrift, grit +and perseverance, are a few of the rough grains in his +character. But no sooner he is possessed of his ideal +than he begins to loosen his hold upon it. He sold +his mare to the tourist, and was glad he did not attain +the same success in his first love. For he loved his +mare, and he could not have loved his cousin Najma +more. “The realisation is a terrible thing,” writes +our Scribe, quoting his Master. But when this fine +piece of wisdom was uttered, whether when he was +sailing paper boats in Baalbek, or unfurling his sails in +New York, we can not say.</p> +<p>And now, warming himself on the fire of his first +ideal, Khalid will seek the shore and launch into unknown +seas towards unknown lands. From the City +of Baal to the City of Demiurgic Dollar is not in fact +a far cry. It has been remarked that he always +dreamt of adventures, of long journeys across the +desert or across the sea. He never was satisfied with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span> +the seen horizon, we are told, no matter how vast and +beautiful. His soul always yearned for what was beyond, +above or below, the visible line. And had not +the European tourist alienated from him the love of +his mare and corrupted his heart with the love of gold, +we might have heard of him in Mecca, in India, or in +Dahomey. But Shakib prevails upon him to turn his +face toward the West. One day, following some +tourists to the Cedars, they behold from Dahr’ul-Qadhib +the sun setting in the Mediterranean and +make up their minds to follow it too. “For the sundown,” +writes Shakib, “was more appealing to us +than the sunrise, ay, more beautiful. The one was so +near, the other so far away. Yes, we beheld the Hesperian +light that day, and praised Allah. It was the +New World’s bonfire of hospitality: the sun called to +us, and we obeyed.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA' id='CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>VIA DOLOROSA</h3> +</div> +<p>In their baggy, lapping trousers and crimson caps, each +carrying a bundle and a rug under his arm, Shakib +and Khalid are smuggled through the port of Beirut +at night, and safely rowed to the steamer. Indeed, +we are in a country where one can not travel without +a passport, or a password, or a little pass-money. +And the boatmen and officials of the Ottoman Empire +can better read a gold piece than a passport. So, +Shakib and Khalid, not having the latter, slip in a few +of the former, and are smuggled through. One more +longing, lingering glance behind, and the dusky peaks +of the Lebanons, beyond which their native City of +Baal is sleeping in peace, recede from view. On the +high sea of hope and joy they sail; “under the Favonian +wind of enthusiasm, on the friendly billows of +boyish dreams,” they roll. Ay, and they sing for joy. +On and on, to the gold-swept shores of distant lands, +to the generous cities and the bounteous fields of the +West, to the Paradise of the World––to America.</p> +<p>We need not dwell too much with our Scribe, on +the repulsive details of the story of the voyage. We +ourselves have known a little of the suffering and +misery which emigrants must undergo, before they +reach that Western Paradise of the Oriental imagination. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span> +How they are huddled like sheep on deck from +Beirut to Marseilles; and like cattle transported +under hatches across the Atlantic; and bullied and +browbeaten by rough disdainful stewards; and made +to pay for a leathery gobbet of beef and a slice of +black flint-like bread: all this we know. But that +New World paradise is well worth these passing privations.</p> +<p>The second day at sea, when the two Baalbekian +lads are snug on deck, their rugs spread out not far +from the stalls in which Syrian cattle are shipped to +Egypt and Arab horses to Europe or America, they +rummage in their bags––and behold, a treat! Shakib +takes out his favourite poet Al-Mutanabbi, and Khalid, +his favourite bottle, the choicest of the Ksarah distillery +of the Jesuits. For this whilom donkey-boy will begin +by drinking the wine of these good Fathers and +then their––blood! His lute is also with him; and +he will continue to practise the few lessons which the +bulbuls of the poplar groves have taught him. No, he +cares not for books. And so, he uncorks the bottle, +hands it to Shakib his senior, then takes a nip himself, +and, thrumming his lute strings, trolls a few +doleful pieces of Arabic song. “In these,” he would +say to Shakib, pointing to the bottle and the lute, “is +real poetry, and not in that book with which you +would kill me.” And Shakib, in stingless sarcasm, +would insist that the music in Al-Mutanabbi’s lines +is just a little more musical than Khalid’s thrumming. +They quarrel about this. And in justice to both, we +give the following from the <i>Histoire Intime</i>. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span></p> +<p>“When we left our native land,” Shakib writes, +“my literary bent was not shared in the least by +Khalid. I had gone through the higher studies which, +in our hedge-schools and clerical institutions, do not +reach a very remarkable height. Enough of French +to understand the authors tabooed by our Jesuit professors,––the +Voltaires, the Rousseaus, the Diderots; +enough of Arabic to enable one to parse and analyse +the verse of Al-Mutanabbi; enough of Church History +to show us, not how the Church wielded the sword +of persecution, but how she was persecuted herself by +the pagans and barbarians of the earth;––of these +and such like consists the edifying curriculum. Now, +of this high phase of education, Khalid was thoroughly +immune. But his intuitive sagacity was often remarkable, +and his humour, sweet and pathetic. Once when +I was reading aloud some of the Homeric effusions of +Al-Mutanabbi, he said to me, as he was playing his +lute, ‘In the heart of this,’ pointing to the lute, ‘and +in the heart of me, there be more poetry than in that +book with which you would kill me.’ And one day, +after wandering clandestinely through the steamer, he +comes to me with a gesture of surprise and this: ‘Do +you know, there are passengers who sleep in bunks below, +over and across each other? I saw them, +billah! And I was told they pay more than we do +for such a low passage––the fools! Think on it. I +peeped into a little room, a dingy, smelling box, which +had in it six berths placed across and above each other +like the shelves of the reed manchons we build for our +silk-worms at home. I wouldn’t sleep in one of them, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span> +billah! even though they bribe me. This bovine fragrance, +the sight of these fine horses, the rioting of the +wind above us, should make us forget the brutality +of the stewards. Indeed, I am as content, as +comfortable here, as are their Excellencies in what is +called the Salon. Surely, we are above them––at +least, in the night. What matters it, then, if ours is +called the Fourth Class and theirs the Primo. +Wherever one is happy, Shakib, there is the Primo.’”</p> +<p>But this happy humour is assailed at Marseilles. His +placidity and stolid indifference are rudely shaken by +the sharpers, who differ only from the boatmen of Beirut +in that they wear pantaloons and intersperse their +Arabic with a jargon of French. These brokers, like +rapacious bats, hover around the emigrant and before +his purse is opened for the fourth time, the trick is +done. And with what ceremony, you shall see. +From the steamer the emigrant is led to a dealer in +frippery, where he is required to doff his baggy +trousers and crimson cap, and put on a suit of linsey-woolsey +and a hat of hispid felt: end of First Act; +open the purse. From the dealer of frippery, spick +and span from top to toe, he is taken to the hostelry, +where he is detained a fortnight, sometimes a +month, on the pretext of having to wait for the best +steamer: end of Second Act; open the purse. +From the hostelry at last to the steamship agent, +where they secure for him a third-class passage on a +fourth-class ship across the Atlantic: end of Third Act; +open the purse. And now that the purse is almost +empty, the poor emigrant is permitted to leave. They +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span> +send him to New York with much gratitude in his +heart and a little trachoma in his eyes. The result being +that a month later they have to look into such eyes +again. But the purse of the distressed emigrant now +being empty,––empty as his hopes and dreams,––the +rapacious bats hover not around him, and the door of +the verminous hostelry is shut in his face. He is left +to starve on the western shore of the Mediterranean.</p> +<p>Ay, even the droll humour and stolidity of Khalid, +are shaken, aroused, by the ghoulish greed, the fell inhumanity +of these sharpers. And Shakib from his +cage of fancy lets loose upon them his hyenas of satire. +In a squib describing the bats and the voyage he says: +“The voyage to America is the Via Dolorosa of the +emigrant; and the Port of Beirut, the verminous +hostelries of Marseilles, the Island of Ellis in New +York, are the three stations thereof. And if your hopes +are not crucified at the third and last station, you pass +into the Paradise of your dreams. If they are crucified, +alas! The gates of the said Paradise will be shut +against you; the doors of the hostelries will be slammed +in your face; and with a consolation and a vengeance +you will throw yourself at the feet of the sea in whose +bosom some charitable Jonah will carry you to your +native strands.”</p> +<p>And when the emigrant has a surplus of gold, when +his capital is such as can not be dissipated on a suit of +shoddy, a fortnight’s lodging, and a passage across the +Atlantic, the ingenious ones proceed with the Fourth +Act of <i>Open Thy Purse</i>. “Instead of starting in +New York as a peddler,” they say, unfolding before +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span> +him one of their alluring schemes, “why not do so +as a merchant?” And the emigrant opens his purse +for the fourth time in the office of some French manufacturer, +where he purchases a few boxes of trinketry,––scapulars, +prayer-beads, crosses, jewelry, gewgaws, +and such like,––all said to be made in the Holy +Land. These he brings over with him as his stock in +trade.</p> +<p>Now, Khalid and Shakib, after passing a fortnight +in Marseilles, and going through the Fourth Act of +the Sorry Show, find their dignity as merchants rudely +crushed beneath the hatches of the Atlantic steamer. +For here, even the pleasure of sleeping on deck is +denied them. The Atlantic Ocean would not permit +of it. Indeed, everybody has to slide into their stivy +bunks to save themselves from its rising wrath. A +fortnight of such unutterable misery is quite supportable, +however, if one continues to cherish the Paradise +already mentioned. But in this dark, dingy +smelling hole of the steerage, even the poets cease to +dream. The boatmen of Beirut and the sharpers of +Marseilles we could forget; but in this grave among +a hundred and more of its kind, set over and across +each other, neither the lute nor the little that remained +in that Ksarah bottle, could bring us any solace.</p> +<p>We are told that Khalid took up his lute but once +throughout the voyage. And this when they were +permitted one night to sleep on deck. We are also +informed that Khalid had a remarkable dream, which, +to our Scribe at least, is not meaningless. And who +of us, thou silly Scribe, did not in his boyhood tell his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span> +dreams to his mother, who would turn them in her +interpretation inside out? But Khalid, we are +assured, continued to cherish the belief, even in +his riper days, that when you dream you are in Jannat, +for instance, you must be prepared to go through +Juhannam the following day. A method of interpretation +as ancient as Joseph, to be sure. But we quote +the dream to show that Khalid should not have followed +the setting sun. He should have turned his +face toward the desert.</p> +<p>They slept on deck that night. They drank the +wine of the Jesuits, repeated, to the mellow strains of +the lute, the song of the bulbuls, intoned the verses of +Al-Mutanabbi, and, wrapping themselves in their +rugs, fell asleep. But in the morning they were +rudely jostled from their dreams by a spurt from the +hose of the sailors washing the deck. Complaining +not, they straggle down to their bunks to change their +clothes. And Khalid, as he is doing this, implores +Shakib not to mention to him any more that New-World +paradise. “For I have dreamt last night,” +he continues, “that, in the multicoloured robes of +an Arab amir, on a caparisoned dromedary, at the +head of an immense multitude of people, I was riding +through the desert. Whereto and wherefrom, I know +not. But those who followed me seemed to know; +for they cried, ‘Long have we waited for thee, now +we shall enter in peace.’ And at every oasis we +passed, the people came to the gate to meet us, and, +prostrating themselves before me, kissed the fringe of +my garment. Even the women would touch my boots +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span> +and kiss their hands, exclaiming, ‘<i>Allahu akbar!</i>’ +And the palm trees, billah! I could see bending +towards us that we might eat of their fruits, and the +springs seemed to flow with us into the desert that we +might never thirst. Ay, thus in triumph we marched +from one camp to another, from one oasis to the next, +until we reached the City on the Hills of the Cedar +Groves. Outside the gate, we were met by the most +beautiful of its tawny women, and four of these surrounded +my camel and took the reins from my hand. +I was then escorted through the gates, into the City, +up to the citadel, where I was awaited by their Princess. +And she, taking a necklace of cowries from a bag +that hung on her breast, placed it on my head, saying, +‘I crown thee King of––’ But I could not +hear the rest, which was drowned by the cheering of +the multitudes. And the cheering, O Shakib, was +drowned by the hose of the sailors. Oh, that hose! Is +it not made in the paradise you harp upon, the paradise +we are coming to? Never, therefore, mention +it to me more.”</p> +<p>This is the dream, at once simple and symbolic, +which begins to worry Khalid. “For in the evening +of the day he related it to me,” writes Shakib, “I +found him sitting on the edge of his bunk brooding +over I know not what. It was the first time he had +the blues. Nay, it was the first time he looked pensive +and profound. And upon asking him the reason +for this, he said, ‘I am thinking of the paper-boats +which I used to sail down the stream in Baalbek, and +that makes me <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">sad.’”</ins> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span></p> +<p>How strange! And yet, this first event recorded by +our Scribe, in which Khalid is seen struggling with +the mysterious and unknown, is most significant. +Another instance, showing a latent phase, hitherto dormant, +in his character, we note. Among the steerage +passengers is a Syrian girl who much resembles his +cousin Najma. She was sea-sick throughout the voyage, +and when she comes out to breathe of the fresh +air, a few hours before they enter the harbour of New +York, Khalid sees her, and Shakib swears that he saw +a tear in Khalid’s eye as he stood there gazing upon +her. Poor Khalid! For though we are approaching +the last station of the Via Dolorosa, though we are +nearing the enchanted domes of the wonder-working, +wealth-worshipping City, he is inexplicably sad.</p> +<p>And Shakib, directly after swearing that he saw a +tear in his eye, writes the following: “Up to this time +I observed in my friend only the dominating traits of +a hard-headed, hard-hearted boy, stubborn, impetuous, +intractable. But from the time he related to me his +dream, a change in his character was become manifest. +In fact a new phase was being gradually unfolded. +Three things I must emphasise in this connection: +namely, the first dream he dreamt in a foreign land, the +first time he looked pensive and profound, and the first +tear he shed before we entered New York. These are +keys to the secret chamber of one’s soul.”</p> +<p>And now, that the doors, by virtue of our Scribe’s +open-sesames, are thrown open, we enter, <i>bismillah</i>.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT' id='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT</h3> +</div> +<p>Not in our make-up, to be sure,––not in the pose +which is preceded by the tantaras of a trumpet,––do +the essential traits in our character first reveal +themselves. But truly in the little things the real self +is exteriorised. Shakib observes closely the rapid +changes in his co-adventurer’s humour, the shadowy +traits which at that time he little understood. And +now, by applying his palm to his front, he illumines +those chambers of which he speaks, and also the niches +therein. He helps us to understand the insignificant +points which mark the rapid undercurrents of the seemingly +sluggish soul of Khalid. Not in vain, therefore, +does he crystallise for us that first tear he shed in the +harbour of Manhattan. But his gush about the recondite +beauty of this pearl of melancholy, shall not be +intended upon the gustatory nerves of the Reader. +This then we note––his description of New York harbour.</p> +<p>“And is this the gate of Paradise,” he asks, “or +the port of some subterrestrial city guarded by the +Jinn? What a marvel of enchantment is everything +around us! What manifestations of industrial +strength, what monstrosities of wealth and power, are +here! These vessels proudly putting to sea; these tenders +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span> +scurrying to meet the Atlantic greyhound which +is majestically moving up the bay; these barges loading +and unloading schooners from every strand, distant +and near; these huge lighters carrying even railroads +over the water; these fire-boats scudding +through the harbour shrilling their sirens; these careworn, +grim, strenuous multitudes ferried across from +one enchanted shore to another; these giant structures +tickling heaven’s sides; these cable bridges, spanning +rivers, uniting cities; and this superterrestrial goddess, +torch in hand––wake up, Khalid, and behold these +wonders. Salaam, this enchanted City! There is the +Brooklyn Bridge, and here is the Statue of Liberty +which people speak of, and which are as famous as +the Cedars of Lebanon.”</p> +<p>But Khalid is as impassive as the bronze goddess +herself. He leans over the rail, his hand supporting +his cheek, and gazes into the ooze. The stolidity of +his expression is appalling. With his mouth open as +usual, his lips relaxed, his tongue sticking out through +the set teeth,––he looks as if his head were in a noose. +But suddenly he braces up, runs down for his lute, and +begins to serenade––Greater New York?</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>On thee be Allah’s grace,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Who hath the well-loved face!”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>No; not toward this City does his heart flap its +wings of song. He is on another sea, in another harbour. +Indeed, what are these wonders as compared +with those of the City of Love? The Statue of +Eros there is more imposing than the Statue of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span> +Liberty here. And the bridges are not of iron and +concrete, but of rainbows and––moonshine! Indeed, +both these lads are now on the wharf of enchantment; +the one on the palpable, the sensuous, the other on the +impalpable and unseen. But both, alas, are suddenly, +but temporarily, disenchanted as they are jostled out of +the steamer into the barge which brings them to the +Juhannam of Ellis Island. Here, the unhappy children +of the steerage are dumped into the Bureau of +Emigration as––such stuff! For even in the land of +equal rights and freedom, we have a right to expect +from others the courtesy and decency which we ourselves +do not have to show, or do not know.</p> +<p>These are sturdy and adventurous foreigners whom +the grumpy officers jostle and hustle about. For +neither poverty, nor oppression, nor both together can +drive a man out of his country, unless the soul within +him awaken. Indeed, many a misventurous cowering +peasant continues to live on bread and olives in +his little village, chained in the fear of dying of hunger +in a foreign land. Only the brave and daring +spirits hearken to the voice of discontent within them. +They give themselves up to the higher aspirations of +the soul, no matter how limited such aspirations might +be, regardless of the dangers and hardship of a long +sea voyage, and the precariousness of their plans and +hopes. There may be nothing noble in renouncing +one’s country, in abandoning one’s home, in forsaking +one’s people; but is there not something remarkable in +this great move one makes? Whether for better or +for worse, does not the emigrant place himself above +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span> +his country, his people and his Government, when he +turns away from them, when he goes forth propelled +by that inner self which demands of him a new life?</p> +<p>And might it not be a better, a cleaner, a higher +life? What say our Masters of the Island of Ellis? +Are not these straggling, smelling, downcast emigrants +almost as clean inwardly, and as pure, as the +grumpy officers who harass and humiliate them? Is +not that spirit of discontent which they cherish, and +for which they carry the cross, so to speak, across the +sea, deserving of a little consideration, a little civility, +a little kindness?</p> +<p>Even louder than this Shakib cries out, while Khalid +open-mouthed sucks his tongue. Here at the last station, +where the odours of disinfectants are worse than +the stench of the steerage, they await behind the bars +their turn; stived with Italian and Hungarian fellow +sufferers, uttering such whimpers of expectancy, exchanging +such gestures of hope. Soon they shall be +brought forward to be examined by the doctor and the +interpreting officer; the one shall pry their purses, the +other their eyes. For in this United States of +America we want clear-sighted citizens at least. And +no cold-purses, if the matter can be helped. But +neither the eyes, alas, nor the purses of our two emigrants +are conformable to the Law; the former are +filled with granulations of trachoma, the latter have +been emptied by the sharpers of Marseilles. Which +means that they shall be detained for the present; and +if within a fortnight nothing turns up in their favour, +they shall certainly be deported. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p> +<p>Trachoma! a little granulation on the inner surface +of the eyelids, what additional misery does it bring +upon the poor deported emigrant? We are asked to +shed a tear for him, to weep with him over his blasted +hopes, his strangled aspirations, his estate in the mother +country sold or mortgaged,––in either case lost,––and +his seed of a new life crushed in its cotyledon by +the physician who might be short-sighted himself, or +even blind. But the law must be enforced for the +sake of the clear-sighted citizens of the Republic. We +will have nothing to do with these poor blear-eyed foreigners.</p> +<p>And thus our grievous Scribe would continue, if we +did not exercise the prerogative of our Editorial Divan. +Rather let us pursue our narration. Khalid is now in +the hospital, awaiting further development in his case. +But in Shakib’s, whose eyes are far gone in trachoma, +the decision of the Board of Emigration is final, irrevokable. +And so, after being detained a week in the +Emigration pen, the unfortunate Syrian must turn +his face again toward the East. Not out into the +City, but out upon the sea, he shall be turned adrift. +The grumpy officer shall grumpishly enforce the decision +of the Board by handing our Scribe to the Captain +of the first steamer returning to Europe––if our +Scribe can be found! For this flyaway son of a +Phœnician did not seem to wait for the decision of the +polyglot Judges of the Emigration Board.</p> +<p>And that he did escape, we are assured. For one +morning he eludes the grumpy officer, and sidles out +among his Italian neighbours who were permitted to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span> +land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'curb-stone' across lines">curbstone</ins> +and thank Allah that he is free. But before he +can enjoy his freedom, before he can sit down and +chuckle over the success of his escapade, he must bethink +him of Khalid. He will not leave him to the +mercy of the honourable Agents of the Law, if he can +help it. Trachoma, he knows, is a hard case to cure. +And in ten days, under the care of the doctors, it +might become worse. Straightway, therefore, he puts +himself to the dark task. A few visits to the Hospital +where Khalid is detained––the patients in those days +were not held at Ellis Island––and the intrigue is +afoot. On the third or fourth visit, we can not make +out which, a note in Arabic is slipt into Khalid’s +pocket, and with a significant Arabic sign, Shakib takes +himself off.</p> +<p>The evening of that very day, the trachoma-afflicted +Syrian was absent from the ward. He was +carried off by Iblis,––the porter and a few Greenbacks +assisting. Yes, even Shakib, who knew only +a few English monosyllables, could here make himself +understood. For money is one of the two universal +languages of the world, the other being love. +Indeed, money and love are as eloquent in Turkey and +Dahomey as they are in Paris or New York.</p> +<p>And here we reach one of those hedges in the +<i>Histoire Intime</i> which we must go through in spite of +the warning-signs. Between two paragraphs, to be +plain, in the one of which we are told how the two +Syrians established themselves as merchants in New +York, in the other, how and wherefor they shouldered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span> +the peddling-box and took to the road, there is a +crossed paragraph containing a most significant revelation. +It seems that after giving the matter some +serious thought, our Scribe came to the conclusion that +it is not proper to incriminate his illustrious Master. +But here is a confession which a hundred crosses can +not efface. And if he did not want to bring the matter +to our immediate cognisance, why, we ask, did he +not re-write the page? Why did he not cover well +that said paragraph with crosses and arabesques? We +do suspect him here of chicanery; for by this plausible +recantation he would shift the responsibility to the +shoulders of the Editor, if the secret is divulged. +Be this as it may, no red crosses can conceal from us +the astounding confession, which we now give out. +For the two young Syrians, who were smuggled out +of their country by the boatmen of Beirut, and who +smuggled themselves into the city of New York (we +beg the critic’s pardon; for, being foreigners ourselves, +we ought to be permitted to stretch this term, smuggle, +to cover an Arabic metaphor, or to smuggle into it a +foreign meaning), these two Syrians, we say, became, +in their capacity of merchants, smugglers of the most +ingenious and most evasive type.</p> +<p>We now note the following, which pertains to their +business. We learn that they settled in the Syrian +Quarter directly after clearing their merchandise. +And before they entered their cellar, we are assured, +they washed their hands of all intrigues and were +shrived of their sins by the Maronite priest of the Colony. +For they were pious in those days, and right +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span> +Catholics. ’Tis further set down in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>:</p> +<p>“We rented a cellar, as deep and dark and damp as +could be found. And our landlord was a Teague, +nay, a kind-hearted old Irishman, who helped us put +up the shelves, and never called for the rent in the +dawn of the first day of the month. In the front +part of this cellar we had our shop; in the rear, our +home. On the floor we laid our mattresses, on the +shelves, our goods. And never did we stop to think +who in this case was better off. The safety of our +merchandise before our own. But ten days after we +had settled down, the water issued forth from the floor +and inundated our shop and home. It rose so high +that it destroyed half of our capital stock and almost +all our furniture. And yet, we continued to live in +the cellar, because, perhaps, every one of our compatriot-merchants +did so. We were all alike subject to +these inundations in the winter season. I remember +when the water first rose in our store, Khalid was so +hard set and in such a pucker that he ran out capless +and in his shirt sleeves to discover in the next street +the source of the flood. And one day, when we were +pumping out the water he asked me if I thought +this was easier than rolling our roofs in Baalbek. +For truly, the paving-roller is child’s play to this +pump. And a leaky roof is better than an inundated +cellar.”</p> +<p>However, this is not the time for brooding. They +have to pump ahead to save what remained of their +capital stock. But Khalid, nevertheless, would brood +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span> +and jabber. And what an inundation of ideas, and +what questions!</p> +<p>“Think you,” he asks, “that the inhabitants of this +New World are better off than those of the Old?––Can +you imagine mankind living in a huge cellar of a +world and you and I pumping the water out of its bottom?––I +can see the palaces on which you waste your +rhymes, but mankind live in them only in the flesh. +The soul I tell you, still occupies the basement, even +the sub-cellar. And an inundated cellar at that. +The soul, Shakib, is kept below, although the high +places are vacant.”</p> +<p>And his partner sputters out his despair; for instead +of helping to pump out the water, Khalid stands +there gazing into it, as if by some miracle he would +draw it out with his eyes or with his breath. And the +poor Poet cries out, “Pump! the water is gaining +on us, and our shop is going to ruin. Pump!” +Whereupon the lazy, absent-minded one resumes +pumping, while yearning all the while for the plashing +stone-rollers and the purling eaves of his home in +Baalbek. And once in a pinch,––they are labouring +under a peltering rain,––he stops as is his wont to +remind Shakib of the Arabic saying, “From the +dripping ceiling to the running gargoyle.” He is +labouring again under a hurricane of ideas. And +again he asks, “Are you sure we are better off here?”</p> +<p>And our poor Scribe, knee-deep in the water below, +blusters out curses, which Khalid heeds not. “I am +tired of this job,” he growls; “the stone-roller never +drew so much on my strength, nor did muleteering. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span> +Ah, for my dripping ceiling again, for are we not now +under the running gargoyle?” And he reverts into a +stupor, leaving the world to the poet and the pump.</p> +<p>For five years and more they lead such a life in the +cellar. And they do not move out of it, lest they excite +the envy of their compatriots. But instead of +sleeping on the floor, they stretch themselves on the +counters. The rising tide teaches them this little +wisdom, which keeps the doctor and Izräil away. +Their merchandise, however,––their crosses, and +scapulars and prayer-beads,––are beyond hope of recovery. +For what the rising tide spares, the rascally +flyaway peddlers carry away. That is why they +themselves shoulder the box and take to the road. +And the pious old dames of the suburbs, we are told, +receive them with such exclamations of joy and wonder, +and almost tear their coats to get from them a +sacred token. For you must remember, they are from +the Holy Land. Unlike their goods, they at least are +genuine. And every Saturday night, after beating the +hoof in the country and making such fabulous profits +on their false Holy-Land gewgaws, they return to +their cellar happy and content.</p> +<p>“In three years,” writes our Scribe, “Khalid and +I acquired what I still consider a handsome fortune. +Each of us had a bank account, and a check book +which we seldom used.... In spite of which, we +continued to shoulder the peddling box and tramp +along.... And Khalid would say to me, ‘A +peddler is superior to a merchant; we travel and earn +money; our compatriots the merchants rust in their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span> +cellars and lose it.’ To be sure, peddling in the +good old days was most attractive. For the exercise, +the gain, the experience––these are rich acquirements.”</p> +<p>And both Shakib and Khalid, we apprehend, have +been hitherto most moderate in their habits. The fact +that they seldom use their check books, testifies to +this. They have now a peddleress, Im-Hanna by +name, who occupies their cellar in their absence, and +keeps what little they have in order. And when they +return every Saturday night from their peddling trip, +they find the old woman as ready to serve them as a +mother. She cooks <i>mojadderah</i> for them, and sews +the bed-linen on the quilts as is done in the mother +country.</p> +<p>“The linen,” says Shakib, “was always as white as +a dove’s wing, when Im-Hanna was with us.”</p> +<p>And in the Khedivial Library Manuscript we find +this curious note upon that popular Syrian dish of +lentils and olive oil.</p> +<p>“<i>Mojadderah</i>,” writes Khalid, “has a marvellous +effect upon my humour and nerves. There are certain +dishes, I confess, which give me the blues. Of +these, fried eggplants and cabbage boiled with corn-beef +on the American system of boiling, that is to say, +cooking, I abominate the most. But <i>mojadderah</i> has +such a soothing effect on the nerves; it conduces to +cheerfulness, especially when the raw onion or the +leek is taken with it. After a good round pewter +platter of this delicious dish and a dozen leeks, I feel +as if I could do the work of all mankind. And I am +then in such a beatific state of mind that I would share +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span> +with all mankind my sack of lentils and my pipkin of +olive oil. I wonder not at Esau’s extravagance, when +he saw a steaming mess of it. For what is a birthright +in comparison?”</p> +<p>That Shakib also shared this beatific mood, the +following quaint picture of their Saturday nights in +the cellar, will show.</p> +<p>“A bank account,” he writes, “a good round dish +of <i>mojadderah</i>, the lute for Khalid, Al-Mutanabbi for +me,––neither of us could forego his hobby,––and Im-Hanna, +affectionate, devoted as our mothers,––these +were the joys of our Saturday nights in our underground +diggings. We were absolutely happy. And +we never tried to measure our happiness in those days, +or gauge it, or flay it to see if it be dead or alive, false +or real. Ah, the blessedness of that supreme unconsciousness +which wrapped us as a mother would her +babe, warming and caressing our hearts. We did not +know then that happiness was a thing to be sought. +We only knew that peddling is a pleasure, that a bank +account is a supreme joy, that a dish of <i>mojadderah</i> +cooked by Im-Hanna is a royal delight, that our dour +dark cellar is a palace of its kind, and that happiness, +like a bride, issues from all these, and, touching the +strings of Khalid’s lute, mantles us with song.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL' id='CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>THE CELLAR OF THE SOUL</h3> +</div> +<p>Heretofore, Khalid and Shakib have been +inseparable as the Pointers. They always appeared +together, went the rounds of their peddling +orbit together, and together were subject to the same +conditions and restraints. Which restraints are a sort +of sacrifice they make on the altar of friendship. One, +for instance, would never permit himself an advantage +which the other could not enjoy, or a pleasure in +which the other could not share. They even slept +under the same blanket, we learn, ate from the same +plate, puffed at the same narghilah, which Shakib +brought with him from Baalbek, and collaborated in +writing to one lady-love! A condition of unexampled +friendship this, of complete oneness. They had both +cut themselves garments from the same cloth, as the +Arabic saying goes. And on Sunday afternoon, in +garments spick and span, they would take the air in +Battery Park, where the one would invoke the Statue +of Liberty for a thought, or the gilded domes of Broadway +for a metaphor, while the other would be scouring +the horizon for the Nothingness, which is called, +in the recondite cant of the sophisticated, a vague +something.</p> +<p>In the Khedivial Library MS. we find nothing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span> +which this Battery Park might have inspired. And +yet, we can not believe that Khalid here was only attracted +by that vague something which, in his spiritual +enceinteship, he seemed to relish. Nothing? Not +even the does and kangaroos that adorn the Park distracted +or detained him? We doubt it; and Khalid’s +lute sustains us in our doubt. Ay, and so does our +Scribe; for in his <i>Histoire Intime</i> we read the following, +which we faithfully transcribe.</p> +<p>“Of the many attractions of Battery Park, the girls +and the sea were my favourite. For the girls in a +crowd have for me a fascination which only the girls at +the bath can surpass. I love to lose myself in a +crowd, to buffet, so to speak, its waves, to nestle under +their feathery crests. For the rolling waves of +life, the tumbling waves of the sea, and the fiery waves +of Al-Mutanabbi’s poetry have always been my delight. +In Battery Park I took especial pleasure in +reading aloud my verses to Khalid, or in fact to the +sea, for Khalid never would listen.</p> +<p>“Once I composed a few stanzas to the Milkmaid +who stood in her wagon near the lawn, rattling out +milk-punches to the boys. A winsome lass she was, +fresh in her sororiation, with fair blue eyes, a celestial +flow of auburn hair, and cheeks that suggested the +milk and cherry in the glass she rattled out to me. I +was reading aloud the stanzas which she inspired, +when Khalid, who was not listening, pointed out to me +a woman whose figure and the curves thereof were +remarkable. ‘Is it not strange,’ said he, ‘how the +women here indraw their stomachs and outdraw their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span> +hips? And is not this the opposite of the shape which +our women cultivate?’</p> +<p>“Yes, with the Lebanon women, the convex curve +beneath the waist is frontward, not hindward. But +that is a matter of taste, I thought, and man is partly +responsible for either convexity. I have often wondered, +however, why the women of my country cultivate +that shape. And why do they in America cultivate +the reverse of it? Needless to say that both are +pruriently titillating,––both distentions are damnably +suggestive, quite killing. The American woman, +from a fine sense of modesty, I am told, never or seldom +ventures abroad, when big with child. But in +the kangaroo figure, the burden is slightly shifted and +naught is amiss. Ah, such haunches as are here exhibited +suggest the <i>aliats</i> of our Asiatic sheep.”</p> +<p>And what he says about the pruriently titillating +convexities, whether frontward or hindward, suggests +a little prudery. For in his rhymes he betrays both his +comrade and himself. Battery Park and the attractions +thereof prove fatal. Elsewhere, therefore, they +must go, and begin to draw on their bank accounts. +Which does not mean, however, that they are far +from the snare. No; for when a young man begins to +suffer from what the doctors call hebephrenia, the farther +he draws away from such snares the nearer he +gets to them. And these lusty Syrians could not repel +the magnetic attraction of the polypiosis of what Shakib +likens to the <i>aliat</i> (fattail) of our Asiatic sheep. +Surely, there be more devils under such an <i>aliat</i> than +under the hat of a Jesuit. And Khalid is the first +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span> +to discover this. Both have been ensnared, however, +and both, when in the snare, have been infernally inspired. +What Khalid wrote, when he was under the +influence of feminine curves, was preserved by Shakib, +who remarks that one evening, after returning from +the Park, Khalid said to him, ‘I am going to write a +poem.’ A fortnight later, he hands him the following, +which he jealously kept among his papers.</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'> +<span class="hang">I dreamt I was a donkey-boy again.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Out on the sun-swept roads of Baalbek, I tramp behind my burro, trolling my <i>mulayiah</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">At noon, I pass by a garden redolent of mystic scents and tarry awhile.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Under an orange tree, on the soft green grass, I stretch my limbs.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">The daisies, the anemones, and the cyclamens are round me pressing:<br /></span> +<span class="hang">The anemone buds hold out to me their precious rubies; the daisies kiss me in the eyes and lips; and the cyclamens shake their powder in my hair.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">On the wall, the roses are nodding, smiling; above me the orange blossoms surrender themselves to the wooing breeze; and on yonder rock the salamander sits, complacent and serene.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">I take a daisy, and, boy as boys go, question its petals:<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Married man or monk, I ask, plucking them off one by one,<br /></span> +<span class="hang">And the last petal says, Monk.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">I perfume my fingers with crumpled cyclamens, cover my face with the dark-eyed anemones, and fall asleep.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">And my burro sleeps beneath the wall, in the shadow of nodding roses.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">And the black-birds too are dozing, and the bulbuls flitting by whisper with their wings, ‘salaam.’<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Peace and salaam!<br /></span> +<span class="hang">The bulbul, the black-bird, the salamander, the burro, and the burro-boy, are to each other shades of noon-day sun:<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Happy, loving, generous, and free;––<br /></span> +<span class="hang">As happy as each other, and as free.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum pncolor' style="text-indent:0em"><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span> +<span class="hang">We do what we please in Nature’s realm, go where we please;<br /></span> +<span class="hang">No one’s offended, no one ever wronged.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">No sentinels hath Nature, no police.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">But lo, a goblin as I sleep comes forth;––<br /></span> +<span class="hang">A goblin taller than the tallest poplar, who carries me upon his neck to the Park in far New York.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Here women, light-heeled, heavy-haunched, pace up and down the flags in graceful gait.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">My roses these, I cry, and my orange blossoms.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">But the goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">The cyclamens, the anemones, the daisies, I saw them, but I could not speak to them.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">The goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">O take me back to my own groves, I cried, or let me speak.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">But he threw me off his shoulders in a huff, among the daisies and the cyclamens.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Alone among them, but I could not speak.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">He had tied my tongue, the goblin, and left me there alone.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">And in front of me, and towards me, and beside me,<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Walked Allah’s fairest cyclamens and anemones.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">I smell them, and the tears flow down my cheeks;<br /></span> +<span class="hang">I can not even like the noon-day bulbul<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Whisper with my wings, salaam!<br /></span> +<span class="hang">I sit me on a bench and weep.<br /></span> +<span class="hang">And in my heart I sing<br /></span> +<span class="hang">O, let me be a burro-boy again;<br /></span> +<span class="hang">O, let me sleep among the cyclamens<br /></span> +<span class="hang">Of my own land.<br /></span> +</p> +</div> +<p>Shades of Whitman! But Whitman, thou Donkey, +never weeps. Whitman, if that goblin tried to silence +him, would have wrung his neck, after he had ridden +upon it. The above, nevertheless, deserves the space +we give it here, as it shadows forth one of the essential +elements of Khalid’s spiritual make-up. But this +slight symptom of that disease we named, this morbidness +incident to adolescence, is eventually overcome by +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span> +a dictionary and a grammar. Ay, Khalid henceforth +shall cease to scour the horizon for that vague something +of his dreams; he has become far-sighted enough +by the process to see the necessity of pursuing in +America something more spiritual than peddling +crosses and scapulars. Especially in this America, +where the alphabet is spread broadcast, and free of +charge. And so, he sets himself to the task of self-education. +He feels the embryo stir within him, and +in the squeamishness of enceinteship, he asks but for a +few of the fruits of knowledge. Ah, but he becomes +voracious of a sudden, and the little pocket dictionary +is devoured entirely in three sittings. Hence his folly +of treating his thoughts and fancies, as he was treated +by the goblin. For do not words often rob a fancy of +its tongue, or a thought of its soul? Many of the +pieces Khalid wrote when he was devouring dictionaries +were finally disposed of in a most picturesque +manner, as we shall relate. And a few were given to +Shakib, of which that Dream of Cyclamens was preserved.</p> +<p>And Khalid’s motto was, “One book at a time.” +He would not encumber himself with books any more +than he would with shoes. But that the mind might +not go barefoot, he always bought a new book before +destroying the one in hand. Destroying? Yes; for +after reading or studying a book, he warms his hands +upon its flames, this Khalid, or makes it serve to cook +a pot of <i>mojadderah</i>. In this extraordinary and outrageous +manner, barbarously capricious, he would baptise +the ideal in the fire of the real. And thus, glowing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span> +with health and confidence and conceit, he enters +another Park from which he escapes in the end, sad +and wan and bankrupt. Of a truth, many attractions +and distractions are here; else he could not forget the +peddling-box and the light-heeled, heavy-haunched +women of Battery Park. Here are swings for the +mind; toboggan-chutes for the soul; merry-go-rounds +for the fancy; and many devious and alluring paths +where one can lose himself for years. A sanitarium +this for the hebephreniac. And like all sanitariums, +you go into it with one disease and come out of it with +ten. Had Shakib been forewarned of Khalid’s mind, +had he even seen him at the gate before he entered, he +would have given him a few hints about the cross-signs +and barbed-cordons therein. But should he not +have divined that Khalid soon or late was coming? +Did <i>he</i> not call enough to him, and aloud? “Get +thee behind me on this dromedary,” our Scribe, reading +his Al-Mutanabbi, would often say to his comrade, +“and come from this desert of barren gold, if but +for a day,––come out with me to the oasis of poesy.”</p> +<p>But Khalid would only ride alone. And so, +he begins his course of self-education. But how +he shall manage it, in this cart-before-the-horse +fashion, the reader shall know. Words before rules, +ideas before systems, epigrams before texts,––that is +Khalid’s fancy. And that seems feasible, though not +logical; it will prove effectual, too, if one finally +brushed the text and glanced at the rules. For an +epigram, when it takes possession of one, goes farther +in influencing his thoughts and actions than whole +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span> +tomes of ethical culture science. You know perhaps +how the Arabs conquered the best half of the world +with an epigram, a word. And Khalid loves a fine-sounding, +easy-flowing word; a word of supple joints, +so to speak; a word that you can twist and roll out, +flexible as a bamboo switch, resilient as a fine steel +rapier. But once Shakib, after reading one of Khalid’s +first attempts, gets up in the night when his +friend is asleep, takes from the bottom drawer of the +peddling-box the evil-working dictionary, and places +therein a grammar. This touch of delicacy, this fine +piece of criticism, brief and neat, without words +withal, Khalid this time is not slow to grasp and +appreciate. He plunges, therefore, headlong into the +grammar, turns a few somersaults in the mazes of +Sibawai and Naftawai, and coming out with a broken +noddle, writes on the door the following: “What do +I care about your theories of nouns and verbs? +Whether the one be derived from the other, concerns +not me. But this I know, after stumbling once or +twice in your labyrinths, one comes out parsing the +verb, to run. Indeed, verbs are more essential than +nouns and adjectives. A noun can be represented pictorially; +but how, pictorially, can you represent a +noun in motion,––Khalid, for instance, running out of +your labyrinths? Even an abstract state can be represented +in a picture, but a transitive state never. The +richest language, therefore, is not the one which can +boast of a thousand names for the lion or two thousand +for the camel, but the one whose verbs have a +complete and perfect gamut of moods and tenses.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span></p> +<p>That is why, although writing in Arabic, Khalid +prefers English. For the Arabic verb is confined to +three tenses, the primary ones only; and to break +through any of these in any degree, requires such +crowbars as only auxiliaries and other verbs can +furnish. For this and many other reasons Khalid +stops short in the mazes of Sibawai, runs out of them +exasperated, depressed, and never for a long time after +looks in that direction. He is now curious to know if +the English language have its Sibawais and Naftawais. +And so, he buys him a grammar, and there +finds the way somewhat devious, too, but not enough +to constitute a maze. The men who wrote these +grammars must have had plenty of time to do a little +useful work. They do not seem to have walked leisurely +in flowing robes disserting a life-long dissertation +on the origin and descent of a preposition. One +day Shakib is amazed by finding the grammars page +by page tacked on the walls of the cellar and Khalid +pacing around leisurely lingering a moment before +each page, as if he were in an art gallery. That is +how he tackled his subject. And that is why he and +Shakib begin to quarrel. The idea! That a fledgling +should presume to pick flaws. To Shakib, who +is textual to a hair, this is intolerable. And that state +of oneness between them shall be subject hereafter to +“the corrosive action of various unfriendly agents.” +For Khalid, who has never yet been snaffled, turns +restively from the bit which his friend, for his own +sake, would put in his mouth. The rupture follows. +The two for a while wend their way in opposite directions. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span> +Shakib still cherishing and cultivating his bank +account, shoulders his peddling-box and jogs along with +his inspiring demon, under whose auspices, he tells us, +he continues to write verse and gull with his brummagems +the pious dames of the suburbs. And Khalid +sits on his peddling-box for hours pondering on the +necessity of disposing of it somehow. For now he +scarcely makes more than a few peddling-trips each +month, and when he returns, he does not go to the +bank to add to his balance, but to draw from it. That +is why the accounts of the two Syrians do not fare +alike; Shakib’s is gaining in weight, Khalid’s is wasting +away.</p> +<p>Yes, the strenuous spirit is a long time dead in +Khalid. He is gradually reverting to the Oriental +instinct. And when he is not loafing in Battery +Park, carving his name on the bench, he is burrowing +in the shelves of some second-hand book-shop +or dreaming in the dome of some Broadway skyscraper. +Does not this seem inevitable, however, considering +the palingenetic burden within him? And is +not loafing a necessary prelude to the travail? +Khalid, of course, felt the necessity of this, not knowing +the why and wherefor. And from the vast world +of paper-bound souls, for he relished but pamphlets at +the start––they do not make much smoke in the fire, +he would say––from that vast world he could command +the greatest of the great to help him support the +loafing while. And as by a miracle, he came out of +that chaos of contending spirits without a scratch. +He enjoyed the belligerency of pamphleteers as an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span> +American would enjoy a prize fight. But he sided +with no one; he took from every one his best and consigned +him to Im-Hanna’s kitchen. Torquemada +could not have done better; but Khalid, it is hoped, +will yet atone for his crimes.</p> +<p>Monsieur Pascal, with whom he quarrels before he +burns, had a particular influence upon him. He could +not rest after reading his “Thoughts” until he read +the Bible. And of the Prophets of the Old Testament +he had an especial liking for Jeremiah and Isaiah. +And once he bought a cheap print of Jeremiah which +he tacked on the wall of his cellar. From the Khedivial +Library MS. we give two excerpts relating to +Pascal and this Prophet.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“O Monsieur Pascal,</p> +<p>“I tried hard to hate and detest myself, as you advise, and +I found that I could not by so doing love God. ’Tis in +loving the divine in Man, in me, in you, that we rise to +the love of our Maker. And in giving your proofs of the +true religion, you speak of the surprising measures of the +Christian Faith, enjoining man to acknowledge himself vile, +base, abominable, and obliging him at the same time to aspire +towards a resemblance of his Maker. Now, I see in +this a foreshadowing of the theory of evolution, nay a divine +warrant for it. Nor is it the Christian religion alone which +unfolds to man the twofold mystery of his nature; others +are as dark and as bright on either side of the pole. And +Philosophy conspiring with Biology will not consent to the +apotheosis of Man, unless he wear on his breast a symbol of +his tail.... <i>Au-revoir</i>, Monsieur Pascal, Remember +me to St. Augustine.”</p> +<p>“O Jeremiah,</p> +<p>“Thy picture, sitting among the ruins of the City of Zion, +appeals to my soul. Why, I know not. It may be because +I myself once sat in that posture among the ruins of my native +City of Baal. But the ruins did not grieve me as did +the uncle who slammed the door in my face that night. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span> +True, I wept in the ruins, but not over them. Something +else had punctured the bladderets of my tears. And who +knows who punctured thine, O Jeremiah? Perhaps a daughter +of Tamar had stuck a bodkin in thine eye, and in lamenting +thine own fate––Pardon me, O Jeremiah. Melikes not +all these tears of thine. Nor did Zion and her children in +Juhannam, I am sure.... Instead of a scroll in thy +hand, I would have thee hold a harp. Since King David, +Allah has not thought of endowing his prophets with musical +talent. Why, think what an honest prophet could accomplish +if his message were put into music. And withal, +if he himself could sing it. Yes, our modern Jeremiahs +should all take music lessons; for no matter how deep and +poignant our sorrows, we can always rise from them, harp +in hand, to an ecstasy, joyous and divine.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Now, connect with this the following from the +<i>Histoire Intime</i>, and you have the complete history of +this Prophet in Khalid’s cellar. For Khalid himself +never gives us the facts in the case. Our Scribe, however, +comes not short in this.</p> +<p>“The picture of the Prophet Jeremiah,” writes he, +“Khalid hung on the wall, above his bed. And +every night he would look up to it invokingly, muttering +I know not what. One evening, while in this +posture, he took up his lute and trolled a favourite +ditty. For three days and three nights that picture +hung on the wall. And on the morning of the fourth +day––it was a cold December morning, I remember––he +took it down and lighted the fire with it. The +Pamphlet he had read a few days since, he also threw +into the fire, and thereupon called to me saying, ‘Come, +Shakib, and warm yourself.’”</p> +<p>And the Pamphlet, we learn, which was thus baptised +in the same fire with the Prophet’s picture, was +Tom Paine’s <i>Age of Reason</i>.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM' id='CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>THE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM</h3> +</div> +<p>For two years and more Khalid’s young mind +went leaping from one swing to another, from +one carousel or toboggan-chute to the next, without +having any special object in view, without knowing +why and wherefor. He even entered such mazes of +philosophy, such labyrinths of mysticism as put those +of the Arabian grammaticasters in the shade. To +him, education was a sport, pursued in a free spirit +after his own fancy, without method or discipline. +For two years and more he did little but ramble thus, +drawing meanwhile on his account in the bank, and +burning pamphlets.</p> +<p>One day he passes by a second-hand book-shop, +which is in the financial hive of the city, hard by a +church and within a stone’s throw from the Stock +Exchange. The owner, a shabby venerable, standing +there, pipe in mouth, between piles of pamphlets and +little pyramids of books, attracts Khalid. He too +occupies a cellar. And withal he resembles the +Prophet in the picture which was burned with Tom +Paine’s <i>Age of Reason</i>. Nothing in the face at least +is amiss. A flowing, serrated, milky beard, with a +touch of gold around the mouth; an aquiline nose; +deep set blue eyes canopied with shaggy brows; a forehead +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span> +broad and high; a dome a little frowsy but not +guilty of a hair––the Prophet Jeremiah! Only one +thing, a clay pipe which he seldom took out of his +mouth except to empty and refill, seemed to take from +the prophetic solemnity of the face. Otherwise, he is +as grim and sullen as the Prophet. In his voice, +however, there is a supple sweetness which the hard +lines in his face do not express. Khalid nicknames +him second-hand Jerry, makes to him professions of +friendship, and for many months comes every day to +see him. He comes with his bucket, as he would say, +to Jerry’s well. For the two, the young man and the +old man of the cellar, the neophite and the master, +would chat about literature and the makers of it for +hours. And what a sea of information is therein under +that frowsy dome. Withal, second-hand Jerry is +a man of ideals and abstractions, exhibiting now and +then an heretical twist which is as agreeable as the +vermiculations in a mahogany. “We moderns,” +said he once to Khalid, “are absolutely one-sided. +Here, for instance, is my book-shop, there +is the Church, and yonder is the Stock Exchange. +Now, the men who frequent them, and though their +elbows touch, are as foreign to each other as is a jerboa +to a polar bear. Those who go to Church do not go +to the Stock Exchange; those who spend their days on +the Stock Exchange seldom go to Church; and those +who frequent my cellar go neither to the one nor the +other. That is why our civilisation produces so many +bigots, so many philistines, so many pedants and prigs. +The Stock Exchange is as necessary to Society as the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span> +Church, and the Church is as vital, as essential to its +spiritual well-being as my book-shop. And not until +man develops his mental, spiritual and physical faculties +to what Matthew Arnold calls ‘a harmonious perfection,’ +will he be able to reach the heights from which +Idealism is waving to him.”</p> +<p>Thus would the master discourse, and the neophite, +sitting on the steps of the cellar, smoking his cigarette, +listens, admiring, pondering. And every time +he comes with his bucket, Jerry would be standing +there, between his little pyramids of books, pipe in +mouth, hands in pockets, ready for the discourse. He +would also conduct through his underworld any one +who had the leisure and inclination. But fortunately +for Khalid, the people of this district are either too +rich to buy second-hand books, or too snobbish to +stop before this curiosity shop of literature. Hence +the master is never too busy; he is always ready to +deliver the discourse.</p> +<p>One day Khalid is conducted into the labyrinthine +gloom and mould of the cellar. Through the narrow +isles, under a low ceiling, papered, as it were, with +pamphlets, between ramparts and mounds of books, +old Jerry, his head bowed, his lighted taper in hand, +proceeds. And Khalid follows directly behind, listening +to his guide who points out the objects and places +of interest. And thus, through the alleys and by-ways, +through the nooks and labyrinths of these underground +temple-ruins, we get to the rear, where the +ramparts and mounds crumble to a mighty heap, rising +pell-mell to the ceiling. Here, one is likely to get a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span> +glimpse into such enchanted worlds as the name of a +Dickens or a Balzac might suggest. Here, too, is +Shakespeare in lamentable state; there is Carlyle in +rags, still crying, as it were, against the filth and beastliness +of this underworld. And look at my lord Tennyson +shivering in his nakedness and doomed to keep +company with the meanest of poetasters. Observe +how Emerson is wriggled and ruffled in this crushing +crowd. Does he not seem to be still sighing for a +little solitude? But here, too, are spots of the rarest +literary interest. Close to the vilest of dime novels is +an autograph copy of a book which you might not find +at Brentano’s. Indeed, the rarities here stand side by +side with the superfluities––the abominations with the +blessings of literature––cluttered together, reduced to +a common level. And all in a condition which bespeaks +the time when they were held in the affection +of some one. Now, they lie a-mouldering in these +mounds, and on these shelves, awaiting a curious eye, +a kindly hand.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“To me,” writes Khalid in the K. L. MS., “there is always +something pathetic in a second-hand book offered again +for sale. Why did its first owner part with it? Was it out +of disgust or surfeit or penury? Did he throw it away, or +give it away, or sell it? Alas, and is this how to treat a +friend? Were it not better burned, than sold or thrown +away? After coming out of the press, how many have +handled this tattered volume? How many has it entertained, +enlightened, or perverted? Look at its pages, which evidence +the hardship of the journey it has made. Here still is +a pressed flower, more convincing in its shrouded eloquence +than the philosophy of the pages in which it lies buried. On +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span> +the fly-leaf are the names of three successive owners, and on +the margin are lead pencil notes in which the reader criticises +the author. Their spirits are now shrouded together +and entombed in this pile, where the mould never fails and +the moths never die. They too are fallen a prey to the +worms of the earth. A second-hand book-shop always reminds +me of a Necropolis. It is a kind of Serapeum where +lies buried the kings and princes with the helots and underlings +of literature. Ay, every book is a mortuary chamber +containing the remains of some poor literary wretch, or some +mighty genius.... A book is a friend, my brothers, +and when it ceases to entertain or instruct or inspire, it is +dead. And would you sell a dead friend, would you throw +him away? If you can not keep him embalmed on your +shelf, is it not the wiser part, and the kinder, to cremate +him?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And Khalid tells old Jerry, that if every one buying +and reading books, disposed of them in the end as +he himself does, second-hand book-shops would no +longer exist. But old Jerry never despairs of business. +And the idea of turning his Serapeum into a kiln does +not appeal to him. Howbeit, Khalid has other ideas +which the old man admires, and which he would carry +out if the police would not interfere. “If I were the +owner of this shop,” thus the neophite to the master, +“I would advertise it with a bonfire of pamphlets. I +would take a few hundreds from that mound there +and give them the match right in front of that +Church, or better still before the Stock Exchange. +And I would have two sandwich-men stand about the +bonfire, as high priests of the Temple, and chant the +praises of second-hand Jerry and his second-hand book-shop. +This will be the sacrifice which you will have +offered to the god of Trade right in front of his sanctuary +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span> +that he might soften the induration in the +breasts of these worthy citizens, your rich neighbours. +And if he does not, why, shut up shop or burn it up, +and let us go out peddling together.”</p> +<p>We do not know, however, whether old Jerry ever +adopted Khalid’s idea. He himself is an Oriental in +this sense; and the business is good enough to keep up, +so long as Khalid comes. He is supremely content. +Indeed, Shakib asseverates in round Arabic, that the +old man of the cellar got a good portion of Khalid’s +balance, while balancing Khalid’s mind. Nay, firing +it with free-thought literature. Are we then to consider +this cellar as Khalid’s source of spiritual illumination? +And is this genial old heretic an American +avatar of the monk Bohaira? For Khalid is gradually +becoming a man of ideas and crotchets. He is beginning +to see a purpose in all his literary and spiritual +rambles. His mental nebulosity is resolving itself into +something concrete, which shall weigh upon him for +a while and propel him in the direction of Atheism +and Demagogy. For old Jerry once visits Khalid in +his cellar, and after partaking of a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>, +takes him to a political meeting to hear the popular +orators of the day.</p> +<p>And in this is ineffable joy for Khalid. Like every +young mind he is spellbound by one of those masters +of spread-eagle oratory, and for some time he does not +miss a single political meeting in his district. We +even see him among the crowd before the corner groggery, +cheering one of the political spouters of the day.</p> +<p>And once he accompanies Jerry to the Temple of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span> +Atheism to behold its high Priest and hear him chant +halleluiah to the Nebular Hypothesis. This is wonderful. +How easy it is to dereligionise the human +race and banish God from the Universe! But after +the High Priest had done this, after he had proven to +the satisfaction of every atheist that God is a myth, +old Jerry turns around and gives Khalid this warning: +“Don’t believe all he says, for I know that atheist +well. He is as eloquent as he is insincere.”</p> +<p>And so are all atheists. For at bottom, atheism +is either a fad or a trade or a fatuity. And whether +the one or the other, it is a sham more pernicious than +the worst. To the young mind, it is a shibboleth of +cheap culture; to the shrewd and calculating mind, to +such orators as Khalid heard, it is a trade most remunerative; +and to the scientists, or rather monists, +it is the aliment with which they nourish the perversity +of their preconceptions. Second-hand Jerry did +not say these things to our young philosopher; for had +he done so, Khalid, now become edacious, would not +have experienced those dyspeptic pangs which almost +crushed the soul-fetus in him. For we are told that +he is as sedulous in attending these atheistic lectures +as he is in flocking with his fellow citizens to hear and +cheer the idols of the stump. Once he took Shakib to +the Temple of Atheism, but the Poet seems to prefer +his <ins class="trchange" title="As originally printed"><i>Al-Mutanabby</i></ins>. In relating of Khalid’s waywardness +he says:</p> +<p>“Ever since we quarrelled about Sibawai, Khalid and +I have seldom been together. And he had become so +opinionated that I was glad it was so. Even on Sunday +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span> +I would leave him alone with Im-Hanna, and returning +in the evening, I would find him either reading +or burning a pamphlet. Once I consented to accompany +him to one of the lectures he was so fond of attending. +And I was really surprised that one had to +pay money for such masquerades of eloquence as were +exhibited that night on the platform. Yes, it occurred +to me that if one had not a dollar one could not become +an atheist. Billah! I was scandalized. For +no matter how irreverent one likes to pose, one ought +to reverence at least his Maker. I am a Christian by +the grace of Allah, and my ancestors are counted among +the martyrs of the Church. And thanks to my parents, +I have been duly baptized and confirmed. For +which I respect them the more, and love them. Now, +is it not absurd that I should come here and pay a +hard dollar to hear this heretical speechifier insult my +parents and my God? Better the ring of Al-Mutanabbi’s +scimitars and spears than the clatter of these +atheistical bones!”</p> +<p>From which we infer that Shakib was not open to +reason on the subject. He would draw his friend +away from the verge of the abyss at any cost. “And +this,” continues he, “did not require much effort. +For Khalid like myself is constitutionally incapable of +denying God. We are from the land in which God +has always spoken to our ancestors.”</p> +<p>And the argument between the shrewd verse-maker +and the foolish philosopher finally hinges on this: +namely, that these atheists are not honest investigators, +that in their sweeping generalisations, as in their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span> +speciosity and hypocrisy, they are commercially perverse. +And Khalid is not long in deciding about the +matter. He meets with an accident––and accidents +have always been his touchstones of success––which +saves his soul and seals the fate of atheism.</p> +<p>One evening, returning from a ramble in the Park, +he passes by the Hall where his favourite Mountebank +was to lecture on the Gospel of Soap. But not having +the price of admittance that evening, and being anxious +to hear the orator whom he had idolised, Khalid +bravely appeals to his generosity in this quaint and +touching note: “My pocket,” he wrote, “is empty +and my mind is hungry. Might I come to your +Table to-night as a beggar?” And the man at the +stage door, who carries the note to the orator, returns +in a trice, and tells Khalid to lift himself off. +Khalid hesitates, misunderstands; and a heavy hand is +of a sudden upon him, to say nothing of the heavy +boot.</p> +<p>Ay, and that boot decided him. Atheism, bald, +bold, niggardly, brutal, pretending withal, Khalid +turns from its door never to look again in that direction, +Shakib is right. “These people,” he growled, +“are not free thinkers, but free stinkards. They do +need soap to wash their hearts and souls.”</p> +<p>An idea did not come to Khalid, as it were, by instalments. +In his puerperal pains of mind he was +subject to such crises, shaken by such downrushes of +light, as only the few among mortals experience. +(We are quoting our Scribe, remember.) And in certain +moments he had more faith in his instincts than +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span> +in his reason. “Our instincts,” says he, “never lie. +They are honest, and though they be sometimes +blind.” And here, he seems to have struck the truth. +He can be practical too. Honesty in thought, in +word, in deed––this he would have as the cornerstone +of his truth. Moral rectitude he places above +all the cardinal virtues, natural and theological. +“Better keep away from the truth, O Khalid,” he +writes, “better remain a stranger to it all thy life, if +thou must sully it with the slimy fingers of a mercenary +juggler.” Now, these brave words, we can not +in conscience criticise. But we venture to observe that +Khalid must have had in mind that Gospel of Soap +and the incident at the stage door.</p> +<p>And in this, we, too, rejoice. We, too, forgetting +the dignity of our position, participate of the revelry +in the cellar on this occasion. For our editorialship, +dear Reader, is neither American nor English. We +are not bound, therefore, to maintain in any degree the +algidity and indifference of our confrères’ sublime +attitude. We rejoice in the spiritual safety of +Khalid. We rejoice that he and Shakib are now +reconciled. For the reclaimed runagate is now even +permitted to draw on the poet’s balance at the banker. +Ay, even Khalid can dissimulate when he needs the +cash. For with the assistance of second-hand Jerry +and the box-office of the atheistical jugglers, he had +exhausted his little saving. He would not even go +out peddling any more. And when Shakib asks him +one morning to shoulder the box and come out, he replies: +“I have a little business with it here.” For +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span> +after having impeached the High Priests of Atheism he +seems to have turned upon himself. We translate +from the K. L. MS.</p> +<p>“When I was disenchanted with atheism, when I +saw somewhat of the meanness and selfishness of its +protagonists, I began to doubt in the honesty of men. +If these, our supposed teachers, are so vile, so mercenary, +so false,––why, welcome Juhannam! But the +more I doubted in the honesty of men, the more did I +believe that honesty should be the cardinal virtue of +the soul. I go so far in this, that an honest thief in +my eyes is more worthy of esteem than a canting materialist +or a hypocritical free thinker. Still, the voice +within me asked if Shakib were honest in his dealings, +if I were honest in my peddling? Have I not misrepresented +my gewgaws as the atheist misrepresents +the truth? ‘This is made in the Holy Land,’––‘This +is from the Holy Sepulchre’––these lies, O Khalid, +are upon you. And what is the difference between the +jewellery you passed off for gold and the arguments of +the atheist-preacher? Are they not both instruments +of deception, both designed to catch the dollar? Yes, +you have been, O Khalid, as mean, as mercenary, as +dishonest as those canting infidels.</p> +<p>“And what are you going to do about it? Will +you continue, while in the quagmires yourself, to +point contemptuously at those standing in the gutter? +Will you, in your dishonesty, dare impeach the honesty +of men? Are you not going to make a resolution +now, either to keep silent or to go out of the +quagmires and rise to the mountain-heights? Be pure +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span> +yourself first, O Khalid; then try to spread this purity +around you at any cost.</p> +<p>“Yes; that is why, when Shakib asked me to go out +peddling one day, I hesitated and finally refused. For +atheism, in whose false dry light I walked a parasang +or two, did not only betray itself to me as a sham, but +also turned my mind and soul to the sham I had +shouldered for years. From the peddling-box, therefore, +I turned even as I did from atheism. Praised be +Allah, who, in his providential care, seemed to kick me +away from the door of its temple. The sham, +although effulgent and alluring, was as brief as a summer +afternoon.”</p> +<p>As for the peddling-box, our Scribe will tell of its +fate in the following Chapter.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA' id='CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3>IN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA</h3> +</div> +<p>It is Voltaire, we believe, who says something to +the effect that one’s mind should be in accordance +with one’s years. That is why an academic education +nowadays often fails of its purpose. For whether +one’s mind runs ahead of one’s years, or one’s years +ahead of one’s mind, the result is much the same; it +always goes ill with the mind. True, knowledge is +power; but in order to feel at home with it, we must +be constitutionally qualified. And if we are not, it is +likely to give the soul such a wrenching as to deform +it forever. Indeed, how many of us go through life +with a fatal spiritual or intellectual twist which could +have been avoided in our youth, were we a little less +wise. The young <i>philosophes</i>, the products of the +University Machine of to-day, who go about with a +nosegay of -isms, as it were, in their lapels, and perfume +their speech with the bottled logic of the College +Professor,––are not most of them incapable of honestly +and bravely grappling with the real problems of +life? And does not a systematic education mean this, +that a young man must go through life dragging behind +him his heavy chains of set ideas and stock systems, +political, social, or religious? (Remember, we +are translating from the Khedivial Library MS.) +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span> +The author continues:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Whether one devour the knowledge of the world in four +years or four nights, the process of assimilation is equally +hindered, if the mind is sealed at the start with the seal of +authority. Ay, we can not be too careful of dogmatic science +in our youth; for dogmas often dam certain channels of the +soul through which we might have reached greater treasures +and ascended to purer heights. A young man, therefore, +ought to be let alone. There is an infinite possibility of +soul-power in every one of us, if it can be developed freely, +spontaneously, without discipline or restraint. There is, too, +an infinite possibility of beauty in every soul, if it can be +evoked at an auspicious moment by the proper word, the +proper voice, the proper touch. That is why I say, Go thy +way, O my Brother. Be simple, natural, spontaneous, courageous, +free. Neither anticipate your years, nor lag child-like +behind them. For verily, it is as ridiculous to dye the +hair white as to dye it black. Ah, be foolish while thou art +young; it is never too late to be wise. Indulge thy fancy, +follow the bent of thy mind; for in so doing thou canst not +possibly do thyself more harm than the disciplinarians can +do thee. Live thine own life; think thine own thoughts; +keep developing and changing until thou arrive at the truth +thyself. An ounce of it found by thee were better than a +ton given to thee <i>gratis</i> by one who would enslave thee. Go +thy way, O my Brother. And if my words lead thee to +Juhannam, why, there will be a great surprise for thee. +There thou wilt behold our Maker sitting on a flaming glacier +waiting for the like of thee. And he will take thee into +his arms and poke thee in the ribs, and together you will +laugh and laugh, until that glacier become a garden and +thou a flower therein. Go thy way, therefore; be not afraid. +And no matter how many tears thou sheddest on this side, +thou wilt surely be poked in the ribs on the other. Go––thy––but––let +Nature be thy guide; acquaint thyself with one +or two of her laws ere thou runnest wild.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And to what extent did this fantastic mystic son of +a Phœnician acquaint himself with Nature’s laws, we +do not know. But truly, he was already running wild +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span> +in the great cosmopolis of New York. From his stivy +cellar he issues forth into the plashing, plangent currents +of city life. Before he does this, however, he +rids himself of all the encumbrances of peddlery which +hitherto have been his sole means of support. His +little stock of crosses, rosaries, scapulars, false jewellery, +mother-of-pearl gewgaws, and such like, which he has +on the little shelf in the cellar, he takes down one +morning––but we will let our Scribe tell the story.</p> +<p>“My love for Khalid,” he writes, “has been +severely tried. We could no longer agree about anything. +He had become such a dissenter that often +would he take the wrong side of a question if only +for the sake of bucking. True, he ceased to frequent +the cellar of second-hand Jerry, and the lectures of the +infidels he no longer attended. We were in accord +about atheism, therefore, but in riotous discord about +many other things, chief among which was the propriety, +the necessity, of doing something to replenish +his balance at the banker. For he was now impecunious, +and withal importunate. Of a truth, what I had +I was always ready to share with him; but for his +own good I advised him to take up the peddling-box +again. I reminded him of his saying once, ‘Peddling +is a healthy and profitable business.’ ‘Come out,’ I +insisted, ‘and though it be for the exercise. Walking +is the whetstone of thought.’</p> +<p>“One evening we quarrelled about this, and Im-Hanna +sided with me. She rated Khalid, saying, +‘You’re a good-for-nothing loafer; you don’t deserve +the <i>mojadderah</i> you eat.’ And I remember how she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span> +took me aside that evening and whispered something +about books, and Khalid’s head, and Mar-Kizhayiah.<a name='FNanchor_0001' id='FNanchor_0001'></a><a href='#Footnote_0001' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> +Indeed, Im-Hanna seriously believed that Khalid +should be taken to Mar-Kizhayiah. She did not know +that New York was full of such institutions.<a name='FNanchor_0002' id='FNanchor_0002'></a><a href='#Footnote_0002' class='fnanchor'>[2]</a> Her +scolding, however, seemed to have more effect on +Khalid than my reasoning. And consenting to go out +with me, he got up the following morning, took down +his stock from the shelf, every little article of it––he +left nothing there––and packed all into his peddling-box. +He then squeezed into the bottom drawer, which +he had filled with scapulars, the bottle with a little of +the Stuff in it. For we were in accord about this, that +in New York whiskey is better than arak. And we +both took a nip now and then. So I thought the bottle +was in order. But why he placed his bank book, which +was no longer worth a straw, into that bottom drawer, +I could not guess. With these preparations, however, +we shouldered our boxes, and in an hour we +were in the suburbs. We foot it along then, until we +reach a row of cottages not far from the railway station. +‘Will you knock at one of these doors,’ I asked. +And he, ‘I do not feel like chaffering and bargaining +this morning.’ ‘Why then did you come out,’ I +urged. And he, in an air of nonchalance, ‘Only for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span> +the walk.’ And so, we pursued our way in the Bronx, +until we reached one of our favourite spots, where a +sycamore tree seemed to invite us to its ample shade.</p> +<p>“Here, Khalid, absent-minded, laid down his box +and sat upon it, and I stretched my limbs on the grass. +But of a sudden, he jumped up, opened the bottom +drawer of his case, and drew from it the bottle. It is +quite in order now, I mused; but ere I had enjoyed the +thought, Khalid had placed his box at a little distance, +and, standing there beside it, bottle in hand, delivered +himself in a semi-solemn, semi-mocking manner of the +following: ‘This is the oil,’ I remember him saying, +‘with which I anoint thee––the extreme unction I +apply to thy soul.’ And he poured the contents of the +bottle into the bottom drawer and over the box, and +applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with +kerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the +flame. Yes; and so quickly, so neatly it was done, +that I could not do aught to prevent it. The match +was applied to what I thought at first was whiskey, +and I was left in speechless amazement. He would +not even help me to save a few things from the fire. +I conjured him in the name of Allah, but in vain. I +clamoured and remonstrated, but to no purpose. And +when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me +in reply, ‘And why have you not done the same? +Now, methinks I deserve my <i>mojadderah</i>. And not +until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O +Shakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which +brought me my bread and are still bringing you yours. +Here are our instruments of deception, our poisoned +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span> +sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O Shakib. +And I shall endeavour to keep my blood in circulation +by better, purer means.’ And he took me thereupon +by the shoulders, looked into my face, then pushed me +away, laughing the laugh of the hasheesh-smokers.</p> +<p>“Indeed, Im-Hanna was right. Khalid had become +too odd, too queer to be sane. Needless to say, I was +not prone to follow his example at that time. Nor am +I now. <i>Mashallah!</i> Lacking the power and madness +to set fire to the whole world, it were folly, indeed, +to begin with one’s self. I believe I had as much +right to exaggerate in peddling as I had in writing +verse. My license to heighten the facts holds good in +either case. And to some extent, every one, a poet +be he or a cobbler, enjoys such a license. I told +Khalid that the logical and most effective course to +pursue, in view of his rigorous morality, would be to +pour a gallon of kerosene over his own head and fire +himself out of existence. For the instruments of deception +and debasement are not in the peddling-box, +but rather in his heart. No; I did not think peddling +was as bad as other trades. Here at least, the means +of deception were reduced to a minimum. And of a +truth, if everybody were to judge themselves as strictly +as Khalid, who would escape burning? So I turned +from him that day fully convinced that my little stock +of holy goods was innocent, and my balance at the +banker’s was as pure as my rich neighbour’s. And he +turned from me fully convinced, I believe, that I was +an unregenerate rogue. Ay, and when I was knocking +at the door of one of my customers, he was walking +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span> +away briskly, his hands clasped behind his back, +and his eyes, as usual, scouring the horizon.”</p> +<p>And on that horizon are the gilded domes and smoking +chimneys of the seething city. Leaving his last +friend and his last burden behind, he will give civilised +life another trial. Loafer and tramp that he is! For +even the comforts of the grand cable-railway he spurns, +and foots it from the Bronx down to his cellar near +Battery Park, thus cutting the city in half and giving +one portion to Izräil and the other to Iblis. But not +being quite ready himself for either of these winged +Furies, he keeps to his cellar. He would tarry here a +while, if but to carry out a resolution he has made. +True, Khalid very seldom resolves upon anything; but +when he does make a resolution, he is even willing to +be carried off by the effort to carry it out. And now, +he would solve this problem of earning a living in the +great city by honest means. For in the city, at least, +success well deserves the compliments which those who +fail bestow upon it. What Montaigne said of greatness, +therefore, Khalid must have said of success. If +we can not attain it, let us denounce it. And in what +terms does he this, O merciful Allah! We translate +a portion of the apostrophe in the K. L. MS., and +not the bitterest, by any means.</p> +<p>“O Success,” the infuriated failure exclaims, “how +like the Gorgon of the Arabian Nights thou art! For +does not every one whom thou favorest undergo a pitiful +transformation even from the first bedding with +thee? Does not everything suffer from thy look, thy +touch, thy breath? The rose loses its perfume, the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span> +grape-vine its clusters, the bulbul its wings, the dawn +its light and glamour. O Success, our lords of power +to-day are thy slaves, thy helots, our kings of wealth. +Every one grinds for thee, every one for thee lives and +dies.... Thy palaces of silver and gold are +reared on the souls of men. Thy throne is mortised +with their bones, cemented with their blood. Thou +ravenous Gorgon, on what bankruptcies thou art fed, +on what failures, on what sorrows! The railroads +sweeping across the continents and the steamers ploughing +through the seas, are laden with sacrifices to thee. +Ay, and millions of innocent children are torn from +their homes and from their schools to be offered to +thee at the sacrificial-stone of the Factories and Mills. +The cultured, too, and the wise, are counted among +thy slaves. Even the righteous surrender themselves +to thee and are willing to undergo that hideous transformation. +O Success, what an infernal litany thy +votaries and high-priests are chanting to thee.... +Thou ruthless Gorgon, what crimes thou art committing, +and what crimes are being committed in thy +name!”</p> +<p>From which it is evident that Khalid does not wish +for success. Khalid is satisfied if he can maintain his +hold on the few spare feet he has in the cellar, and continue +to replenish his little store of lentils and olive oil. +For he would as lief be a victim of success, he assures +us, as to forego his <i>mojadderah</i>. And still having this, +which he considers a luxury, he is willing to turn his +hand at anything, if he can but preserve inviolate the +integrity of his soul and the freedom of his mind. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span> +These are a few of the pet terms of Khalid. And in +as much as he can continue to repeat them to himself, +he is supremely content. He can be a menial, if while +cringing before his superiors, he were permitted to +chew on his pet illusions. A few days before he +burned his peddling-box, he had read Epictetus. And +the thought that such a great soul maintained its +purity, its integrity, even in bonds, encouraged and +consoled him. “How can they hurt me,” he asks, “if +spiritually I am far from them, far above them? +They can do no more than place gilt buttons on my +coat and give me a cap to replace this slouch. Therefore, +I will serve. I will be a slave, even like Epictetus.”</p> +<p>And here we must interpose a little of our skepticism, +if but to gratify an habitual craving in us. We +do not doubt that Khalid’s self-sufficiency is remarkable; +that his courage––on paper––is quite above the +common; that the grit and stay he shows are wonderful; +that his lofty aspirations, so indomitable in their +onwardness, are great: but we only ask, having thus +fortified his soul, how is he to fortify his stomach? +He is going to work, to be a menial, to earn a living +by honest means? Ah, Khalid, Khalid! Did you not +often bestow a furtive glance on some one else’s checkbook? +Did you not even exercise therein your skill in +calculation? If the bank, where Shakib deposits his +little saving, failed, would you be so indomitable, so +dogged in your resolution? Would you not soften a +trifle, loosen a whit, if only for the sake of your blood-circulation? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span></p> +<p>Indeed, Shakib has become a patron to Khalid. +Shakib the poet, who himself should have a patron, is +always ready to share his last dollar with his loving, +though cantankerous friend. And this, in spite of +all the disagreeable features of a friendship which in +the Syrian Colony was become proverbial. But +Khalid now takes up the newspapers and scans the +Want Columns for hours. The result being a clerkship +in a lawyer’s office. Nay, an apprenticeship; for +the legal profession, it seems, had for a while engaged +his serious thoughts.</p> +<p>And this of all the professions is the one on which +he would graft his scion of lofty morality? Surely, +there be plenty of fuel for a conflagration in a lawyer’s +office. Such rows of half-calf tomes, such piles of +legal documents, all designed to combat dishonesty and +fraud, “and all immersed in them, and nourished and +maintained by them.” In what a sorry condition will +your Morality issue out of these bogs! A lawyer’s +clerk, we are informed, can not maintain his hold on +his clerkship, if he does not learn to blink. That is +why Khalid is not long in serving papers, copying +summonses, and searching title-deeds. In this lawyer’s +office he develops traits altogether foreign to his nature. +He even becomes a quidnunc, prying now and then +into the personal affairs of his superiors. Ay, and he +dares once to suggest to his employer a new method of +dealing with the criminals among his clients. Withal, +Khalid is slow, slower than the law itself. If he goes +out to serve a summons he does not return for a day. +If he is sent to search title-deeds, he does not show up +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span> +in the office for a week. And often he would lose +himself in the Park surrounding the Register’s Office, +pondering on his theory of immanent morality. He +would sit down on one of those benches, which are the +anchors of loafers of another type, his batch of papers +beside him, and watch the mad crowds coming and +going, running, as it were, between two fires. These +puckered people are the living, moving chambers of +sleeping souls.</p> +<p>Khalid was always glad to come to this Register’s +Office. For though the searching of title-deeds be a +mortal process, the loafing margin of the working hour +could be extended imperceptibly, and without hazarding +his or his employer’s interest. The following +piece of speculative fantasy and insight must have been +thought out when he should have been searching title-deeds.</p> +<p>“This Register’s Office,” it is written in the K. L. +MS., “is the very bulwark of Society. It is the foundation +on which the Trust Companies, the Courts, and +the Prisons are reared. Your codes are blind without +the miraculous torches which this Office can light. +Your judges can not propound the ‘laur’––I beg your +pardon, the law––without the aid of these musty, +smelling, dilapidated tomes. Ay, these are the very +constables of the realm, and without them there can +be no realm, no legislators, and no judges. Strong, +club-bearing constables, these Liebers, standing on the +boundary lines, keeping peace between brothers and +neighbours.</p> +<p>“Here, in these Liebers is an authority which never +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span> +fails, never dies––an authority which willy-nilly we +obey and in which we place unbounded trust. In any +one of these Registers is a potentiality which can always +worst the quibbles and quiddities of lawyers and ward +off the miserable technicalities of the law. Any of +them, when called upon, can go into court and dictate +to the litigants and the attorneys, the jury and the +judge. They are the deceased witnesses come to life. +And without them, the judges are helpless, the marshals +and sheriffs too. Ay, and what without them would +be the state of our real-estate interests? Abolish your +constabulary force, and your police force, and with +these muniments of power, these dumb but far-seeing +agents of authority and intelligence, you could still +maintain peace and order. But burn you this Register’s +Office, and before the last Lieber turn to ashes, +ere the last flame of the conflagration die out, you will +have to call forth, not only your fire squads, but your +police force and even your soldiery, to extinguish other +fires different in nature, but more devouring––and as +many of them as there are boundary lines in the land.”</p> +<p>And we now come to the gist of the matter.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“What wealth of moral truth,” he continues, “do we find +in these greasy, musty pages. When one deeds a piece of +property, he deeds with it something more valuable, more +enduring. He deeds with it an undying human intelligence +which goes down to posterity, saying, Respect my will; believe +in me; and convey this respect and this belief to your +offspring. Ay, the immortal soul breathes in a deed as in a +great book. And the implicit trust we place in a musty +parchment, is the mystic outcome of the blind faith, or rather +the far-seeing faith which our ancestors had in the morality +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span> +and intelligence of coming generations. For what avails +their deeds if they are not respected?... We are indebted +to our forbears, therefore, not for the miserable piece +of property they bequeath us, but for the confidence and +trust, the faith and hope they had in our innate or immanent +morality and intelligence. The will of the dead is law for +the living.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Are we then to look upon Khalid as having come +out of that Office with soiled fingers only? Or has +the young philosopher abated in his clerkship the intensity +of his moral views? Has he not assisted his +employer in the legal game of quieting titles? Has he +not acquired a little of the delusive plausibilities of +lawyers? Shakib throws no light on these questions. +We only know that the clerkship or rather apprenticeship +was only held for a season. Indeed, Khalid must +have recoiled from the practice. Or in his recklessness, +not to say obtrusion, he must have been outrageous +enough to express in the office of the honourable +attorney, or in the neighbourhood thereof, his views +about pettifogging and such like, that the said honourable +attorney was under the painful necessity of asking +him to stay home. Nay, the young Syrian was discharged. +Or to put it in a term adequate to the manner +in which this was done, he was “fired.” Now, +Khalid betakes him back to his cellar, and thrumming +his lute-strings, lights up the oppressive gloom with +Arabic song and music.</p> +<hr class='fn' /> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0001' id='Footnote_0001'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0001'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p> +A monastery in Mt. Lebanon, a sort of Bedlam, where +the exorcising monks beat the devil out of one’s head with +clouted shoes.––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor</span>. +</p></div> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0002' id='Footnote_0002'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0002'><span class='label'>[2]</span></a> +<p> +And the doctors here practise in the name of science what +the exorcising monks practise in the name of religion. The +poor devil, or patient, in either case is done to death.––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor</span>. +</p></div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS' id='CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3>WITH THE HURIS</h3> +</div> +<p>From the house of law the dervish Khalid wends +his way to that of science, and from the house of +science he passes on to that of metaphysics. His staff +in hand, his wallet hung on his shoulder, his silver +cigarette case in his pocket, patient, confident, content, +he makes his way from one place to another. Unlike +his brother dervishes, he is clean and proud of it, too. +He knocks at this or that door, makes his wish known +to the servant or the mistress, takes the crumbs given +him, and not infrequently gives his prod to the dogs. +In the vestibule of one of the houses of spiritism, he +tarries a spell and parleys with the servant. The Mistress, +a fair-looking, fair-spoken dame of seven lustrums +or more, issues suddenly from her studio, in a +curiously designed black velvet dressing-gown; she is +drawn to the door by the accent of the foreigner’s +speech and the peculiar cadence of his voice. They +meet: and magnetic currents from his dark eyes and +her eyes of blue, flow and fuse. They speak: and the +lady asks the stranger if he would not serve instead +of begging. And he protests, “I am a Dervish at +the door of Allah.” “And I am a Spirit in Allah’s +house,” she rejoins. They enter: and the parley in +the vestibule is followed by a tête-à-tête in the parlour +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span> +and another in the dining-room. They agree: and the +stranger is made a member of the Spiritual Household, +which now consists of her and him, the Medium and +the Dervish.</p> +<p>Now, this fair-spoken dame, who dotes on the occult +and exotic, delights in the aroma of Khalid’s cigarettes +and Khalid’s fancy. And that he might feel at ease, +she begins by assuring him that they have met and +communed many times ere now, that they have been +friends under a preceding and long vanished embodiment. +Which vagary Khalid seems to countenance by +referring to the infinite power of Allah, in the compass +of which nothing is impossible. And with these +mystical circumlocutions of ceremony, they plunge into +an intimacy which is bordered by the metaphysical on +one side, and the physical on the other. For though +the Medium is at the threshold of her climacteric, +Khalid afterwards tells Shakib that there be something +in her eyes and limbs which always seem to be waxing +young. And of a truth, the American woman, of all +others, knows best how to preserve her beauty from +the ravages of sorrow and the years. That is why, +we presume, in calling him, “child,” she does not permit +him to call her, “mother.” Indeed, the Medium +and the Dervish often jest, and somewhiles mix the +frivolous with the mysterious.</p> +<p>We would still follow our Scribe here, were it not +that his pruriency often reaches the edge. He speaks +of “the <i>liaison</i>” with all the rude simplicity and frankness +of the Arabian Nights. And though, as the Mohammedans +say, “To the pure everything is pure,” and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span> +again, “Who quotes a heresy is not guilty of it”; +nevertheless, we do not feel warranted in rending the +veil of the reader’s prudery, no matter how transparent +it might be. We believe, however, that the pruriency +of Orientals, like the prudery of Occidentals, is in fact +only an appearance. On both sides there is a display +of what might be called verbal virtue and verbal vice. +And on both sides, the exaggerations are configured in +a harmless pose. Be this as it may, we at least, shall +withhold from Shakib’s lasciviousness the English +dress it seeks at our hand.</p> +<p>We note, however, that Khalid now visits him in +the cellar only when he craves a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>; +that he and the Medium are absorbed in the contemplation +of the Unseen, though not, perhaps, of the Impalpable; +that they gallivant in the Parks, attend Bohemian +dinners, and frequent the Don’t Worry Circles +of Metaphysical Societies; that they make long expeditions +together to the Platonic North-pole and back +to the torrid regions of Swinburne; and that together +they perform their <i>zikr</i> and drink at the same fountain +of ecstasy and devotion. Withal, the Dervish, who +now wears his hair long and grows his finger nails +like a Brahmin, is beginning to have some manners.</p> +<p>The Medium, nevertheless, withholds from him +the secret of her art. If he desires, he can attend the +séances like every other stranger. Once Khalid, who +would not leave anything unprobed, insisted, importuned; +he could not see any reason for her conduct. +Why should they not work together in Tiptology, as +in Physiology and Metaphysics? And one morning, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span> +dervish-like, he wraps himself in his <i>aba</i>, and, calling +upon Allah to witness, takes a rose from the vase on +the table, angrily plucks its petals, and strews them on +the carpet. Which portentous sign the Medium understands +and hastens to minister her palliatives.</p> +<p>“No, Child, you shall not go,” she begs and supplicates; +“listen to me, are we not together all the time? +Why not leave me alone then with the spirits? One +day you shall know all, believe me. Come, sit here,” +stroking her palm on her lap, “and listen. I shall +give up this tiptology business very soon; you and I +shall overturn the table. Yes, Child, I am on the +point of succumbing under an awful something. So, +don’t ask me about the spooks any more. Promise not +to torment me thus any more. And one day we shall +travel together in the Orient; we shall visit the ruins +of vanished kingdoms and creeds. Ah, to be in +Palmyra with you! Do you know, Child, I am destined +to be a Beduin queen. The throne of Zenobia +is mine, and yours too, if you will be good. We shall +resuscitate the glory of the kingdom of the desert.”</p> +<p>To all of which Khalid acquiesces by referring as is +his wont to the infinite wisdom of Allah, in whose all-seeing +eye nothing is impossible.</p> +<p>And thus, apparently satisfied, he takes the cigarette +which she had lighted for him, and lights for her another +from his own. But the smoke of two cigarettes +dispels not the threatening cloud; it only conceals it +from view. For they dine together at a Bohemian +Club that evening, where Khalid meets a woman of +rare charms. And she invites him to her studio. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span> +Medium, who is at first indifferent, finally warns her +callow child. “That woman is a writer,” she explains, +“and writers are always in search of what they +call ‘copy.’ She in particular is a huntress of male +curiosities, <i>originales</i>, whom she takes into her favour +and ultimately surrenders them to the reading public. +So be careful.” But Khalid hearkens not. For the +writer, whom he afterwards calls a flighter, since she, +too, “like the van of the brewer only skims the surface +of things,” is, in fact, younger than the Medium. Ay, +this woman is even beautiful––to behold, at least. +So the Dervish, a captive of her charms, knocks at the +door of her studio one evening and enters. Ah, this +then is a studio! “I am destined to know everything, +and to see everything,” he says to himself, smiling in +his heart.</p> +<p>The charming hostess, in a Japanese kimono receives +him somewhat orientally, offering him the divan, +which he occupies alone for a spell. He is then laden +with a huge scrap-book containing press notices and +reviews of her many novels. These, he is asked to go +through while she prepares the tea. Which is a mortal +task for the Dervish in the presence of the Enchantress. +Alas, the tea is long in the making, and +when the scrap-book is laid aside, she reinforces him +with a lot of magazines adorned with stories of the +short and long and middling size, from her fertile pen. +“These are beautiful,” says he, in glancing over a +few pages, “but no matter how you try, you can not +with your pen surpass your own beauty. The charm +of your literary style can not hold a candle to the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span> +charm of your––permit me to read your hand.” +And laying down the magazine, he takes up her hand +and presses it to his lips. In like manner, he tries to +read somewhat in the face, but the Enchantress protests +and smiles. In which case the smile renders the +protest null and void.</p> +<p>Henceforth, the situation shall be trying even to +the Dervish who can eat live coals. He oscillates for +some while between the Medium and the Enchantress, +but finds the effort rather straining. The first climax, +however, is reached, and our Scribe thinks it too sad +for words. He himself sheds a few rheums with the +fair-looking, fair-spoken Dame, and dedicates to her a +few rhymes. Her magnanimity, he tells us, is unexampled, +and her fatalism pathetic. For when Khalid +severs himself from the Spiritual Household, she kisses +him thrice, saying, “Go, Child; Allah brought you to +me, and Allah will bring you again.” Khalid refers, +as usual, to the infinite wisdom of the Almighty, and, +taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the +tears that fell––from her eyes over his. He passes +out of the vestibule, silent and sad, musing on the +time he first stood there as a beggar.</p> +<p>Now, the horizon of the Enchantress is unobstructed. +Khalid is there alone; and her free love +can freely pass on from him to another. And such +messages they exchange! Such evaporations of the insipidities +of free love! Khalid again takes up with +Shakib, from whom he does not conceal anything. +The epistles are read by both, and sometimes replied to +by both! And she, in an effort to seem Oriental, calls +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span> +the Dervish, “My Syrian Rose,” “My Desert +Flower,” “My Beduin Boy,” et cetera, always closing +her message with either a strip of Syrian sky +or a camel load of the narcissus. Ah, but not thus +will the play close. True, Khalid alone adorns +her studio for a time, or rather adores in it; +he alone accompanies her to Bohemia. But the Dervish, +who was always going wrong in Bohemia,––always +at the door of the Devil,––ventures one night +to escort another woman to her studio. Ah, those +studios! The Enchantress on hearing of the crime +lights the fire under her cauldron. “Double, double, +toil and trouble!” She then goes to the telephone––g-r-r-r-r +you swine––you Phœnician murex––she +hangs up the receiver, and stirs the cauldron. +“Double, double, toil and trouble!” But the Dervish +writes her an extraordinary letter, in which we suspect +the pen of our Scribe, and from which we can but +transcribe the following:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“You found in me a vacant heart,” he pleads, “and you +occupied it. The divan therein is yours, yours alone. Nor +shall I ever permit a chance caller, an intruder, to exasperate +you.... My breast is a stronghold in which you +are well fortified. How then can any one disturb you?... +How can I turn from myself against myself? Somewhat +of you, the best of you, circulates with my blood; you +are my breath of life. How can I then overcome you? How +can I turn to another for the sustenance which you alone can +give?... If I be thirst personified, you are the living, +flowing brook, the everlasting fountain. O for a drink––”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And here follows a hectic uprush about pearly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span> +breasts, and honey-sources, and musk-scented arbours, +closing with “Your Beduin Boy shall come to-night.”</p> +<p>Notwithstanding which, the Enchantress abandons +the Syrian Dwelling: she no longer fancies the vacant +Divan of which Khalid speaks. Fortress or no +fortress, she gives up occupation and withdraws from +the foreigner her favour. Not only that; but the fire is +crackling under the cauldron, and the typewriter begins +to click. Ay, these modern witches can make +even a typewriter dance around the fire and join in +the chorus. “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire +burn, and cauldron bubble!” and the performance +was transformed from the studio to the magazine +supplement of one of the Sunday newspapers. There, +the Dervish is thrown into the cauldron along with the +magic herbs. Bubble––bubble. The fire-eating +Dervish, how can he now swallow this double-tongued +flame of hate and love? The Enchantress +had wrought her spell, had ministered her poison. +Now, where can he find an antidote, who can teach +him a healing formula? Bruno D’Ast was once bewitched +by a sorceress, and by causing her to be +burned he was immediately cured. Ah, that Khalid +could do this! Like an ordinary pamphlet he would +consign the Enchantress to the flames, and her scrap-books +and novels to boot. He does well, however, to +return to his benevolent friend, the Medium. The +spell can be counteracted by another, though less potent. +Ay, even witchcraft has its homeopathic remedies.</p> +<p>And the Medium, Shakib tells us, is delighted to +welcome back her prodigal child. She opens to him +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span> +her arms, and her heart; she slays the fatted calf. “I +knew that Allah will bring you back to me,” she ejaculates; +“my prevision is seldom wrong.” And kissing +her hand, Khalid falters, “Forgiveness is for the sinner, +and the good are for forgiveness.” Whereupon, +they plunge again into the Unseen, and thence to +Bohemia. The aftermath, however, does not come up +to the expectations of the good Medium. For the +rigmarole of the Enchantress about the Dervish in +New York had already done its evil work. And––double––double––wherever +the Dervish goes. +Especially in Bohemia, where many of its daughters +set their caps for him.</p> +<p>And here, he is neither shy nor slow nor visionary. +Nor shall his theory of immanent morality trouble +him for the while. Reality is met with reality on +solid, though sometimes slippery, ground. His animalism, +long leashed and starved, is eager for prey. +His Phœnician passion is awake. And fortunately, +Khalid finds himself in Bohemia where the poison and +the antidote are frequently offered together. Here +the spell of one sorceress can straightway be offset by +that of her sister. And we have our Scribe’s word +for it, that the Dervish went as far and as deep with +the huris, as the doctors eventually would permit him. +That is why, we believe, in commenting upon his adventures +there, he often quotes the couplet,</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>In my sublunar paradise<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>There’s plenty of honey––and plenty of flies.”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>The flies in his cup, however, can not be detected +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span> +with the naked eye. They are microbes rather––microbes +which even the physicians can not manage +with satisfaction. For it must be acknowledged that +Khalid’s immanent morality and intellectualism suffered +an interregnum with the huris. Reckless, +thoughtless, heartless, he plunges headlong again. +It is said in Al-Hadith that he who guards +himself against the three cardinal evils, namely, of +the tongue (<i>laklaka</i>), of the stomach (<i>kabkaba</i>), and +of the sex (<i>zabzaba</i>), will have guarded himself +against all evil. But Khalid reads not in the Hadith +of the Prophet. And that he became audacious, edacious, +and loquacious, is evident from such wit and +flippancy as he here likes to display. “Some women,” +says he, “might be likened to whiskey, others to +seltzer water; and many are those who, like myself, +care neither for the soda or the whiskey straight. A +‘high-ball’ I will have.”</p> +<p>Nay, he even takes to punch; for in his cup of +amour there is a subtle and multifarious mixture. +With him, he himself avows, one woman complemented +another. What the svelte brunette, for instance, +lacked, the steatopygous blonde amply supplied. +Delicacy and intensity, effervescence and depth, these +he would have in a woman, or a hareem, as in anything +else. But these excellences, though found in a hareem, +will not fuse, as in a poem or a picture. Even thy +bones, thou scented high-lacquered Dervish, are likely +to melt away before they melt into one.</p> +<p>It is written in the K. L. MS. that women either +bore, or inspire, or excite. “The first and the last are +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span> +to be met with anywhere; but the second? Ah, well +you have heard the story of Diogenes. So take up +your lamp and come along. But remember, when +you do meet the woman that inspires, you will begin +to yearn for the woman that excites.”</p> +<p>And here, the hospitality of the Dervish does not belie +his Arab blood. In Bohemia, the bonfire of his +heart was never extinguished, and the wayfarers stopping +before his tent, be they of those who bored, or excited, +or inspired, were welcome guests for at least +three days and nights. And in this he follows the rule +of hospitality among his people.</p> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_3' id='linki_3'></a> +<img src='images/illus-102.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 380px; height: 211px;' /><br /> +</div> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<p class="h2" >BOOK THE SECOND</p> +<p class="h2" >IN THE TEMPLE</p> +</div> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_4' id='linki_4'></a> +<img src='images/illus-106.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 462px; height: 375px;' /><br /> +</div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='TO_NATURE' id='TO_NATURE'></a> +<h2>TO NATURE</h2> +</div> +<p><i>O Mother eternal, divine, satanic, all encompassing, +all-nourishing, all-absorbing, O star-diademed, +pearl-sandaled Goddess, I am thine forever and ever: +whether as a child of thy womb, or an embodiment +of a spirit-wave of thy light, or a dumb blind +personification of thy smiles and tears, or an ignis-fatuus +of the intelligence that is in thee or beyond thee, +I am thine forever and ever: I come to thee, I prostrate +my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to +thee. O touch me with thy wand divine again; stir +me once more in thy mysterious alembics; remake me +to suit the majestic silence of thy hills, the supernal +purity of thy sky, the mystic austerity of thy groves, +the modesty of thy slow-swelling, soft-rolling streams, +the imperious pride of thy pines, the wild beauty and +constancy of thy mountain rivulets. Take me in thine +arms, and whisper to me of thy secrets; fill my senses +with thy breath divine; show me the bottom of thy terrible +spirit; buffet me in thy storms, infusing in me of +thy ruggedness and strength, thy power and grandeur; +lull me in thine autumn sun-downs to teach me in the +arts that enrapture, exalt, supernaturalise. Sing me +a lullaby, O Mother eternal! Give me to drink of +thy love, divine and diabolic; thy cruelty and thy +kindness, I accept both, if thou wilt but whisper to me +the secret of both. Anoint me with the chrism of +spontaneity that I may be ever worthy of thee.––Withdraw +not from me thy hand, lest universal love and +sympathy die in my breast.––I implore thee, O Mother +eternal, O sea-throned, heaven-canopied Goddess, I +prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself +wholly to thee. And whether I be to-morrow the +censer in the hand of thy High Priest, or the incense +in the censer,––whether I become a star-gem in thy +cestus or a sun in thy diadem or even a firefly in thy +fane, I am content. For I am certain that it shall +be for the best.</i>––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid.</span></p> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY' id='CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<h3>THE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY</h3> +</div> +<p>Old Arabic books, printed in <ins class="trchange" title="Added comma">Bulaq,</ins> generally +have a broad margin wherein a separate work, +independent of the text, adds gloom to the page. We +have before us one of these tomes in which the text +treats of the ethics of life and religion, and the margins +are darkened with certain adventures which +Shahrazad might have added to her famous Nights. +The similarity between Khalid’s life in its present +stage and some such book, is evident. Nay, he has +been so assiduous in writing the marginal Work, that +ever since he set fire to his peddling-box, we have had +little in the Text worth transcribing. Nothing, in +fact; for many pages back are as blank as the evil genius +of Bohemia could wish them. And how could one +with that mara upon him, write of the ethics of life +and religion?</p> +<p>Al-Hamazani used to say that in Jorajan the man +from Khorasan must open thrice his purse: first, to pay +for the rent; second, for the food; and third, for his +coffin. And so, in Khalid’s case, at least, is Bohemia. +For though the purse be not his own, he was paying +dear, and even in advance, in what is dearer than +gold, for his experience. “O, that the Devil did +not take such interest in the marginal work of our +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span> +life! Why should we write it then, and for whom? +And how will it fare with us when, chapfallen in the +end and mortified, we stand before the great Task-Master +like delinquent school boys with a blank text +in our hands?” (Thus Shakib, who has caught the +moralising evil from his Master.) And that we must +stand, and fall, for thus standing, he is quite certain. +At least, Khalid is. For he would not return to the +Text to make up for the blank pages therein, if he were +not.</p> +<p>“When he returned from his last sojourn in Bohemia,” +writes our Scribe, “Khalid was pitiful to behold. +Even Sindbad, had he seen him, would have +been struck with wonder. The tears rushed to my +eyes when we embraced; for instead of Khalid I had in +my arms a phantom. And I could not but repeat the +lines of Al-Mutanabbi,</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>So phantom-like I am, and though so near,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>If I spoke not, thou wouldst not know I’m here.”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>“<ins class="trchange" title="Added extra opening double-quote">“No</ins> more voyages, I trust, O thou Sindbad.” And +he replied, “Yes, one more; but to our dear native land +this time.” In fact, I, too, was beginning to suffer +from nostalgia, and was much desirous of returning +home.” But Shakib is in such a business tangle that +he could not extricate himself in a day. So, they +tarry another year in New York, the one meanwhile +unravelling his affairs, settling with his creditors and +collecting what few debts he had, the other brooding +over the few blank pages in his Text. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span></p> +<p>One day he receives a letter from a fellow traveller, +a distinguished citizen of Tammany Land, whom he +had met and befriended in Bohemia, relating to an +enterprise of great pith and moment. It was election +time, we learn, and the high post of political canvasser +of the Syrian District was offered to Khalid for +a consideration of––but the letter which Shakib happily +preserved, we give in full.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Dear Khalid:</p> +<p>“I have succeeded in getting Mr. O’Donohue to appoint +you a canvasser of the Syrian District. You must stir yourself, +therefore, and try to do some good work, among the +Syrian voters, for Democracy’s Candidate this campaign. +Here is a chance which, with a little hustling on your part, +will materialise. And I see no reason why you should not +try to cash your influence among your people. This is no +mean position, mind you. And if you will come up to the +Wigwam to-morrow, I’ll give you a few suggestions on the +business of manipulating votes.</p> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:5.0em; text-align:right'><span style='margin-right: 3.90625em;'>“Yours truly,</span><br /> +“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Patrick Hoolihan</span>.”<br /></p> +</blockquote> +<p>And the said Mr. Hoolihan, the letter shows, is +Secretary to Mr. O’Donohue, who is first henchman to +the Boss. Such a letter, if luckily misunderstood, will +fire for a while the youthful imagination. No; not +his Shamrag Majesty’s Tammany Agent to Syria, +this Canvassership, you poor phantom-like zany! A +high post, indeed, you fond and pitiful dreamer, on +which you must hang the higher aspirations of your +soul, together with your theory of immanent morality. +You would not know this at first. You would still +kiss the official notification of Mr. Hoolihan, and hug +it fondly to your breast. Very well. At last––and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span> +the gods will not damn thee for musing––you will +stand in the band-wagon before the corner groggery +and be the object of the admiration of your fellow citizens––perhaps +of missiles, too. Very well, Khalid; +but you must shear that noddle of thine, and straightway, +for the poets are potted in Tammany Land. We +say this for your sake.</p> +<p>The orator-dream of youth, ye gods, shall it be +realised in this heaven of a dray-cart with its kerosene +torch and its drum, smelling and sounding rather +of Juhannam? Surely, from the Table of Bohemia +to the Stump in Tammany Land, is a far cry. But believe +us, O Khalid, you will wish you were again in +the gardens of Proserpine, when the silence and darkness +extinguish the torch and the drum and the echoes +of the shouting crowds. The headaches are certain +to follow this inebriation. You did not believe +Shakib; you would not be admonished; you would go +to the Wigwam for your portfolio. “<i>High post</i>,” +“<i>political canvasser</i>,” “<i>manipulation of votes</i>,” you +will know the exact meaning of these esoteric terms, +when, alas, you meet Mr. Hoolihan. For you must +know that not every one you meet in Bohemia is not a +Philistine. Indeed, many helots are there, who come +from Philistia to spy out the Land.</p> +<p>We read in the <i>Histoire Intime</i> of Shakib that +Khalid did become a Tammany citizen, that is to say, +a Tammany dray-horse; that he was much esteemed +by the Honourable Henchmen, and once in the Wigwam +he was particularly noticed by his Shamrag +Majesty Boss O’Graft; that he was Tammany’s Agent +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span> +to the Editors of the Syrian newspapers of New York, +whom he enrolled in the service of the Noble Cause +for a consideration which no eloquence or shrewdness +could reduce to a minimum; that he also took to the +stump and dispensed to his fellow citizens, with rhetorical +gestures at least, of the cut-and-dried logic which +the Committee of Buncombe on such occasions +furnishes its squad of talented spouters; and that––the +most important this––he was subject in the end +to the ignominy of waiting in the lobby with tuft-hunters +and political stock-jobbers, until it pleased the +Committee of Buncombe and the Honourable Treasurer +thereof to give him––a card of dismissal!</p> +<p>But what virtue is there in waiting, our cynical +friend would ask. Why not go home and sleep? +Because, O cynical friend, the Wigwam now is +Khalid’s home. For was he not, in creaking boots +and a slouch hat, ceremoniously married to Democracy? +Ay, and after spending their honeymoon +on the Stump and living another month or two +with his troll among her People, he returns to his +cellar to brood, not over the blank pages in his Text, +nor over the disastrous results of the Campaign, but +on the weightier matter of divorce. For although +Politics and Romance, in the History of Human Intrigue, +have often known and enjoyed the same yoke, +with Khalid they refused to pull at the plough. They +were not sensible even to the goad. Either the yoke +in his case was too loose, or the new yoke-fellow too +thick-skinned and stubborn.</p> +<p>Moreover, the promise of a handsome dowry, made +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span> +by the Shamrag Father-in-Law or his Brokers materialised +only in the rotten eggs and tomatoes with which +the Orator was cordially received on his honeymoon +trip. Such a marriage, O Mohammad, and such a +honeymoon, and such a dowry!––is not this enough +to shake the very sides of the Kaaba with laughter? +And yet, in the Wigwam this not uncommon affair +was indifferently considered; for the good and honourable +Tammanyites marry off their Daughters every +day to foreigners and natives alike, and with like extraordinary +picturesque results.</p> +<p>Were it not wiser, therefore, O Khalid, had you +consulted your friend the Dictionary before you saw +exact meaning of canvass and manipulation, before +you put on your squeaking boots and slouch hat and +gave your hand and heart to Tammany’s Daughter +and her Father-in-Law O’Graft? But the Dictionary, +too, often falls short of human experience; and +even Mr. O’Donohue could at best but hint at the +meaning of the esoteric terms of Tammany’s political +creed. These you must define for yourself as you go +along; and change and revise your definitions as you +rise or descend in the Sacred Order. For canvass here +might mean eloquence; there it might mean shrewdness; +lower down, intimidation and coercion; and further +depthward, human sloth and misery. It is but a +common deal in horses. Ay, in Tammany Land it is +essentially a trade honestly conducted on the known +principle of supply and demand. These truths you +had to discover for yourself, you say; for neither the +Dictionary, nor your friend and fellow traveller in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span> +Bohemia, Mr. Hoolihan, could stretch their knowledge +or their conscience to such a compass. And +you are not sorry to have made such a discovery? +Can you think of the Dowry and say that? We are, +indeed, sorry for you. And we would fain insert in +letter D of the Dictionary a new definition: namely, +Dowry, n. (Tammany Land Slang). The odoriferous +missiles, such as eggs and tomatoes, which are +showered on an Orator-Groom by the people.</p> +<p>But see what big profits Khalid draws from these +small shares in the Reality Stock Company. You remember, +good Reader, how he was kicked away from +the door of the Temple of Atheism. The stogies of +that inspired Doorkeeper were divine, according to his +way of viewing things, for they were at that particular +moment God’s own boots. Ay, it was God, he +often repeats, who kicked him away from the Temple +of his enemies. And now, he finds the Dowry of +Democracy, with all its wonderful revelations, as +profitable in its results, as divine in its purpose. And +in proof of this, we give here a copy of his letter to +Boss O’Graft, written in that downright manner of +his contemporaries, the English original of which we +find in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>.</p> +<blockquote> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:center'>“From Khalid to Boss O’Graft.<br /></p> +<p>“Right <i>Dis</i>honourable Boss:</p> +<p>“I have just received a check from your Treasurer, which +by no right whatever is due me, having been paid for my +services by Him who knows better than you and your Treasurer +what I deserve. The voice of the people, and their +eggs and tomatoes, too, are, indeed, God’s. And you should +know this, you who dare to remunerate me in what is not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span> +half as clean as those missiles. I return not your insult of a +check, however; but I have tried to do your state some service +in purchasing the few boxes of soap which I am now +dispatching to the Wigwam. You need more, I know, you +and your Honourable Henchmen or Hashmen. And instead +of canvassing and orating for Democracy’s illustrious Candidate +and the Noble Cause, <i>mashallah!</i> one ought to do +a little canvassing for Honesty and Truth among Democracy’s +leaders, tuft-hunters, political stock-jobbers, and such +like. O, for a higher stump, my Boss, to preach to those +who are supporting and degrading the stumps and the stump-orators +of the Republic!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And is it come to this, you poor phantom-like +dreamer? Think you a Tammany Boss is like your +atheists and attorneys and women of the studio, at +whom you could vent your ire without let or hindrance? +These harmless humans have no constables +at their command. But his Shamrag Majesty––O +wretched Khalid, must we bring one of his myrmidons +to your cellar to prove to you that, even in this +Tammany Land, you can not with immunity give free +and honest expression to your thoughts? Now, were +you not summoned to the Shamrag’s presence to +answer for the crime of <i>lèse-majesté</i>? And were you +not, for your audacity, left to brood ten days and +nights in gaol? And what tedium we have in +Shakib’s History about the charge on which he was +arrested. It is unconscionable that Khalid should +misappropriate Party funds. Indeed, he never +even touched or saw any of it, excepting, of course, that +check which he returned. But the Boss was still in +power. And what could Shakib do to exonerate his +friend? He did much, and he tells as much about it. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span> +With check-boot in his pocket, he makes his way +through aldermen, placemen, henchmen, and other questionable +political species of humanity, up to the Seat of +Justice––but such detail, though of the veracity of the +writer nothing doubting, we gladly set aside, since we +believe with Khalid that his ten days in gaol were akin +to the Boots and the Dowry in their motive and +effect.</p> +<p>But our Scribe, though never remiss when Khalid +is in a pickle, finds much amiss in Khalid’s thoughts +and sentiments. And as a further illustration of the +limpid shallows of the one and the often opaque +depths of the other, we give space to the following:</p> +<p>“When Khalid was ordered to appear before the +Boss,” writes Shakib, “such curiosity and anxiety as I +felt at that time made me accompany him. For I was +anxious about Khalid, and curious to see this great +Leader of men. We set out, therefore, together, I +musing on an incident in Baalbek when we went out +to meet the Pasha of the Lebanons and a droll old +peasant, having seen him for the first time, cried out, +‘I thought the Pasha to be a Pasha, but he’s but a +man.’ And I am sorry, after having seen the Boss, +I can not say as much for him.”</p> +<p>Here follows a little philosophising, unbecoming of +our Scribe, on men and names and how they act and +react upon each other. Also, a page about his misgivings +and the effort he made to persuade Khalid not +to appear before the Boss. But skipping over these, +“we reach the Tammany Wigwam and are conducted +by a thick-set, heavy-jowled, heavy-booted citizen +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span> +through the long corridor into a little square room +occupied by a little square-faced clerk. Here we wait +a half hour and more, during which the young +gentleman, with his bell before him and his orders to +minor clerks who come and go, poses as somebody of +some importance. We are then asked to follow him +from one room into another, until we reach the one +adjoining the private office of the Boss. A knock or +two are executed on the door of Greatness with a +nauseous sense of awe, and ‘Come in,’ Greatness within +huskily replies. The square-faced clerk enters, +shuts the door after him, returns in a trice, and conducts +us into the awful Presence. Ye gods of Baalbek, +the like of this I never saw before. Here is a +room sumptuously furnished with sofas and fauteuils, +and rugs from Ispahan. On the walls are pictures +of Washington, Jefferson, and the great Boss Tweed; +and right under the last named, behind that preciously +carved mahogany desk, in that soft rolling mahogany +chair, is the squat figure of the big Boss. On the +desk before him, besides a plethora of documents, lay +many things pell-mell, among which I noticed a box of +cigars, the Criminal Code, and, most prominent of all, +the Boss’ feet, raised there either to bid us welcome, +or to remind us of his power. And the rich Ispahan +rug, the cuspidor being small and overfull, receives +the richly coloured matter which he spurts forth every +time he takes the cigar out of his mouth. O, the vulgarity, +the bestiality of it! Think of those poor patient +Persian weavers who weave the tissues of their +hearts into such beautiful work, and of this proud and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span> +paltry Boss, whose office should have been furnished +with straw. Yes, with straw; and the souls of those +poor artist-weavers will sleep in peace. O, the ignominy +of having such precious pieces of workmanship +under the feet and spittle of such vulgar specimens of +humanity. But if the Boss had purchased these rugs +himself, with money earned by his own brow-sweat, +I am sure he would appreciate them better. He would +then know, if not their intrinsic worth, at least their +market value. Yes, and they were presented to him +by some one <i>needing, I suppose, police connivance +and protection</i>. The first half of this statement I +had from the Boss himself; the second, I base on +Khalid’s knowingness and suspicion. Be this, however, +as it may.</p> +<p>“When we entered this sumptuously furnished office, +the squat figure in the chair under the picture of +Boss Tweed, remained as immobile as a fixture and +did not as much as reply to our <i>salaam</i>. But he +pointed disdainfully to seats in the corner of the room, +saying, ‘Sit down there,’ in a manner quite in keeping +with his stogies raised on the desk directly in our face. +Such freedom, nay, such bestiality, I could never tolerate. +Indeed, I prefer the suavity and palaver of +Turkish officials, no matter how crafty and corrupt, to +the puffing, spitting manners of these come-up-from-the-shamble +men. But Khalid could sit there as immobile +as the Boss himself, and he did so, billah! For +he was thinking all the while, as he told me when we +came out, not of such matters as grate on the susceptibilities +of a poet, but on the one sole idea of how such +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span> +a bad titman could lead by the nose so many good +people.”</p> +<p>Shakib then proceeds to give us a verbatim report of +the interview. It begins with the Boss’ question, +“What do you mean by writing such a letter?” and +ends with this other, “What do you mean by immanent +morality?” The reader, given the head and tail of the +matter, can supply the missing parts. Or, given its +two bases, he can construct this triangle of Politics, +Ethics, and the Constable, with Khalid’s letter, +offended Majesty, and a prison cell, as its three turning +points. We extract from the report, however, the +concluding advice of the Boss. For when he asked +Khalid again what he meant by immanent morality, he +continued in a crescendo of indignation: “You mean +the morality of hayseeds, and priests, and philosophical +fools? That sort of morality will not as much as secure +a vote during the campaign, nor even help to +keep the lowest clerk in office. That sort of morality +is good for your mountain peasants or other barbarous +tribes. But the free and progressive people of the +United States must have something better, nobler, +more practical. You’d do well, therefore, to get you a +pair of rings, hang them in your ears, and go preach, +your immanent morality to the South African Pappoos. +But before you go, you shall taste of the rigour of our +law, you insolent, brazen-faced, unmannerly scoundrel!”</p> +<p>And we are assured that the Boss did not remain immobile +as be spurted forth this mixture of wrath and +wisdom, nor did the stogies; for moved by his own +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span> +words, he rose promptly to his feet. “And what of +it,” exclaims our Scribe. “Surely, I had rather see +those boots perform any office, high or low, as to behold +their soles raised like mirrors to my face.” But +how high an office they performed when the Boss came +forward, we are not told. All that our Scribe gives +out about the matter amounts to this: namely, that he +walked out of the room, and as he looked back to see +if Khalid was following, he saw him brushing with his +hands––his hips! And on that very day Khalid was +summoned to appear before the Court and give answer +to the charge of misappropriation of public funds. +The orator-dream of youth––what a realisation! +He comes to Court, and after the legal formalities are +performed, he is delivered unto an officer who escorts +him across the Bridge of Sighs to gaol. There, for +ten days and nights,––and it might have been ten +months were it not for his devoted and steadfast +friend,––we leave Khalid to brood on Democracy and +the Dowry of Democracy. A few extracts from the +Chapter in the K. L. MS. entitled “In Prison,” are, +therefore, appropriate.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“So long as one has faith,” he writes, “in the general +moral summation of the experience of mankind, as the philosophy +of reason assures us, one should not despair. But +the material fact of the Present, the dark moment of no-morality, +consider that, my suffering Brothers. And reflect +further that in this great City of New York the majority of +citizens consider it a blessing to have a <i>rojail</i> (titman) for +their boss and leader.... How often have I mused +that if Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of Youth in the +New World, I, Khalid, sought the Fountain of Truth, and +both of us have been equally successful! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span></p> +<p>“But the Americans are neither Pagans––which is consoling––nor +fetish-worshipping heathens: they are all true +and honest votaries of Mammon, their great God, their one +and only God. And is it not natural that the Demiurgic +Dollar should be the national Deity of America? Have not +deities been always conceived after man’s needs and aspirations? +Thus in Egypt, in a locality where the manufacture +of pottery was the chief industry, God was represented as a +potter; in agricultural districts, as a god of harvest; among +warring tribes as an avenger, a Jehovah. And the more +needs, the more deities; the higher the aspirations, the better +the gods. Hence the ugly fetish of a savage tribe, and the +beautiful mythology of a Greek Civilisation. Change the +needs and aspirations of the Americans, therefore, and you +will have changed their worship, their national Deity, and +even their Government. And believe me, this change is +coming; people get tired of their gods as of everything else. +Ay, the time will come, when man in this America shall not +suffer for not being a seeker and lover and defender of the +Dollar....</p> +<p>“Obedience, like faith, is a divine gift; but only when it +comes from the heart: only when prompted by love and sincerity +is it divine. If you can not, however, reverence what +you obey, then, I say, withhold your obedience. And if you +prefer to barter your identity or ego for a counterfeit coin +of ideology, that right is yours. For under a liberal Constitution +and in a free Government, you are also at liberty +to sell your soul, to open a bank account for your conscience. +But don’t blame God, or Destiny, or Society, when you find +yourself, after doing this, a brother to the ox. Herein, we +Orientals differ from Europeans and Americans; we are +never bribed into obedience. We obey either from reverence +and love, or from fear. We are either power-worshippers +or cowards but never, never traders. It might be said +that the masses in the East are blind slaves, while in Europe +and America they are become blind rebels. And which is +the better part of valour, when one is blind––submission or +revolt?...</p> +<p>“No; popular suffrage helps not the suffering individual; +nor does it conduce to a better and higher morality. Why, +my Masters, it can not as much as purge its own channels. +For what is the ballot box, I ask again, but a modern vehicle +of corruption and debasement? The ballot box, believe +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span> +me, can not add a cubit to your frame, nor can it shed +a modicum of light on the deeper problems of life. Of +course, it is the exponent of the will of the majority, that is +to say, the will of the Party that has more money at its disposal. +The majority, and Iblis, and Juhannam––ah, come +out with me to the new gods!...”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But we must make allowance for these girds and +gibes at Democracy, of which we have given a specimen. +Khalid’s irony bites so deep at times as to get +at the very bone of truth. And here is the marrow +of it. We translate the following prophecy with +which he closes his Chapter “In Prison,” and with it, +too, we close ours.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“But my faith in man,” he swears, “is as strong as my +faith in God. And as strong, too, perhaps, is my faith in +the future world-ruling destiny of America. To these United +States shall the Nations of the World turn one day for the +best model of good Government; in these United States the +well-springs of the higher aspirations of the soul shall quench +the thirst of every race-traveller on the highway of emancipation; +and from these United States the sun and moon of +a great Faith and a great Art shall rise upon mankind. I +believe this, billah! and I am willing to go on the witness +stand to swear to it. Ay, in this New World, the higher +Superman shall rise. And he shall not be of the tribe of +Overmen of the present age, of the beautiful blond beast of +Zarathustra, who would riddle mankind as they would riddle +wheat or flour; nor of those political moralists who would +reform the world as they would a parish.</p> +<p>“From his transcendental height, the Superman of America +shall ray forth in every direction the divine light, which +shall mellow and purify the spirit of Nations and strengthen +and sweeten the spirit of men, in this New World, I tell +you, he shall be born, but he shall not be an American in +the Democratic sense. He shall be nor of the Old World +nor of the New; he shall be, my Brothers, of both. In him +shall be reincarnated the Asiatic spirit of origination, of +Poesy and Prophecy, and the European spirit of Art, and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span> +American spirit of Invention. Ay, the Nation that leads +the world to-day in material progress shall lead it, too, in +the future, in the higher things of the mind and soul. And +when you reach that height, O beloved America, you will +be far from the majority-rule, and Iblis, and Juhannam. +And you will then conquer those ‘enormous mud Megatheriums’ +of which Carlyle makes loud mention.”</p> +</blockquote> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL' id='CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3>SUBTRANSCENDENTAL</h3> +</div> +<p>Deficiencies in individuals, as in States, have +their value and import. Indeed, that sublime +impulse of perfectibility, always vivacious, always +working under various forms and with one underlying +purpose, would be futile without them, and fatuous. +And what were life without this incessant striving of +the spirit? What were life without its angles of difficulty +and defeat, and its apices of triumph and +power? A banality this, you will say. But need +we not be reminded of these wholesome truths, when +the striving after originality nowadays is productive of +so much quackery? The impulse of perfectibility, we +repeat, whether at work in a Studio, or in a Factory, +or in a Prison Cell, is the most noble of all human impulses, +the most divine.</p> +<p>Of that Chapter, In Prison, we have given +what might be called the exogenous bark of the Soul, +or that which environment creates. And now we +shall endeavour to show the reader somewhat of the +ludigenous process, by which the Soul, thrumming its +own strings or eating its own guts, develops and increases +its numbers. For Khalid in these gaol-days is +much like Hamlet’s player, or even like Hamlet himself––always +soliloquising, tearing a passion to rags. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span> +And what mean these outbursts and objurgations of +his, you will ask; these suggestions, fugitive, rhapsodical, +mystical; this furibund allegro about Money, +Mediums, and Bohemia; these sobs and tears and +asseverations, in which our Lady of the Studio and +Shakib are both expunged with great billahs;––the +force and significance of these subliminal uprushes, +dear Reader, we confess we are, like yourself, unable +to understand, without the aid of our Interpreter. +We shall, therefore, let him speak.</p> +<p>“When in prison,” writes Shakib, “Khalid was +subject to spasms and strange hallucinations. One +day, when I was sweating in the effort to get him out +of gaol, he sends me word to come and see him. I +go; and after waiting a while at the Iron gate, I behold +Khalid rushing down the isle like an angry lion. +‘What do you want,’ he growled, ‘why are you +here?’ And I, amazed, ‘Did you not send for me?’ +And he snapped up, ‘I did; but you should not have +come. You should withhold from me your favours.’ +Life of Allah, I was stunned. I feared lest his mind, +too, had gone in the direction of his health, which +was already sorrily undermined. I looked at him +with dim, tearful eyes, and assured him that soon he +shall be free. ‘And what is the use of freedom,’ he +exclaimed, ‘when it drags us to lower and darker +depths? Don’t think I am miserable in prison. No; +I am not––I am happy. I have had strange visions, +marvellous. O my Brother, if you could behold the +sloughs, deeper and darker than any prison-cell, into +which <i>you</i> have thrown me. Yes, <i>you</i>––and another. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span> +O, I hate you both. I hate my best lovers. I hate +You––no––no, no, no.’ And he falls on me, embraces +me, and bathes my cheeks with his tears. After +which he falters out beseechingly, ‘Promise, promise +that you will not give me any more money, and +though starving and in rags you find me crouching at +your door, promise.’ And of a truth, I acquiesced in +all he said, seeing how shaken in body and mind he +was. But not until I had made a promise under oath +would he be tranquillised. And so, after our farewell +embrace, he asked me to come again the following day +and bring him some books to read. This I did, fetching +with me Rousseau’s <i>Emile</i> and Carlyle’s +<i>Hero-Worship</i>, the only two books he had in +the cellar. And when he saw them, he exclaimed +with joy, ‘The very books I want! I read them twice +already, and I shall read them again. O, let me +kiss you for the thought.’ And in an ecstasy he +overwhelms me again with suffusing sobs and embraces.</p> +<p>“What a difference, I thought, between Khalid of +yesterday and Khalid of to-day. What a transformation! +Even I who know the turn and temper of his +nature had much this time to fear. Surely, an alienist +would have made a case of him. But I began to +get an inkling into his cue of passion, when he told +me that he was going to start a little business again, +if I lend him the necessary capital. But I reminded +him that we shall soon be returning home. ‘No, not +I,’ he swore; ‘not until I can pay my own passage, at +least. I told you yesterday I’ll accept no more money +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span> +from you, except, of course, the sum I need to start +the little business I am contemplating.’ ‘And suppose +you lose this money,’ I asked.––‘Why, then <i>you</i> +lose <i>me</i>. But no, you shall not. For I know, I believe, +I am sure, I swear that my scheme this time will +not be a failure in any sense of the word. I have +heavenly testimony on that.’––‘And what was the +matter with you yesterday? Why were you so queer?’ +‘O, I had nightmares and visions the night before, and +you came too early in the morning. See this.’ And +he holds down his head to show me the back of his +neck. ‘Is there no swelling here? I feel it. Oh, it +pains me yet. But I shall tell you about it and about +the vision when I am out.’––And at this, the gaoler +comes to inform us that Khalid’s minutes are spent +and he must return to his cell.”</p> +<p>All of which from our Interpreter is as clear as God +Save the King. And from which we hope our Reader +will infer that those outbursts and tears and rhapsodies +of Khalid did mean somewhat. They did mean, +even when we first approached his cell, that something +was going on in him––a revolution, a <i>coup d’état</i>, so +to speak, of the spirit. For a Prince in Rags, but not +in Debts and Dishonour, will throttle the Harpy which +has hitherto ruled and degraded his soul.</p> +<p>But the dwelling, too, of that soul is sorely undermined. +And so, his leal and loving friend Shakib +takes him later to the best physician in the City, who +after the tapping and auscultation, shakes his +head, writes his prescriptions, and advises Khalid to +keep in the open air as much as possible, or better still, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span> +to return to his native country. The last portion of +the advice, however, Khalid can not follow at present. +For he will either return home on his own account +or die in New York. “If I can not in time save +enough money for the Steamship Company,” he said +to Shakib, “I can at least leave enough to settle the +undertaker’s bill. And in either case, I shall have +paid my own passage out of this New World. And I +shall stand before my Maker in a shroud, at least, +which I can call my own.”</p> +<p>To which Shakib replies by going to the druggist +with the prescriptions. And when he returns to the +cellar with a package of four or five medicine bottles +for rubbing and smelling and drinking, he finds Khalid +sitting near the stove––we are now in the last month +of Winter––warming his hands on the flames of the +two last books he read. <i>Emile</i> and <i>Hero-Worship</i> go +the way of all the rest. And there he sits, meditating +over Carlyle’s crepitating fire and Rousseau’s writhing, +sibilating flame. And it may be he thought of neither. +Perhaps he was brooding over the resolution he had +made, and the ominous shaking of the doctor’s head. +Ah, but his tutelar deities are better physicians, he +thought. And having made his choice, he will pitch +the medicine bottles into the street, and only follow +the doctor’s advice by keeping in the open air.</p> +<p>Behold him, therefore, with a note in hand, applying +to Shakib, in a formal and business-like manner, for +a loan; and see that noble benefactor and friend, after +gladly giving the money, throw the note into the fire. +And now, Khalid is neither dervish nor philosopher, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span> +but a man of business with a capital of twenty-five +dollars in his pocket. And with one-fifth of this capital +he buys a second-hand push-cart from his Greek +neighbour, wends his way with it to the market-place, +makes a purchase there of a few boxes of oranges, sorts +them in his cart into three classes,––“there is no equality +in nature,” he says, while doing this,––sticks a price +card at the head of each class, and starts, in the name +of Allah, his business. That is how he will keep in the +open air twelve hours a day.</p> +<p>But in the district where he is known he does not +long remain. The sympathy of his compatriots is to +him worse than the doctor’s medicines, and those who +had often heard him speechifying exchanged significant +looks when he passed. Moreover, the police would +not let him set up his stand anywhere. “There comes +the push-cart orator,” they would say to each other; +and before our poor Syrian stops to breathe, one of +them grumpishly cries out, “Move on there! Move +on!” Once Khalid ventures to ask, “But why are +others allowed to set up their stands here?” And +the “copper” (we beg the Critic’s pardon again) +coming forward twirling his club, lays his hand on +Khalid’s shoulder and calmly this: “Don’t you think +I know you? Move on, I say.” O Khalid, have you +forgotten that these “coppers” are the minions of +Tammany? Why tarry, therefore, and ask questions? +Yes, make a big move at once––out of the district +entirely.</p> +<p>Now, to the East Side, into the Jewish Quarter, +Khalid directs his cart. And there, he falls in with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span> +Jewish fellow push-cart peddlers and puts up with +them in a cellar similar to his in the Syrian Quarter. +But only for a month could he suffer what the Jew +has suffered for centuries. Why? There is this difference +between the cellar of the Semite Syrian and +that of the Semite Jew: in the first we eat <i>mojadderah</i>, +in the second, <i>kosher</i> but stinking flesh; in the +first we read poetry and play the lute, in the +second we fight about the rent and the division of the +profits of the day; in the first we sleep in linen “as +white as the wings of the dove,” in the second on pieces +of smelly blankets; the first is redolent of ottar of +roses, Shakib’s favourite perfume, the second is especially +made insufferable by that stench which is +peculiar to every Hebrew hive. For these and other +reasons, Khalid separates himself from his Semite fellow +peddlers, and makes this time a bigger move than +the first.</p> +<p>Ay, even to the Bronx, where often in former days, +shouldering the peddling-box, he tramped, will he now +push his orange-cart and his hopes. There, between +City and Country, nearer to Nature, and not far from +the traffic of life, he fares better both in health and +purse. It is much to his liking, this upper end of the +City. Here the atmosphere is more peaceful and +soothing, and the police are more agreeable. No, they +do not nickname and bully him in the Bronx. And +never was he ordered to move on, even though he set +up his stand for months at the same corner. “Ah, +how much kinder and more humane people become,” +he says, “even when they are not altogether out of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span> +City, but only on the outskirts of the country expanse.”</p> +<p>Khalid passes the Spring and Summer in the Bronx +and keeps in the open air, not only in the day, but +also in the night. How he does this, is told in a letter +which he writes to Shakib. But does he sleep at all, +you ask, and how, and where? Reader, we thank +you for your anxiety about Khalid’s health. And we +would fain show you the Magic Carpet which he carries +in the lock-box of his push-cart. But see for yourself, +here be neither Magic Carpet, nor Magic Ring. +Only his papers, a few towels, a blanket, some underwear, +and his coffee utensils, are here. For Khalid +could forego his <i>mojadderah</i>, but never his coffee, the +Arab that he is. But an Arab on the wayfare, if he +finds himself at night far from the camp, will dig him +a ditch in the sands and lie there to sleep under the +living stars. Khalid could not do thus, neither in the +City nor out of it. And yet, he did not lodge within +doors. He hired a place only for his push-cart; and +this, a small padlock-booth where he deposits his stock +in trade. But how he lived in the Bronx is described +in the following letter:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“My loving Brother Shakib,</p> +<p>“I have been two months here, in a neighbourhood familiar +to you. Not far from the place where I sleep is the sycamore +tree under which I burned my peddling-box. And perhaps I +shall yet burn there my push-cart too. But for the present, +all’s well. My business is good and my health is improving. +The money-order I am enclosing with this, will cancel the +note, but not the many debts, I owe you. And I hope to be +able to join you again soon, to make the voyage to our native +land together. Meanwhile I am working, and laying up a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span> +little something. I make from two to three dollars a day, of +which I never spend more than one. And this on one meal +only; for my lodging and my lunch and breakfast cost next +to nothing. Yes, I can be a push-cart peddler in the day; I +can sleep out of doors at night; I can do with coffee and +oranges for lunch and breakfast; but in the evening I will +assert my dignity and do justice to my taste: I will dine at +the Hermitage and permit you to call me a fool. And why +not, since my purse, like my stomach, is now my own? Why +not go to the Hermitage since my push-cart income permits +of it? But the first night I went there my shabbiness attracted +the discomforting attention of the fashionable diners, +and made even the waiters offensive. Indeed, one of them +came to ask if I were looking for somebody. ‘No,’ I replied +with suppressed indignation; ‘I’m looking for a place where +I can sit down and eat, without being eaten by the eyes of +the vulgar curious.’ And I pass into an arbor, which from +that night becomes virtually my own, followed by a waiter +who from that night, too, became my friend. For every +evening I go there, I find my table unoccupied and my waiter +ready to receive and serve me. But don’t think he does this +for the sake of my black eyes or my philosophy. That disdainful +glance of his on the first evening I could never forget, +billah. And I found that it could be baited and mellowed +only by a liberal tip. And this I make in advance +every week for both my comfort and his. Yes, I am a fool, +I grant you, but I’m not out of my element there.</p> +<p>“After dinner I take a stroll in the Flower Gardens, and +crossing the rickety wooden bridge over the river, I enter the +hemlock grove. Here, in a sequestered spot near the river +bank, I lay me on the grass and sleep for the night. I always +bring my towels with me; for in the morning I take +a dip, and at night I use them for a pillow. When the +weather requires it, I bring my blankets too. And hanging +one of them over me, tied to the trees by the cords sown to +its corners, I wrap myself in the other, and praise Allah.</p> +<p>“These and the towels, after taking my bath, I leave at the +Hermitage; my waiter minds them for me. And so, I suspect +I am happy––if, curse it! I could but breathe better. +O, come up to see me. I’ll give you a royal dinner at the +Hermitage, and a royal bed in the hemlock grove on the +river-bank. Do come up, the peace of Allah upon thee. Read +my salaam to Im-Hanna.”</p> +</blockquote> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span></div> +<p>And during his five months in the Bronx he did not +sleep five nights within doors, we are told, nor did he +once dine out of the Hermitage. Even his hair, a fantastic +fatuity behind a push-cart, he did not take the +trouble to cut or trim. It must have helped his business. +But this constancy, never before sustained to +such a degree, must soon cease, having laid up, thanks +to his push-cart and the people of the Bronx, enough +to carry him, not only to Baalbek, but to <i>Aymakanenkan</i>.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN' id='CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>THE FALSE DAWN</h3> +</div> +<p>What the Arabs always said of Andalusia, Khalid +and Shakib said once of America: a most beautiful +country with one single vice––it makes foreigners +forget their native land. But now they are both +suffering from nostalgia, and America, therefore, is +without a single vice. It is perfect, heavenly, ideal. +In it one sees only the vices of other races, and the +ugliness of other nations. America herself is as lovely +as a dimpled babe, and as innocent. A dimpled babe +she. But wait until she grows, and she will have +more than one vice to demand <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'forgetfuless'">forgetfulness</ins>.</p> +<p>Shakib, however, is not going to wait. He begins +to hear the call of his own country, now that his bank +account is big enough to procure for him the Pashalic +of Syria. And Khalid, though his push-cart had developed +to a stationary fruit stand,––and perhaps for +this very reason,––is now desirous of leaving America +anon. He is afraid of success overtaking him. +Moreover, the Bronx Park has awakened in him his +long dormant love of Nature. For while warming +himself on the flames of knowledge in the cellar, or +rioting with the Bassarides of Bohemia, or canvassing +and speechifying for Tammany, he little thought of +what he had deserted in his native country. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span> +ancient historical rivers flowing through a land made +sacred by the divine madness of the human spirit; the +snow-capped mountains at the feet of which the lily +and the oleander bloom; the pine forests diffusing +their fragrance even among the downy clouds; the +peaceful, sun-swept multi-coloured meadows; the trellised +vines, the fig groves, the quince orchards, the +orangeries: the absence of these did not disturb his +serenity in the cellar, his voluptuousness in Bohemia, +his enthusiasm in Tammany Land.</p> +<p>And we must not forget to mention that, besides the +divine voice of Nature and native soil, he long since +has heard and still hears the still sweet voice of one +who might be dearer to him than all. For Khalid, +after his return from Bohemia, continued to curse the +huris in his dreams. And he little did taste of the +blessings of “sore labour’s bath, balm of hurt minds.” +Ay, when he was not racked and harrowed by +nightmares, he was either disturbed by the angels +of his visions or the succubi of his dreams. And so, he +determines to go to Syria for a night’s sleep, at least, +of the innocent and just. His cousin Najma is there, +and that is enough. Once he sees her, the huris are +no more.</p> +<p>Now Shakib, who is more faithful in his narration +than we first thought––who speaks of Khalid as he +is, extenuating nothing––gives us access to a letter +which he received from the Bronx a month before their +departure from New York. In these Letters of +Khalid, which our Scribe happily preserved, we feel +somewhat relieved of the dogmatism, fantastic, mystical, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span> +severe, which we often meet with in the K. L. MS. +In his Letters, our Syrian peddler and seer is a plain +blunt man unbosoming himself to his friend. Read +this, for instance.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“My loving Brother:</p> +<p>“It is raining so hard to-night that I must sleep, or in fact +keep, within doors. Would you believe it, I am no more accustomed +to the luxuries of a soft spring-bed, and I can not +even sleep on the floor, where I have moved my mattress. I +am sore, broken in mind and spirit. Even the hemlock grove +and the melancholy stillness of the river, are beginning to annoy +me. Oh, I am tired of everything here, tired even of +the cocktails, tired of the push-cart, tired of earning as much +as five dollars a day. Next Sunday is inauguration day for +my stationary fruit stand; but I don’t think it’s going to +stand there long enough to deserve to be baptized with champagne. +If you come up, therefore, we’ll have a couple of +steins at the Hermitage and call it square.––O, I would +square myself with the doctors by thrusting a poker down my +windpipe: I might be able to breathe better then. I pause +to curse my fate.––Curse it, Juhannam-born, curse it!––</p> +<p>“I can not sleep, nor on the spring-bed, nor on the floor. +It is two hours past midnight now, and I shall try to while +away the time by scrawling this to you. My brother, I can +not long support this sort of life, being no more fit for +rough, ignominious labor. ‘But why,’ you will ask, ‘did +you undertake it?’ Yes, why? Strictly speaking, I made a +mistake. But it’s a noble mistake, believe me––a mistake +which everybody in my condition ought to make, if but once +in their life-time. Is it not something to be able to make an +honest resolution and carry it out? I have heard strange +voices in prison; I have hearkened to them; but I find that +one must have sound lungs, at least, to be able to do the will +of the immortal gods. And even if he had, I doubt if he +could do much to suit them in America. O, my greatest +enemy and benefactor in the whole world is this dumb-hearted +mother, this America, in whose iron loins I have been +spiritually conceived. Paradoxical, this? But is it not true? +Was not the Khalid, now writing to you, born in the cellar? +Down there, in the very loins of New York? But alas, our +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span> +spiritual Mother devours, like a cat, her own children. How +then can we live with her in the same house?</p> +<p>“I need not tell you now that the ignominious task I set my +hands to, was never to my liking. But the ox under the yoke +is not asked whether he likes it or not. I have been yoked to +my push-cart by the immortal gods; and soon my turn and +trial will end. It must end. For our country is just beginning +to speak, and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I +do not respond, if I do not come to her, she will be dumb +forever. No; I can not remain here any more. For I can +not be strenuous enough to be miserably happy; nor stupid +enough to be contentedly miserable. I confess I have been +spoiled by those who call themselves spiritual sisters of mine. +The huris be dam’d. And if I don’t leave this country soon, +I’ll find myself sharing the damnation again––in Bohemia.––</p> +<p>“The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its +love, or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I +am, with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a +task which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the +power of the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term, +warps it, poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in +this great Country,––this Circe with her golden horns of +plenty,––one can not as much as keep his blood in circulation +without damning the currents of one’s soul? O America, +equally hated and beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity +and spiritual misery, the time will come when you +shall see that your gold is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge +bonds but death decrees, and your god of wealth a carcase +enthroned upon a dung-hill. But you can not see this now; +for you are yet in the false dawn, floundering tumultuously, +worshipping your mammoth carcase on a dung-hill––and +devouring your spiritual children. Yes, America is now in +the false dawn, and as sure as America lives, the true dawn +must follow.</p> +<p>“Pardon, Shakib. I did not mean to end my letter in a +rhapsody. But I am so wrought, so broken in body, so inflamed +in spirit. I hope to see you soon. No, I hope to see +myself with you on board of a Transatlantic steamer.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And is not Khalid, like his spiritual Mother, floundering, +too, in the false dawn of life? His love of Nature, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span> +which was spontaneous and free, is it not likely +to become formal and scientific? His love of Country, +which begins tremulously, fervently in the woods +and streams, is it not likely to end in Nephelococcygia? +His determination to work, which was rudely shaken +at a push-cart, is it not become again a determination +to loaf? And now, that he has a little money laid up, +has he not the right to seek in this world the cheapest +and most suitable place for loafing? And where, if +not in the Lebanon hills, “in which it seemed always +afternoon,” can he rejoin the Lotus-Eaters of the +East? This man of visions, this fantastic, rhapsodical––but +we must not be hard upon him. Remember, +good Reader, the poker which he would thrust +down his windpipe to broaden it a little. With +asthmatic fits and tuberous infiltrations, one is permitted +to commune with any of Allah’s ministers of +grace or spirits of Juhannam. And that divine spark +of primal, paradisical love, which is rapidly devouring +all others––let us not forget that. Ay, we mean his +cousin Najma. Of course, he speaks, too, of his nation, +his people, awaking, lisping, beginning to speak, +waiting for him, the chosen Voice! Which reminds +us of how he was described to us by the hasheesh-smokers +of Cairo.</p> +<p>In any event, the Reader will rejoice with us, we +hope, that Khalid will not turn again toward Bohemia. +He will agree with us that, whether on account of his +health, or his love, or his mission, it is well, in his +present fare of mind and body, that he is returning +to the land “in which it seemed always afternoon.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR' id='CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>THE LAST STAR</h3> +</div> +<p>Is it not an ethnic phenomenon that a descendant +of the ancient Phœnicians can not understand +the meaning and purport of the Cash Register in +America? Is it not strange that this son of Superstition +and Trade can not find solace in the fact that in +this Pix of Business is the Host of the Demiurgic Dollar? +Indeed, the omnipresence and omnipotence of it +are not without divine significance. For can you not +see that this Cash Register, this Pix of Trade, is +prominently set up on the altar of every institution, +political, moral, social, and religious? Do you not +meet with it everywhere, and foremost in the sanctuaries +of the mind and the soul? In the Societies for +the Diffusion of Knowledge; in the Social Reform +Propagandas; in the Don’t Worry Circles of Metaphysical +Gymnasiums; in Alliances, Philanthropic, +Educational; in the Board of Foreign Missions; in the +Sacrarium of Vaticinatress Eddy; in the Church of +God itself;––is not the Cash Register a divine symbol +of the <i>credo</i>, the faith, or the idea?</p> +<p>“To trade, or not to trade,” Hamlet-Khalid exclaims, +“that is the question: whether ’tis nobler in +the mind to suffer, etc., or to take arms against the +Cash Registers of America, and by opposing end––” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span> +What? Sacrilegious wretch, would you set your face +against the divinity in the Holy Pix of Trade? And +what will you end, and how will You end by it? +An eternal problem, this, of opposing and ending. +But before you set your face in earnest, we would ask +you to consider if the vacancy or chaos which is sure +to follow, be not more pernicious than what you would +end. If you are sure it is not, go ahead, and we give +you Godspeed. If you have the least doubt about it––but +Khalid is incapable now of doubting anything. +And whether he opposes his theory of immanent morality +to the Cash Register, or to Democracy, or to +the ruling powers of Flunkeydom, we hope He will +end well. Such is the penalty of revolt against the +dominating spirit of one’s people and ancestors, that +only once in a generation is it attempted, and scarcely +with much success. In fact, the first who revolts must +perish, the second, too, and the third, and the fourth, +until, in the course of time and by dint of repetition +and resistance, the new species of the race can overcome +the forces of environment and the crushing influence +of conformity. This, we know, is the biological +law, and Khalid must suffer under it. For, as +far as our knowledge extends, he is the first Syrian, +the ancient Lebanon monks excepted, who revolted +against the ruling spirit of his people and the dominant +tendencies of the times, both in his native and his +adopted Countries.</p> +<p>Yes, the <i>êthos</i> of the Syrians (for once we use Khalid’s +philosophic term), like that of the Americans, +is essentially money-seeking. And whether in Beirut +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span> +or in New York, even the moralists and reformers, +like the hammals and grocers, will ask themselves, before +they undertake to do anything for you or for their +country, “What will this profit us? How much will +it bring us?” And that is what Khalid once thought +to oppose and end. Alas, oppose he might––and +End He Must. How can an individual, without +the aid of Time and the Unseen Powers, hope to oppose +and end, or even change, this monstrous mass of +things? Yet we must not fail to observe that when +we revolt against a tendency inimical to our law of +being, it is for our own sake, and not the race’s, that +we do so. And we are glad we are able to infer, if +not from the K. L, MS., at least from his Letters, +that Khalid is beginning to realise this truth. Let us +not, therefore, expatiate further upon it.</p> +<p>If the reader will accompany us now to the cellar +to bid our Syrian friends farewell, we promise a few +things of interest. When we first came here some few +years ago in Winter, or to another such underground +dwelling, the water rose ankle-deep over the floor, and +the mould and stench were enough to knock an ox +dead. Now, a scent of ottar of roses welcomes us at +the door and leads us to a platform in the centre, +furnished with a Turkish rug, which Shakib will present +to the landlord as a farewell memento.</p> +<p>And here are our three Syrians making ready for the +voyage. Shakib is intoning some verses of his while +packing; Im-Hanna is cooking the last dish of +<i>mojadderah</i>; and Khalid, with some vague dream in +his eyes, and a vaguer, far-looming hope in his heart, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span> +is sitting on his trunk wondering at the variety of +things Shakib is cramming into his. For our Scribe, +we must not fail to remind the Reader, is contemplating +great things of State, is nourishing a great political +ambition. He will, therefore, bethink him of those in +power at home. Hence these costly presents. Ay, besides +the plated jewellery––the rings, bracelets, +brooches, necklaces, ear-rings, watches, and chains––of +which he is bringing enough to supply the peasants +of three villages, see that beautiful gold-knobbed ebony +stick, which he will present to the vali, and this +precious gold cross with a ruby at the heart for the +Patriarch, and these gold fountain pens for his literary +friends, and that fine Winchester rifle for the chief of +the tribe Anezah. These he packs in the bottom of +his trunk, and with them his precious dilapidated copy +of Al-Mutanabbi, and––what MS. be this? What, +a Book of Verse spawned in the cellar? Indeed, the +very embryo of that printed copy we read in Cairo, +and which Shakib and his friends would have us translate +for the benefit of the English reading public.</p> +<p>For our Scribe is the choragus of the Modern +School of Arabic poetry. And this particular Diwan +of his is a sort of rhymed inventory of all the inventions +and discoveries of modern Science and all the +wonders of America. He has published other Diwans, +in which French morbidity is crowned with laurels +from the Arabian Nights. For this Modern School +has two opposing wings, moved by two opposing +forces, Science being the motive power of the one, and +Byron and De Musset the inspiring geniuses of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span> +other. We would not be faithful to our Editorial +task and to our Friend, if we did not give here a few +luminant examples of the Diwan in question. We +are, indeed, very sorry, for the sake of our readers, that +space will not allow us to give them a few whole +qasïdahs from it. To those who are so fortunate as +to be able to read and understand the Original, we +point out the Ode to the Phonograph, beginning thus:</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>O Phonograph, thou wonder of our time,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Thy tongue of wax can sing like me in rhyme.”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>And another to the Brooklyn Bridge, of which +these are the opening lines:</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>O Brooklyn Bridge, how oft upon thy back<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>I tramped, and once I crossed thee in a hack.”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>And finally, the great Poem entitled, On the Virtue +and Benefit of Modern Science, of which we remember +these couplets:</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">“</span>Balloons and airships, falling from the skies,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Will be as plenty yet as summer flies.</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 3.5em;'>* * * * *</span><br /> +<span class="leadquote">“</span>Electricity and Steam and Compressed Air<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Will carry us to heaven yet, I swear.”</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>Here be rhymed truth, at least, which can boast of +not being poetry. Ay, in this MS. which Shakib is +packing along with Al-Mutanabbi in the bottom of his +trunk to evade the Basilisk touch of the Port officials of +Beirut, is packed all the hopes of the Modern School. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span> +Pack on, Shakib; for whether at the Mena House, or +in the hasheesh-dens of Cairo, the Future is drinking +to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy School its opium +dreams. And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his +trunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of +<i>mojadderah</i>.</p> +<p>Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of +the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a +little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange +diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians +together are plentifully endowed. For Shakib is a +type of the emigrant, who returns home prosperous in +every sense of the word. A Book of Verse to lure +Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if necessary, and +a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete +set of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not. But +he has in his lungs what Shakib the poet can not boast +of; while in his trunk he carries but a little wearing +apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his +pocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case––the +only object he can not part with––a heart-shaped +locket with a little diamond star on its face––the +only present he is bringing with him home,––and a +third-class passage across the Atlantic. For Khalid +will not sleep in a bunk, even though it be furnished +with eiderdown cushions and tiger skins.</p> +<p>And since he is determined to pass his nights on +deck, it matters little whether he travels first class, or +second or tenth. Shakib, do what he may, cannot prevail +upon him to accept the first-class passage he had +bought in his name. “Let us not quarrel about this,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span> +says he; “we shall be together on board the same ship, +and that settles the question. Indeed, the worse way +returning home must be ultimately the best. No, +Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away +quickly from this pandemonium of Civilisation. +Even now, as I sit on this trunk waiting for the hour +of departure, I have a foretaste of the joy of being +away from the insidious cries of hawkers, the tormenting +bells of the rag-man, the incessant howling of children, +the rumbling of carts and wagons, the malicious +whir of cable cars, the grum shrieks of ferry boats, and +the thundering, reverberating, smoking, choking, blinding +abomination of an elevated railway. A musician +might extract some harmony from this chaos of noises, +this jumble of sounds. But I––extract me quickly +from them!”</p> +<p>Ay, quickly please, especially for our sake and the +Reader’s. Now, the dinner is finished, the rug is +folded and presented to our landlord with our salaams, +the trunks are locked and roped, and our Arabs will +silently steal away. And peacefully, too, were it not +that an hour before sailing a capped messenger is come +to deliver a message to Shakib. There is a pleasant +dilative sensation in receiving a message on board a +steamer, especially when the messenger has to seek you +among the Salon passengers. Now, Shakib dilates with +pride as he takes the envelope in his hand; but when +he opens it, and reads on the enclosed card, “Mr. +Isaac Goldheimer wishes you a <i>bon voyage</i>,” he turns +quickly on his heels and goes on deck to walk his wrath +away. For this Mr. Goldheimer is the very landlord +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span> +who received the Turkish rug. Reflect on this, +Reader. Father Abraham would have walked with us +to the frontier to betoken his thanks and gratitude. +“But this modern Jew and his miserable card,” exclaims +Shakib in his teeth, as he tears and throws it in +the water,––“who asked him to send it, and who +would have sued him if he didn’t?”</p> +<p>But Shakib, who has lived so long in America and +traded with its people, is yet ignorant of some of the +fine forms and conventions of Civilisation. He +does not know that fashionable folk, or those aping +the dear fashionable folk, have a right to assert their +superiority at his expense.––I do not care to see you, +but I will send a messenger and card to do so for me. +You are not my equal, and I will let you know this, +even at the hour of your departure, and though I have +to hire a messenger to do so.––Is there no taste, no +feeling, no gratitude in this? Don’t you wish, O +Shakib,––but compose yourself. And think not so ill +of your Jewish landlord, whom you wish you could +wrap in that rug and throw overboard. He certainly +meant well. That formula of card and messenger is +so convenient and so cheap. Withal, is he not too +busy, think you, to come up to the dock for the puerile, +prosaic purpose of shaking hands and saying ta-ta? +If you can not consider the matter in this light, try to +forget it. One must not be too visceral at the hour of +departure. Behold, your skyscrapers and your Statue +of Liberty are now receding from view; and your +landlord and his card and messenger will be further +from us every while we think of them, until, thanks to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span> +Time and Space and Steam! they will be too far away +to be remembered.</p> +<p>Here, then, with our young Seer and our Scribe, +we bid New York farewell, and earnestly hope that +we do not have to return to it again, or permit any +of them to do so. In fact, we shall not hereafter consider, +with any ulterior material or spiritual motive, +any more of such disparaging, denigrating matter, in +the two MSS. before us, as has to pass through our reluctant +hands “touchin’ on and appertainin’ to” the +great City of Manhattan and its distinguished +denizens. For our part, we have had enough of this +painful task. And truly, we have never before undergone +such trials in sailing between––but that +Charybdis and Scylla allusion has been done to death. +Indeed, we love America, and in the course of our +present task, which we also love, we had to suffer +Khalid’s shafts to pass through our ken and sometimes +really through our heart. But no more of this. Ay, +we would fain set aside our pen from sheer weariness +of spirit and bid the Reader, too, farewell. Truly, we +would end here this Book of Khalid were it not that +the greater part of the most important material in the +K. L. MS. is yet intact, and the more interesting portion +of Shakib’s History is yet to come. Our readers, +though we do not think they are sorry for having come +out with us so far, are at liberty either to continue +with us, or say good-bye. But for the Editor there is +no choice. What we have begun we must end, unmindful +of the influence, good or ill, of the Zodiacal +Signs under which we work. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span></p> +<p>“Our Phœnician ancestors,” says Khalid, “never +left anything they undertook unfinished. Consider +what they accomplished in their days, and the degree +of culture they attained. The most beautiful fabrications +in metals and precious stones were prepared in +Syria. Here, too, the most important discoveries were +made: namely, those of glass and purple. As for me, +I can not understand what the Murex trunculus is; +and I am not certain if scholars and archæologists, or +even mariners and fishermen, will ever find a fossil +of that particular species. But murex or no murex, +Purple was discovered by my ancestors. Hence the +purple passion, that is to say the energy and intensity +which coloured everything they did, everything they +felt and believed. For whether in bemoaning Tammuz, +or in making tear-bottles, or in trading with the +Gauls and Britons, the Phœnicians were the same +superstitious, honest, passionate, energetic people. +And do not forget, you who are now enjoying the +privilege of setting down your thoughts in words, that +on these shores of Syria written language received its +first development.</p> +<p>“It is also said that they discovered and first navigated +the Atlantic Ocean, my Phœnicians; that they +worked gold mines in the distant isle of Thasos and +opened silver mines in the South and Southwest of +Spain. In Africa, we know, they founded the colonies +of Utica and Carthage. But we are told they went +farther than this. And according to some historians, +they rounded the Cape, they circumnavigated Africa. +And according to recent discoveries made by an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span> +American archæologist, they must have discovered +America too! For in the ruins of the Aztecs of +Mexico there are traces of a Phœnician language and +religion. This, about the discovery of America, however, +I can not verify with anything from Sanchuniathon. +But might they not have made this discovery +after the said Sanchuniathon had given up the ghost? +And if they did, what can We, their worthless descendants +do for them now? Ah, if we but knew the +name of their Columbus! No, it is not practical to +build a monument to a whole race of people. And +yet, they deserve more than this from us, their descendants.</p> +<p>“These dealers in tin and amber, these manufacturers +of glass and purple, these developers of a written +language, first gave the impetus to man’s activity and +courage and intelligence. And this activity of the industry +and will is not dead in man. It may be dead +in us Syrians, but not in the Americans. In their +strenuous spirit it rises uppermost. After all, I must +love the Americans, for they are my Phœnician ancestors +incarnate. Ay, there is in the nature of things a +mysterious recurrence which makes for a continuous, +everlasting modernity. And I believe that the spirit +which moved those brave sea-daring navigators of yore, +is still working lustily, bravely, but alas, not joyously––bitterly, +rather, selfishly, greedily––behind the +steam engine, the electric motor, the plough, and in the +clinic and the studio as in the Stock Exchange. That +spirit in its real essence, however, is as young, as puissant +to-day as it was when the native of Byblus first +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span> +struck out to explore the seas, to circumnavigate +Africa, to discover even America!”</p> +<p>And what in the end might Khalid discover for us +or for himself, at least, in his explorations of the +Spirit-World? What Colony of the chosen sons of +the young and puissant Spirit, on some distant isle beyond +the seven seas, might he found? To what far, +silent, undulating shore, where “a written language is +the instrument only of the lofty expressions and aspirations +of the soul” might he not bring us? What +Cape of Truth in the great Sea of Mystery might we +not be able to circumnavigate, if only this were possible +of the language of man?</p> +<p>“Not with glass,” he exclaims, “not with tear-bottles, +not with purple, not with a written language, +am I now concerned, but rather with what those in +Purple and those who make this written language their +capital, can bring within our reach of the treasures +of the good, the true, and the beautiful. I would fain +find a land where the soul of man, and the heart of +man, and the mind of man, are as the glass of my ancestors’ +tear-bottles in their enduring quality and +beauty. My ancestors’ tear-bottles, and though buried +in the earth ten thousand years, lose not a grain of +their original purity and transparency, of their soft and +iridescent colouring. But where is the natural colour +and beauty of these human souls, buried in bunks under +hatches? Or of those moving in high-lacquered salons +above?...</p> +<p>“O my Brothers of the clean and unclean species, +of the scented and smelling kind, of the have and have-not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span> +classes, there is but one star in this vague dusky +sky above us, for you as for myself. And that star +is either the last in the eternal darkness, or the first +in the rising dawn. It is either the first or the last +star of night. And who shall say which it is? Not +the Church, surely, nor the State; not Science, nor +Sociology, nor Philosophy, nor Religion. But the human +will shall influence that star and make it yield +its secret and its fire. Each of you, O my Brothers, +can make it light his own hut, warm his own heart, +guide his own soul. Never before in the history of +man did it seem as necessary as it does now that each +individual should think for himself, will for himself, +and aspire incessantly for the realisation of his ideals +and dreams. Yes, we are to-day at a terrible and +glorious turning point, and it depends upon us whether +that one star in the vague and dusky sky of modern +life, shall be the harbinger of Jannat or Juhannam.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL' id='CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>PRIESTO-PARENTAL</h3> +</div> +<p>If we remember that the name of Khalid’s cousin +is Najma (Star), the significance to himself of +the sign spoken of in the last Chapter, is quite evident. +But what it means to others remains to be seen. His +one star, however, judging from his month’s experience +in Baalbek, is not promising of Jannat. For +many things, including parental tyranny and priestcraft +and Jesuitism, will here conspire against the +single blessedness of him, which is now seeking to +double itself.</p> +<p>“Where one has so many Fathers,” he writes, +“and all are pretending to be the guardians of his +spiritual and material well-being, one ought to renounce +them all at once. It was not with a purpose +to rejoin my folk that I first determined to return to +my native country. For, while I believe in the +Family, I hate Familism, which is the curse of the +human race. And I hate this spiritual Fatherhood +when it puts on the garb of a priest, the three-cornered +hat of a Jesuit, the hood of a monk, the gaberdine of a +rabbi, or the jubbah of a sheikh. The sacredness of +the Individual, not of the Family or the Church, do +I proclaim. For Familism, or the propensity to keep +under the same roof, as a social principle, out of fear, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span> +ignorance, cowardice, or dependence, is, I repeat, the +curse of the world. Your father is he who is friendly +and reverential to the higher being in you; your +brothers are those who can appreciate the height and +depth of your spirit, who hearken to you, and believe +in you, if you have any truth to announce to them. +Surely, one’s value is not in his skin that you should +touch him. Are there any two individuals more closely +related than mother and son? And yet, when +I Khalid embrace my mother, mingling my tears with +hers, I feel that my soul is as distant from her own +as is Baalbek from the Dog-star. And so I say, this +attempt to bind together under the principle of Familism +conflicting spirits, and be it in the name of love +or religion or anything else more or less sacred, is in +itself a very curse, and should straightway end. It +will end, as far as I am concerned. And thou my +Brother, whether thou be a son of the Morning or of +the Noontide or of the Dusk,––whether thou be a +Japanese or a Syrian or a British man––if thou art +likewise circumstanced, thou shouldst do the same, not +only for thine own sake, but for the sake of thy family +as well.”</p> +<p>No; Khalid did not find that wholesome plant of +domestic peace in his mother’s Nursery. He found +noxious weeds, rather, and brambles galore. And +they were planted there, not by his father or mother, +but by those who have a lien upon the souls of these +poor people. For the priest here is no peeled, +polished affair, but shaggy, scrubby, terrible, forbidding. +And with a word he can open yet, for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span> +such as Khalid’s folk, the gate which Peter keeps or +the other on the opposite side of the Universe. +Khalid must beware, therefore, how he conducts himself +at home and abroad, and how, in his native town, +he delivers his mind on sacred things, and profane. +In New York, for instance, or in Turabu for that +matter, he could say in plain forthright speech what +he thought of Family, Church or State, and no one +would mind him. But where these Institutions are +the rottenest existing he will be minded too well, and +reminded, too, of the fate of those who preceded +him.</p> +<p>The case of Habib Ish-Shidiak at Kannubin is not +yet forgotten. And Habib, be it known, was only a +poor Protestant neophite who took pleasure in carrying +a small copy of the Bible in his hip pocket, and +was just learning to roll his eyes in the pulpit +and invoke the “laud.” But Khalid, everybody out-protesting, +is such an intractable pro<i>test</i>ant, with, +neither Bible in his pocket nor pulpit at his service. +And yet, with a flint on his tongue and a spark in +his eyes, he will make the neophite Habib smile beside +him. For the priesthood in Syria is not, as we have +said, a peeled, polished, pulpy affair. And Khalid’s +father has been long enough in their employ to learn +somewhat of their methods. Bigotry, cruelty, and +tyranny at home, priestcraft and Jesuitism abroad,––these, +O Khalid, you will know better by force of +contact before you end. And you will begin to pine +again for your iron-loined spiritual Mother. Ay, and +the scelerate Jesuit will even make capital of your +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span> +mass of flowing hair. For in this country, only the +native priests are privileged to be shaggy and scrubby +and still be without suspicion. But we will let +Shakib give us a few not uninteresting details of the +matter.</p> +<p>“Not long after we had rejoined our people,” he +writes, “Khalid comes to me with a sorry tale. In +truth, a fortnight after our arrival in Baalbek––our +civility towards new comers seldom enjoys a longer +lease––the town was alive with rumours and whim-whams +about my friend. And whereso I went, I was +not a little annoyed with the tehees and grunts which +his name seemed to invoke. The women often came to +his mother to inquire in particular why he grows his +hair and shaves his mustaches; the men would speak +to his father about the change in his accent and manners; +the children teheed and tittered whenever he +passed through the town-square; and all were of one +mind that Khalid was a worthless fellow, who had +brought nothing with him from the Paradise of the +New World but his cough and his fleece. Such tattle +and curiosity, however, no matter what degree of +savage vulgarity they reach, are quite harmless. But +I felt somewhat uneasy about him, when I heard the +people asking each other, “Why does he not come to +Church like honest folks?” And soon I discovered +that my apprehensions were well grounded; for the +questioning was noised at Khalid’s door, and the fire +crackled under the roof within. The father commands; +the mother begs; the father objurgates, +threatens, curses his son’s faith; and the mother, prostrating +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span> +herself before the Virgin, weeps, and prays, +and beats her breast. Alas, and my Khalid? he +goes out on the terrace to search in the Nursery for +his favourite Plant. No, he does not find it; +brambles are there and noxious weeds galore. The +thorny, bitter reality he must now face, and, by +reason of his lack of savoir-faire, be ultimately out-faced +by it. For the upshot of the many quarrels he +had with his father, the prayers and tears of the +mother not availing, was nothing more or less than +banishment. You will either go to Church like myself, +or get out of this house: this the ultimatum of +Abu-Khalid. And needless to say which alternative +the son chose.</p> +<p>“I still remember how agitated he was when he +came to tell me of the fatal breach. His words, +which drew tears from my eyes, I remember too. +‘Homeless I am again,’ said he, ‘but not friendless. +For besides Allah, I have you.––Oh, this straitness +of the chest is going to kill me. I feel that my windpipe +is getting narrower every day. At least, my +father is doing his mighty best to make things so hard +and strait.––Yes, I would have come now to bid you +farewell, were it not that I still have in this town some +important business. In the which I ask your help. +You know what it is. I have often spoken to you +about my cousin Najma, the one star in my sky. +And now, I would know what is its significance to +me. No, I can not leave Baalbek, I can not do anything, +until that star unfolds the night or the dawn +of my destiny. And you Shakib––’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span></p> +<p>“Of course, I promised to do what I could for +him. I offered him such cheer and comfort as my +home could boast of, which he would not accept. He +would have only my terrace roof on which to build +a booth of pine boughs, and spread in it a few straw +mats and cushions. But I was disappointed in my +calculations; for in having him thus near me again, +I had hoped to prevail upon him for his own good +to temper his behaviour, to conform a little, to concede +somewhat, while he is among his people. But +virtually he did not put up with me. He ate outside; +he spent his days I know not where; and when +he did come to his booth, it was late in the night. I +was informed later that one of the goatherds saw +him sleeping in the ruined Temple near Ras’ul-Ain. +And the muazzen who sleeps in the Mosque adjacent +to the Temple of Venus gave out that one night he +saw him with a woman in that very place.”</p> +<p>A woman with Khalid, and in the Temple of +Venus at night? Be not too quick, O Reader, to +suspect and contemn; for the Venus-worship is not +reinstated in Baalbek. No tryst this, believe us, but +a scene pathetic, more sacred. Not Najma this +questionable companion, but one as dear to Khalid. +Ay, it is his mother come to seek him here. And she +begs him, in the name of the Virgin, to return home, +and try to do the will of his father. She beats her +breast, weeps, prostrates herself before him, beseeches, +implores, cries out, ‘dakhilak (I am at your +mercy), come home with me.’ And Khalid, taking her +up by the arm, embraces her and weeps, but says not a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span> +word. As two statues in the Temple, silent as an +autumn midnight, they remain thus locked in each +other’s arms, sobbing, mingling their sighs and tears. +The mother then, ‘Come, come home with me, O my +child.’ And Khalid, sitting on one of the steps of +the Temple, replies, ‘Let him move out of the house, +and I will come. I will live with you, if he will +keep at the <ins class="trchange" title="Removed closing double-quote">Jesuits.’</ins></p> +<p>For Khalid begins to suspect that the Jesuits are +the cause of his banishment from home, that his +father’s religious ferocity is fuelled and fanned by +these good people. One day, before Khalid was +banished, Shakib tells us, one of them, Father +Farouche by name, comes to pay a visit of courtesy, +and finds Khalid sitting cross-legged on a mat writing +a letter.</p> +<p>The Padre is received by Khalid’s mother who +takes his hand, kisses it, and offers him the seat +of honour on the divan. Khalid continues writing. +And after he had finished, he turns round in his +cross-legged posture and greets his visitor. Which +greeting is surely to be followed by a conversation of +the sword-and-shield kind.</p> +<p>“How is your health?” this from Father Farouche +in miserable Arabic.</p> +<p>“As you see: I breathe with an effort, and can +hardly speak.”</p> +<p>“But the health of the body is nothing compared +with the health of the soul.”</p> +<p>“I know that too well, O Reverend” (Ya +Muhtaram). +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span></p> +<p>“And one must have recourse to the physician +in both instances.”</p> +<p>“I do not believe in physicians, O Reverend.”</p> +<p>“Not even the physician of the soul?”</p> +<p>“You said it, O Reverend.”</p> +<p>The mother of Khalid serves the coffee, and whispers +to her son a word. Whereupon Khalid rises +and sits on the divan near the Padre.</p> +<p>“But one must follow the religion of one’s father,” +the Jesuit resumes.</p> +<p>“When one’s father has a religion, yes; but +when he curses the religion of his son for not being +ferociously religious like himself––”</p> +<p>“But a father must counsel and guide his children.”</p> +<p>“Let the mother do that. Hers is the purest +and most disinterested spirit of the two.”</p> +<p>“Then, why not obey your mother, and––”</p> +<p>Khalid suppresses his anger.</p> +<p>“My mother and I can get along without the +interference of our neighbours.”</p> +<p>“Yes, truly. But you will find great solace in +going to Church and ceasing your doubts.”</p> +<p>Khalid rises indignant.</p> +<p>“I only doubt the Pharisees, O Reverend, and +their Church I would destroy to-day if I could.”</p> +<p>“My child––”</p> +<p>“Here is your hat, O Reverend, and pardon +me––you see, I can hardly speak, I can hardly +breathe. Good day.”</p> +<p>And he walks out of the house, leaving Father +Farouche to digest his ire at his ease, and to wonder, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span> +with his three-cornered hat in hand, at the savage demeanour +of the son of their pious porter. “Your +son,” addressing the mother as he stands under the +door-lintel, “is not only an infidel, but he is also +crazy. And for such wretches there is an asylum +here and a Juhannam hereafter.”</p> +<p>And the poor mother, her face suffused with tears, +prostrates herself before the Virgin, praying, beating +her breast, invoking with her tongue and hand and +heart; while Farouche returns to his coop to hatch +under his three-cornered hat, the famous Jesuit-egg +of intrigue. That hat, which can outwit the monk’s +hood and the hundred fabled devils under it, that +hat, with its many gargoyles, a visible symbol of the +leaky conscience of the Jesuit, that hat, O Khalid, +which you would have kicked out of your house, has +eventually succeeded in ousting YOU, and will do +its mighty best yet to send you to the Bosphorus. Indeed, +to serve their purpose, these honest servitors of +Jesus will even act as spies to the criminal Government +of Abd’ul-Hamid. Read Shakib’s account.</p> +<p>“About a fortnight after Khalid’s banishment from +home,” he writes, “a booklet was published in Beirut, +setting forth the history of Ignatius Loyola and +the purports and intents of Jesuitism. On the cover +it was expressly declared that the booklet is translated +from the English, and the Jesuits, who are noted +for their scholarly attainments, could have discovered +this for themselves without the explicit declaration. +But they did not deem it necessary to make such a +discovery then. It seemed rather imperative to maintain +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span> +the contrary and try to prove it. Now, Khalid +having received a copy of this booklet from a friend +in Beirut, reads it and writes back, saying that it +is not a translation but a mutilation, rather, of one +of Thomas Carlyle’s Latter-Day Pamphlets entitled +<i>Jesuitism</i>. This letter must have reached them +together with Father Farouche’s report on Khalid’s +infidelity, just about the time the booklet was circulating +in Baalbek. For in the following Number of +their <i>Weekly Journal</i> an article, stuffed and padded +with execrations and anathema, is published against +the book and its anonymous author. From this I +quote the following, which is by no means the most +erring and most poisonous of their shafts.</p> +<p>“‘Such a Pamphlet,’ exclaims the scholarly Jesuit +Editor, ‘was never written by Thomas Carlyle, as +some here, from ignorance or malice, assert. For that +philosopher, of all the thinkers of his day, believed +in God and in the divinity of Jesus His Son, and +could never descend to these foul and filthy depths. +He never soiled his pen in the putrescence of falsehood +and incendiarism. The author of this blasphemous +and pernicious Pamphlet, therefore, in trying to +father his infidelity, his sedition, and his lies, on Carlyle, +is doubly guilty of a most heinous crime. And +we suspect, we know, and for the welfare of the community +we hope to be able soon to point out openly, +who and where this vile one is. Yes, only an atheist +and anarchist is capable of such villainous mendacity, +such unutterable wickedness and treachery. Now, +we would especially call upon our readers in Baalbek +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span> +to be watchful and vigilant, for among them is one, +recently come back from America, who harbours under +his bushy hair the atheism and anarchy of decadent +Europe, etc, etc.’</p> +<p>“And this is followed by secret orders from their +Head Office to the Superior of their Branch in Zahleh, +to go on with the work hinted in the article aforesaid. +Let it not be supposed that I make this statement +in jaundice or malice. For the man who was +instigated to do this foul work subsequently sold the +secret. And the Kaimkam, my friend, when speaking +to me of the matter, referred to the article in +question, and told me that Khalid was denounced to +the Government by the Jesuits as an anarchist. ‘And +lest I be compelled,’ he continued, ‘to execute such +orders in his case as I might receive any day, I advise +you to spirit him away at once.’”</p> +<p>But though the Jesuits have succeeded in kicking +Khalid out of his home, they did not succeed, thanks +to Shakib, in sending him to the Bosphorus. Meanwhile, +they sit quiet, hatching another egg.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES' id='CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>FLOUNCES AND RUFFLES</h3> +</div> +<p>Now, that there is a lull in the machinations of +Jesuitry, we shall turn a page or two in Shakib’s +account of the courting of Khalid. And apparently +everything is propitious. The fates, at least, in the +beginning, are not unkind. For the feud between +Khalid’s father and uncle shall now help to forward +Khalid’s love-affair. Indeed, the father of Najma, +to spite his brother, opens to the banished nephew his +door and blinks at the spooning which follows. And +such an interminable yarn our Scribe spins out about +it, that Khalid and Najma do seem the silliest +lackadaisical spoonies under the sun. But what we +have evolved from the narration might have for our +readers some curious alien phase of interest.</p> +<p>Here then are a few beads from Shakib’s romantic +string. When Najma cooks <i>mojadderah</i> for her +father, he tells us, she never fails to come to the booth +of pine boughs with a platter of it. And this to +Khalid was very manna. For never, while supping +on this single dish, would he dream of the mensal +and kitchen luxuries of the Hermitage in Bronx Park. +In fact, he never envied the pork-eating Americans, +the beef-eating English, or the polyphagic French. +“Here is a dish of lentils fit for the gods,” he would +say.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span></p> +<p>When Najma goes to the spring for water, Khalid +chancing to meet her, takes the jar from her shoulder, +saying, “Return thou home; I will bring thee +water.” And straightway to the spring hies he, +where the women there gathered fill his ears with +tittering, questioning tattle as he is filling his jar. “I +wish I were Najma,” says one, as he passes by, the +jar of water on his shoulder. “Would you cement +his brain, if you were?” puts in another. And thus +would they gibe and joke every time Khalid came to +the spring with Najma’s jar....</p> +<p>One day he comes to his uncle’s house and finds +his betrothed ribboning and beading some new lingerie +for her rich neighbour’s daughter. He sits +down and helps her in the work, writing meanwhile, +between the acts, an alphabetic ideology on Art and +Life. But as they are beading the vests and skirts +and other articles of richly laced linen underwear, +Najma holds up one of these and naïvely asks, “Am +I not to have some such, <i>ya habibi</i> (O my Love)?” +And Khalid, affecting like bucolic innocence, replies, +“What do we need them for, my heart?” With +which counter-question Najma is silenced, convinced.</p> +<p>Finally, to show to what degree of ecstasy they had +soared without searing their wings or losing a single +feather thereof, the following deserves mention. In +the dusk one day, Khalid visits Najma and finds her +oiling and lighting the lamp. As she beholds him under +the door-lintel, the lamp falls from her hands, the +kerosene blazes on the floor, and the straw mat takes +fire. They do not heed this––they do not see it––they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span> +are on the wings of an ecstatic embrace. And +the father, chancing to arrive in the nick of time, with +a curse and a cuff, saves them and his house from the +conflagration.</p> +<p>Aside from these curious and not insignificant instances, +these radiations of a giddy hidden flame of +heart-fire, this melting gum of spooning on the bark +of the tree of love, we turn to a scene in the Temple +of Venus which unfolds our future plans––our +hopes and dreams. But we feel that the Reader is +beginning to hanker for a few pieces of description of +Najma’s charms. Gentle Reader, this Work is +neither a Novel, nor a Passport. And we are exceeding +sorry we can not tell you anything about the +colour and size of Najma’s eyes; the shape and curves +of her brows and lips; the tints and shades in her +cheeks; and the exact length of her figure and hair. +Shakib leaves us in the dark about these essentials, +and we must needs likewise leave you. Our Scribe +thinks he has said everything when he speaks of her +as a huri. But this paradisal title among our Arabic +writers and verse-makers is become worse than the +Sultan’s Medjidi decorations. It is bestowed alike on +every drab and trollop as on the very few who really +deserve it. Let us rank it, therefore, with the +Medjidi decorations and pass on.</p> +<p>But Khalid, who has seen enough of the fair, would +not be attracted to Najma, enchanted by her, if she +were not endowed with such of the celestial treasures +as rank above the visible lines of beauty. Our Scribe +speaks of the “purity and naïvete of her soul as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span> +purest sources of felicity and inspiration.” Indeed, if +she were not constant in love, she would not have +spurned the many opportunities in the absence of +Khalid; and had she not a fine discerning sense of +real worth, she would not have surrendered herself to +her poor ostracised cousin; and if she were not intuitively, +preternaturally wise, she would not marry an +enemy of the Jesuits, a bearer withal of infiltrated +lungs and a shrunken windpipe. “There is a great +advantage in having a sickly husband,” she once said +to Shakib, “it lessons a woman in the heavenly virtues +of our Virgin Mother, in patient endurance and +pity, in charity, magnanimity, and pure love.” What, +with these sublimities of character, need we know of +her visible charms, or lack of them? She might deserve +the title Shakib bestows upon her; she might be +a real huri, for all we know? In that event, the outward +charms correspond, and Khalid is a lucky dog––if +some one can keep the Jesuits away.</p> +<p>This, then, is our picture of Najma, to whom he is +now relating, in the Temple of Venus, of the dangers +he had passed and the felicities of the beduin life he +has in view. It is evening. The moon struggles +through the poplars to light the Temple for them, and +the ambrosial breeze caresses their cheeks.</p> +<p>“No,” says Khalid; “we can not live here, O my +Heart, after we are formally married. The curse in +my breast I must not let you share, and only when I +am rid of it am I actually your husband. By the life +of this blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am +inalterably resolved on this, and I shall abide by my +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span> +resolution. We must leave Baalbek as soon as the +religious formalities are done. And I wish your +father would have them performed under his roof. +That is as good as going to Church to be the central +figures of the mummery of priests. But be this as +You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether +by your father or by gibbering Levites the ceremony +is performed, we must hie us to the desert after it is +done. I shall hire the camels and prepare the necessary +set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No, +I must not be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be +able to work for you as for myself. And Allah +alone, through the ministration of his great Handmaid +Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you +the joys of life. No, not before I am cured, can I +give you my whole self, can I call myself your husband. +Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis in its +very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels +and establish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even +build you a little home like your own. And you will +be to me an aura of health, which I shall breathe with +the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our love +shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of +disease. Meanwhile, we shall buy with what money +I have a little patch of ground which we shall cultivate +together. And we shall own cattle and drink +camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in +the cool shade of the palms, and in the evening, wrapt +in our cloaks, we’ll sleep on the sands under the living +stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the harbinger +of dawn to Khalid.––Out on that little farm in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span> +oasis of our desert, far from the world and the sanctified +abominations of the world, we shall live near to +Allah a life of purest joy, of true happiness. We +shall never worry about the hopes of to-morrow and +the gone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while +labouring, dream of rest, nor shall we give a thought +to our tasks while drinking of the cup of repose: each +hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The trials +and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun, +never to rise with him again. But I am unkind to +speak of this. For your glances banish care, and we +shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and when I +take up the lute in the evening, you’ll sing <i>mulayiah</i> +to me, and the stars above us shall dance, and the +desert breeze shall house us in its whispers of +love....”</p> +<p>And thus interminably, while Najma, understanding +little of all this, sits beside him on a fallen column +in the Temple and punctuates his words with assenting +exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder. +“But we are not going to live in the desert all the +time, are we?” she asks.</p> +<p>“No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness +we shall return to Baalbek, if you like.”</p> +<p>“Eigh, good. Now, I want to say––no. I +shame to speak about such matters.”</p> +<p>“Speak, <i>ya Gazalty</i> (O my Doe or Dawn or +both); your words are like the scented breeze, like +the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this Temple +without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined +Temple of thine.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span></p> +<p>“How sweet are Your words, but really I +can not understand them. They are like the <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins> +my father brought with him once from Damascus. +One eats and exclaims, ‘How delicious!’ +But one never knows how they are made, and what +they are made of. I wish I could speak like you, +<i>ya habibi</i>. I would not shame to say then what I +want.”</p> +<p>“Say what you wish. My heart is open, and your +words are silvery moonbeams.”</p> +<p>“Do not blame me then. I am so simple, you +know, so foolish. And I would like to know if you +are going to Church on our wedding day in the +clothes you have on now.”</p> +<p>“Not if you object to them, my Heart.”</p> +<p>“Eigh, good! And must I come in my ordinary +Sunday dress? It is so plain; it has not a single +ruffle to it.”</p> +<p>“And what are ruffles for?”</p> +<p>“I never saw a bride in a plain gown; they all +have ruffles and flounces to them. And when I look +at your lovely hair––O let people say what they +like! A gown without ruffles is ugly.––So, you will +buy me a sky-blue silk dress, <i>ya habibi</i> and a pink one, +too, with plenty of ruffles on them? Will you not?”</p> +<p>“Yes, my Heart, you shall have what you desire. +But in the desert you can not wear these dresses. +The Arabs will laugh at you. For the women there +wear only plain muslin dipped in indigo.”</p> +<p>“Then, I will have but one dress of sky-blue silk +for the wedding.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span></p> +<p>“Certainly, my Heart. And the ruffles shall be +as many and as long as you desire them.”</p> +<p>And while the many-ruffled sky-blue dress is being +made, Khalid, inspired by Najma’s remarks on his hair, +rhapsodises on flounces and ruffles. Of this striking +piece of fantasy, in which are scintillations of the great +Truth, we note the following:</p> +<p>“What can you do without your flounces? How +can you live without your ruffles? Ay, how can you, +without them, think, speak, or work? How can you +eat, drink, walk, sleep, pray, worship, moralise, sentimentalise, +or love, without them? Are you not +ruffled and flounced when you first see the light, +ruffled and flounced when you last see the darkness? +The cradle and the tomb, are they not the first and +last ruffles of Man? And between them what a +panoramic display of flounces! What clean and attractive +visible Edges of unclean invisible common +Skirts! Look at your huge elaborate monuments, +your fancy sepulchers, what are they but the +ruffles of your triumphs and defeats? The marble +flounces, these, of your cemeteries, your Pantheons and +Westminster Abbeys. And what are your belfries +and spires and chimes, your altars and reredoses and +such like, but the sanctified flounces of your churches. +No, these are not wholly adventitious sanctities; not +empty, superfluous growths. They are incorporated +into Life by Time, and they grow in importance as our +Æsthetics become more inutile, as our Religions begin +to exude gum and pitch for commerce, instead of bearing +fruits of Faith and Love and Magnanimity. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span></p> +<p>“The first church was the forest; the first dome, the +welkin; the first altar, the sun. But that was, when +man went forth in native buff, brother to the lion, +not the ox, without ruffles and without faith. His +spirit, in the course of time, was born; it grew and +developed zenithward and nadirward, as the cycles +rolled on. And in spiritual pride, and pride of power +and wealth as well, it took to ruffling and flouncing +to such an extent that at certain epochs it disappeared, +dwindled into nothingness, and only the +appendages remained. These were significant appendages, +to be sure; not altogether adscititious. Ruffles +these, indeed, endowed, as it were, with life, and +growing on the dead Spirit, as the grass on the grave.</p> +<p>“And is it not noteworthy that our life terrene at +certain epochs seems to be made up wholly of these? +That as the great Pine falls, the noxious weeds, the +brambles and thorny bushes around it, grow quicker, +lustier, luxuriating on the vital stores in the earth +that were its own––is not this striking and perplexing, +my rational friends? Surely, Man is neither the +featherless biped of the Greek Philosopher, nor the +tool-using animal of the Sage of Chelsea. For animals, +too, have their tools, and man, in his visible +flounces, has feathers enough to make even a peacock +gape. Both my Philosophers have hit wide of the +mark this time. And Man, to my way of thinking, is +a flounce-wearing Spirit. Indeed, flounces alone, the +invisible ones in particular, distinguish us from the +beasts. For like ourselves they have their fashions in +clothes; their peculiar speech; their own hidden +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span> +means of intellection, and, to some extent, of imagination: +but flounces they have not, they know not. +These are luxuries, which Man alone enjoys.</p> +<p>“Ah, Man,––thou son and slave of Allah, according +to my Oriental Prophets of Heaven; thou exalted, +apotheosised ape, according to my Occidental Prophets +of Science;––how much thou canst suffer, how much +thou canst endure, under what pressure and in what +Juhannam depths thou canst live; but thy flounces +thou canst not dispense with for a day, nor for a single +one-twelfth part of a day. Even in thy suffering and +pain, the agonised spirit is wrapped, bandaged, +swathed in ruffles. It is assuaged with the flounces +of thy lady’s caresses, and the scalloped intonations of +her soft and soothing voice. It is humbugged into +health by the malodorous flounces of the apothecary +and the medicinal ruffles of the doctor.</p> +<p>“Ay, we live in a phantasmagoric, cycloramic economy +of flounces and ruffles. The human Spirit shirks +nudity as it shirks pain. Even your modern preacher +of the Simple Life is at best suggesting the moderate +use of ruffles.... Indeed, we can suffer anything, +everything, but the naked and ugly reality. +Alas, have I not listened for years to what I mistook +to be the strong, pure voice of the naked Truth? And +have I not discovered, to my astonishment, that the +supposed scientific Nudity is but an indurated thick +Crust under which the Lie lies hidden. Why strip +Man of his fancy appendages, his adventitious sanctities, +if you are going to give him instead only a few +yards of shoddy? No, I tell you; this can not be done. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span> +Your brambles and thorn hedges will continue to grow +and luxuriate, will even shut from your view the Temple +in the Grove, until the great Pine rises again to +stunt, and ultimately extirpate, them.</p> +<p>“Behold, meanwhile, how the world parades in ruffles +before us. What a bewildering phantasmagoria +this: a very Dress Ball of the human race. See them +pass: the Pope of Christendom, in his three hats and +heavy trailing gowns, blessing the air of heaven; the +priest, in his alb and chasuble, dispensing of the blessings +of the Pope; the judge, in his wig and bombazine, +endeavouring to reconcile divine justice with the law’s +mundane majesty; the college doctor, in cap and gown, +anointing the young princes of knowledge; the buffoon, +in his cap and bells, dancing to the god of laughter; +mylady of the pink-tea circle, in her huffing, puffing +gasoline-car, fleeing the monster of ennui; the bride +and bridegroom at the altar or before the mayor putting +on their already heavy-ruffled garments the sacred +ruffle of law or religion; the babe brought to church by +his mother and kindred to have the priest-tailor sew on +his new garment the ruffle of baptism; the soldier in +his gaudy uniform; the king in his ermine with a crown +and sceptre appended; the Nabob of Ind in his gorgeous +and multi-colored robes; and the Papuan with +horns in his nostrils and rings in his ears: see them all +pass.</p> +<p>“And wilt thou still add to the bewildering variety +of the pageant? Or wilt have another of the higher +things of the mind? Lo, the artist this, wearing his +ruffles of hair over his shoulders; and here, too, is the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span> +man of the sombrero and red flannel, which are the +latest flounces of a certain set of New World poets. +Directly behind them is Dame Religion with her heavy +ruffled robes, her beribboned and belaced bodices, her +ornaments and sacred gewgaws. And billah, she has +stuffings and paddings, too. And false teeth and foul +breath! Never mind. Pass on, and let her pass. But +tarry thou a moment here. Behold this pyrotechnic +display, these buntings and flags; hear thou this music +and these shouts and cheers; on yonder stump is an +orator dispensing to his fellow citizens spread-eagle +rhetoric as empty as yonder drum: these are the elaborate +and attractive ruffles of politics. And among +the crowd are genial and honest citizens who have their +own way of ruffling your temper with their coarse +flounces of linsey-woolsey freedom. Wilt thou have +more?”</p> +<p>Decidedly not, we reply. For how can we even +keep company with Khalid, who has become such a +maniac on flounces? And was this fantastic, phantasmagoric +rhapsody all inspired by Najma’s simple +remark on his hair? Fruitful is thy word, O woman!</p> +<p>But being so far away now from the Hermitage in +the Bronx, what has the “cherry in the cocktail” and +“the olive in the oyster patty” to do with all this? +Howbeit, the following deserves a place as the tail-flounce +of his Fantasy.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“Your superman and superwoman,” says he, with +philosophic calm, “may go Adam-and-Eve like if +they choose. But can they, even in that chaste and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span> +splendid nudity, dispense with ruffles and flounces? +Pray, tell me, did not our first parents spoon and +sentimentalise in the Paradise, before the Serpent +appeared? And would they not often whisper unto +each other, ‘Ah, Adam, ah, <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing single-quote">Eve!’</ins> sighing likewise +for sweeter things? And what about those fatal +Apples, those two sour fruits of their Love?––I tell +thee every new-born babe is the magnificent flesh-flounce +of a shivering, trembling, nudity. And I +Khalid, what am I but the visible ruffle of an invisible +skirt? Verily, I am; and thou, too, my Brother. +Yea, and this aquaterrestrial globe and these sidereal +heavens are the divine flounces of the Vesture of +Allah.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD' id='CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3>THE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD</h3> +</div> +<p>“Humanity is so feeble in mind,” says Renan, +“that the purest thing has need of the co-operation +of some impure agent.” And this, we think, +is the gist of Khalid’s rhapsody on flounces and +ruffles. But how is he to reconcile the fact with +the truth in his case? For a single sanctified ruffle––a +line of type in the canon law––is likely to upset +all his plans. Yes, a priest in alb and chasuble +not only can dispense with the blessings of his Pope, +but––and here is the rub––he can also withhold +such blessings from Khalid. And now, do what he +may, say what he might, he must either revise his +creed, or behave, at least, like a Christian.</p> +<p>Everything is ready, you say? The sky-blue, +many-ruffled wedding gown; the set-out for the wayfare; +the camel and donkeys; the little stock of books; +the coffee utensils; the lentils and sweet oil;––all +ready? Very well; but you can not set forth to-morrow, +nor three weeks from to-morrow. Indeed, +before the priest can give you his blessings––and +what at this juncture can you do without them?––the +dispensations of the ban must be performed. In +other words, your case must now be laid before the +community. Every Sunday, for three such to come, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span> +the intended marriage of Khalid to Najma will be +published in the Church, and whoso hath any objection +to make can come forth and make it. Moreover, +there is that little knot of consanguinity to be considered. +And your priest is good enough to come and +explain this to you. Understand him well. “An +alm of a few gold pieces,” says he, “will remove the +obstacle; the unlawfulness of your marriage resulting +from consanguinity will cease on payment of five hundred +piasters.”</p> +<p>All of which startles Khalid, stupefies him. He had +not, heretofore, thought of such a matter. Indeed, he +was totally ignorant of these forms, these prohibitions +and exemptions of the Church. And the father of +Najma, though assenting, remarks nevertheless that +the alms demanded are much. “Why,” exclaims +Khalid, “I can build a house for five hundred +piasters.”</p> +<p>The priest sits down cross-legged on the divan, +lights the cigarette which Najma had offered with +the coffee, and tries to explain.</p> +<p>“And where have you this, O Reverend, about +consanguinity, prohibition, and alms!” Khalid asks.</p> +<p>“Why, my child, in the Canons of our Church, +Catholic and Apostolic. Every one knows that a +marriage between cousins can not be effected, without +the sanction of the Bishop.”</p> +<p>“But can we not obtain this sanction without paying +for it?”</p> +<p>“You are not paying for it, my child; you +are only contributing some alms to the Church.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span></p> +<p>“You come to us, therefore, as a beggar, not as +a spiritual father and guide.”</p> +<p>“That is not good speaking. You misunderstand +my purpose.”</p> +<p>“And pray, tell me, what is the purpose of prohibiting +a marriage between cousins; what chief good +is there in such a ban?”</p> +<p>“Much good for the community.”</p> +<p>“But I have nothing to do with the community. +I’m going to live with my wife in the desert.”</p> +<p>“The good of your souls is chiefly concerned.”</p> +<p>“Ah, the good of our souls!”</p> +<p>“And there are other reasons which can not be +freely spoken of here.”</p> +<p>“You mean the restriction and prohibition of +sexual knowledge between relatives. That is very +well. But let us return to what concerns us +properly: the good of my soul, and the spiritual well-being +of the community,––what becomes of these, +when I pay the prescribed alms and obtain the sanction +of the Bishop?”</p> +<p>“No harm then can come to them––they’ll be +secure.”</p> +<p>“Secure, you say? Are they not hazarded, sold +by your Church for five hundred piasters? If my +marriage to my cousin be wrong, unlawful, your +Bishop in sanctioning same is guilty of perpetuating +this wrong, this unlawfulness, is he not?”</p> +<p>“But what the Church binds only the Church can +loosen.”</p> +<p>“And what is the use of binding, O Reverend +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span> +Father, when a little sum of money can loosen anything +you bind? It seems to me that these prohibitions +of the Church are only made for the purpose of +collecting alms. In other words, you bind for the +sake of loosening, when a good bait is on the hook, do +you not? Pardon, O my Reverend Father, pardon. I +can not, to save my soul and yours, reconcile these +contradictions. For if Mother Church be certain +that my marriage to my cousin is contrary to the Law +of God, is destructive of my spiritual well-being, then +let her by all means prohibit it. Let her restrain me, +compel me to obey. Ay, and the police ought to interfere +in case of disobedience. In her behalf, in +my behalf, in the behalf of my cousin’s soul and mine, +the police ought to do the will of God, if the Church +knows what it is, and is certain and honest about +it. Compel me to stop, I conjure you, if you know +I am going in the way of damnation. O my Father, +what sort of a mother is she who would sell two of +her children to the devil for a few hundred piasters? +No, billah! no. What is unlawful by virtue of the +Divine Law the wealth of all the Trust-Kings of +America can not make lawful. And what is so +by virtue of your Canon Law concerns not me. You +may angle, you and your Church, as long as you +please in the murky, muddy waters of Bind-and-Loosen, +I have nothing to do with you.”...</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>But the priests, O Khalid, have yet a little to do +with you. Such arguments about the Divine Law +and the Canon Law, about alms and spiritual beggars, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span> +might cut the Gordian knot with your uncle, but––and +whether it be good or bad English, we say it––they +cut no ice with the Church. Yes, Mother +Church, under whose wings you and your cousin +were born and bred, and under whose wings you and +your cousin would be married, can not take off for the +sweet sake of your black eyes the ruffles and flounces +of twenty centuries. Think well on it, you who have +so extravagantly and not unwisely delivered yourself +on flounces and ruffles. But to think, when in love, +were, indeed, disastrous. O Love, Love, what +Camels of wisdom thou canst force to pass through +the needle’s eye! What miracles divine are thine! +Khalid himself says that to be truly, deeply, piously +in love, one must needs hate himself. How true, +how inexorably true! For would he be always inviting +trouble and courting affliction, would he be +always bucking against the dead wall of a Democracy +or a Church, if he did not sincerely hate himself––if +he were not religiously, fanatically in love––in love +with Najma, if not with Truth?</p> +<p>Now, on the following Sunday, instead of publishing +the intended marriage of Khalid and Najma, the +parish priest places a ban upon it. And in this, ye +people of Baalbek, is food enough for tattle, and +cause enough for persecution. Potent are the ruffles +of the Church! But why, we can almost hear the +anxious Reader asking, if the camels are ready, why +the deuce don’t they get on and get them gone? But +did we not say once that Khalid is slow, even slower +than the law itself? Nevertheless, if this were a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span> +Novel, an elopement would be in order, but we must +repeat, it is not. We are faithful transcribers of the +truth as we find it set down in Shakib’s <i>Histoire +Intime</i>.</p> +<p>True, Khalid did ask Najma to throw with him +the handful of dust, to steal out of Baalbek and get +married on the way, say in Damascus. But poor +Najma goes over to his mother instead, and mingling +their tears and prayers, they beseech the Virgin to +enlighten the soul and mind of Khalid. “Yes, we +must be married here, before we go to the desert,” +says she, “for think, O my mother, how far away we +shall be from the world and the Church if anything +happens to us.”</p> +<p>And they would have succeeded, the mother and +cousin of Khalid, in persuading the parish priest to +accept from them the prescribed alms and perform the +wedding ceremony, had not the Jesuits, in the interest +of the Faith and the Church, been dogging +Khalid still. For if they have failed in sending him +to the Bosphorus, they will succeed in sending him +elsewhither. And observe how this is done.</p> +<p>After communicating with the Papal Legate in Mt. +Lebanon about that fatal Latter Day Pamphlet of +Thomas Carlyle, the Adjutant-General, or Adjutant-Bird, +stalks up there one night in person and lays +before the Rt. Rev. Mgr. his devil’s brief in Khalid’s +case. It has already been explained that this Pamphlet +was fathered on Khalid by the Jesuits. For if they can +not punish the Voice which is still pursuing them––and +in their heart of hearts they must have recognised +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span> +its thunder, even in a Translation––they will make +the man smart for it who first mentioned Carlyle in +this connection.</p> +<p>“And besides this pernicious booklet,” says the +Adjutant-Bird, “the young man’s heretical opinions +are notorious. He was banished from home on that +account. And now, after corrupting and deluding +his cousin, he is going to marry her despite the ban of +the Church. Something, Monseigneur, ought to be +done, and quickly, to protect the community against +the poison of this wretch.” And Monseigneur, nodding +his accord, orders his Secretary to write a note +to the Patriarch, enclosing the aforesaid devil’s brief, +and showing the propriety, nay, the necessity of excommunicating +Khalid the Baalbekian. The Adjutant-Bird, +with the Legate’s letter in his pocket, skips over +to the Patriarch on the other hill-top below, and after +a brief interview––our dear good Ancient of the +Maronites must willy-nilly obey Rome––the fate of +Khalid the Baalbekian is sealed.</p> +<p>Indeed, the upshot of these Jesuitic machinations is +this: on the very day when Khalid’s mother and cousin +are pleading before the parish priest for justice, for +mercy,––offering the prescribed alms, beseeching that +the ban be revoked, the marriage solemnised,––a +messenger from the Bishop of the Diocese enters, +kisses his Reverence’s hand, and delivers an imposing +envelope. The priest unseals it, unfolds the heavy +foolscap sheet therein, reads it with a knitting of the +brow, a shaking of the beard, and, clapping one hand +upon the other, tells the poor pleaders to go home. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span></p> +<p>“It is all finished. There is no more hope for you +and your cousin.” And he shows the Patriarchal +Bull, and explains.</p> +<p>Whereupon, Najma and Khalid’s mother go out +weeping, wailing, beating their breasts and cheeks, +calling upon Allah to witness their sorrow and the outrageous +tyranny of the priests.</p> +<p>“What has my son done to be excommunicated? +Hear it, ye people, hear it. And be just to me and +my son. What has he done to deserve the anathema +of the Church? What has he done?” And thus +frantic, mad, she runs through the main street of the +town, making wild gestures and clamours,––publishing, +as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was +read by the priest on the following day, and tacked +on the door of the Church.</p> +<p>Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the +Church of the Middle Ages, such as “anathema be +he,” or “banned be he,” who speaks with, deals with, +and so forth, we have a copy before us. But our +readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further space +and consideration be here given to its contents. Suffice +it to say, however, that Khalid comes to church +on that fatal day, takes the foolscap sheet down from +the door, and, going with it to the town-square, burns +it there before the multitudes.</p> +<p>And it came to pass, when the Bull is burned in the +town-square of Baalbek, in the last year of the reign +of Abd’ul-Hamid, some among the multitudes shout +loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones.</p> +<p>Then, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span> +friends and the enemies of him who wrought evil in +the sight of the Lord;</p> +<p>And every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or +taketh up a stone and the battle ensueth.</p> +<p>Now, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans +come forth like the Yaman wind and stand in +the town-square like rocks;</p> +<p>And the battle rageth still, and the troops who are +come forth to part the fighting multitudes, having +gorged themselves at the last meal, can not as much +as speak their part:</p> +<p>And it came to pass, when the clubs and spades are +veiled and the battle subsideth of itself, the good +people return to their respective callings and trades;</p> +<p>But the perverse recalcitrants which remain––and +Khalid the Baalbekian is among them––are taken +by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City Hall and +thence to the <i>velayet</i> prison in Damascus.</p> +<p>And here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of +the Bull.</p> +<p>Now, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his +tongue, too, and his purse, but to no purpose. Behold, +your friend the <i>kaimkam</i> is gloomy and impassive +as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his +ear? The Padres have done that before you. Slip +a purse into his pocket? They have done that, too, +and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of +every city in the Empire is an epitome of Yildiz +Kiosk. And your <i>kaimkams</i>, and <i>valis</i>, and <i>viziers</i>, +have all been taught in the same Text-Book, at the +same Political School, and by the same Professor. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span> +Let Khalid rest, therefore and ponder these matters in +silence. For in the City Hall and during the month +he passes in the prison of Damascus, we are told, he +does not utter a word. His partisans in prison ask to +be taught his creed, and among these are some Mohammadans: +“We’ll burn the priests and their +church yet and follow you. By our Prophet Mohammad +we will ...” Khalid makes no <ins class="trchange" title="Changed ',' to '.'">reply.</ins> +Even Shakib, when he comes to visit him, finds him +dumb as a stone, slain by adversity and disease. +Nothing can be done now. The giant excommunicated, +incommunicative soul, struggling in a prison of +sore flesh, we must leave, alas, with his friends and +partisans to pass his thirty days and nights in the +second prison of stone.</p> +<p>Now, let us return to the Jesuits, who, having +worsted Khalid, or the Devil in Khalid, as they charitably +put it, will also endeavour to do somewhat in the +interest of his intended bride. For the Padres, in addition +to their many crafts and trades, are matrimonial +brokers of honourable repute. And in their meddling +and making, their baiting and mating, they are as serviceable +as the Column Personal of an American newspaper. +Whoso is matrimonially disposed shall whisper +his mind at the Confessional or drop his advertisement +in the pocket of the visiting Columns of their +Bride-Dealer, and he shall prosper. She as well as +he shall prosper.</p> +<p>Now, Father Farouche is commissioned to come all +the way from Zahleh to visit the brother of Abu-Khalid +their porter, and bespeak him in the interest of his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span> +daughter. All their faculties of persuasion shall be +exerted in behalf of Najma. She must be saved at +any cost. Hence they volunteer their services. And +while Khalid is lingering in prison at Damascus, they +avail themselves of the opportunity to further the suit +of their pickle-herring candidate for Najma’s love.</p> +<p>The Reverend Farouche, therefore, holds a secret +conference with her father.</p> +<p>“No,” says he, “God would never have forgiven you +for giving your daughter to one utterly destitute of +morality, religion, money, and health. But praise Allah! +the Church has come to her rescue. She shall be +saved, wrested from the hands of Iblis. Yes, Holy +Church, through us, will guide her to find a god-fearing +life-companion; one worthy of her charms, her +virtues, her fine qualities of heart and mind. The +young man we recommend is rich, respected in the +community; is an official of the Government with a +third-class Medjidi decoration and the title of Bey; +and is free from all diseases. Moreover, he is a good +Catholic. Consider these advantages. A relation +this, which no father would reject, if he loves his +daughter and is solicitous of her future well-being. +Speak to her, therefore, and let us know soon your +mind.”</p> +<p>And our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.––“An +Official of the Government, a Bey with a third-class +Medjidi decoration from the Sultan! As if +Officialdom could not boast of a single scoundrel––as +if any rogue in the Empire, with a few gold coins +in his purse, were not eligible to the Hamidian decorations! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span> +And a third-class decoration! Why, I have +it on good authority that these Medjidi Orders were +given to a certain Patriarch in a bushel to distribute +among his minions....”</p> +<p>But to our subject. Abu-Najma does not look +upon it in this light. A decorated and titled son-in-law +were a great honour devoutly to be wished. And +some days after the first conference, the Padre +Farouche comes again, bringing along his Excellency +the third-class Medjidi Bey; but Najma, as they enter +and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof to weep. +The third time the third-class Medjidi Dodo comes +alone. And Najma, as soon as she catches a glimpse +of him, takes up her earthen jar and hies her to the +spring.</p> +<p>“O the hinny! I’ll rope noose her (hang her) to-night,” +murmurs the father. But here is his Excellency +with his Sultan’s green button in his lapel. +Abu-Najma bows low, rubs his hands well, offers a +large cushion, brings a <i>masnad</i> (leaning pillow), and +blubbers out many unnecessary apologies.</p> +<p>“This honour is great, your Excellency––overlook +our shortcomings––our <i>beit</i> (one room house) +can not contain our shame––it is not becoming your +Excellency’s high rank––overlook––you have condescended +to honour us, condescend too to be indulgent.––My +daughter? yes, presently. She is gone to +church, to mass, but she’ll return soon.”</p> +<p>But Najma is long gone; returns not; and the +third-class Dodo will call again to-morrow. Now, +Abu-Najma brings out his rope, soaps it well, nooses +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span> +and suspends it from the rafter in the ceiling. And +when his daughter returns from the spring, he takes +her by the arm, shows her the rope, and tells her +laconically to choose between his Excellency and this. +Poor Najma has not the courage to die, and so soon. +Her cousin Khalid is in prison, is excommunicated––what +can she do? Run away? The Church will +follow her––punish her. There’s something satanic +in Khalid––the Church said so––the Church knows. +Najma rolls these things in her mind, looks at her +father beseechingly. Her father points to the noose. +Najma falls to weeping. The noose serves well its +purpose.</p> +<p>For hereafter, when the Dodo comes decorated, +SHE has to offer him the cushion, bring him the +<i>masnad</i>, make for him the coffee. And eventually, as +the visits accumulate, she goes with him to the dress-maker +in Beirut. The bridal gown shall be of the +conventional silk this time; for his Excellency is +travelled, and knows and reverences the fashion. But +why prolong these painful details?</p> +<p>“Allah, in the mysterious working of his Providence,” +says Shakib, “preordained it thus: Khalid, +having served his turn in prison, Najma begins her +own; for a few days after he was set free, she was +placed in bonds forged for her by the Jesuits. Now, +when Khalid returned from Damascus, he came +straightway to me and asked that we go to see +Najma and try to prevail upon her, to persuade her +to go with him, to run away. They would leave on +the night-train to Hama this time, and thence set +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span> +forth towards Palmyra. I myself did not know what +had happened, and so I approved of his plan. But +alas! as we were coming down the main Street to +Najma’s house, we heard the sound of tomtoms in the +distance and the shrill ulluluing of women. We continued +apace until we reached the by-way through +which we had to pass, and lo, we find it choked by +the <i>zeffah</i> (wedding <ins class="trchange" title="Removed extra ')'">procession)</ins> of none but she and +the third-class Medjidi....”</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>But we’ll no more of this! Too tragic, too much +like fiction it sounds, that here abruptly we must end +this Chapter.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE' id='CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3>THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE</h3> +</div> +<p>Disappointed, distraught, diseased,––worsted +by the Jesuits, excommunicated, crossed in love,––but +with an eternal glint of sunshine in +his breast to open and light up new paths before him, +Khalid, after the fatal episode, makes away from +Baalbek. He suddenly disappears. But where he +lays his staff, where he spends his months of solitude, +neither Shakib nor our old friend the sandomancer can +say. Somewhither he still is, indeed; for though he +fell in a swoon as he saw Najma on her caparisoned +palfrey and the decorated Excellency coming up along +side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded +to return home. But on the following morning, our +Scribe tells us, coming up to the booth, he finds +neither Khalid there, nor any of his few worldly belongings. +We, however, have formed a theory of our +own, based on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS., +about his mysterious levitation; and we believe +he is now somewhither whittling arrows for a coming +combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But +we must not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us +reverence the privacy of man, the sacredness of his +religious retreat. For no matter where he is in the +flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span> +And instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter +bickerings of life and the wickedness and machination +of those in power, let us consecrate it to the divine +peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of Chapters +in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose +the one entitled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in +Syria, symbolising the natural succession to Khalid’s +Winter of destiny. In it are signal manifestations +of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and +adversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here +is an example of faith and power and love which we +reckon sublime.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls,” +we translate, “dressed in their Sunday best, are in +the doorways lounging or peeping idly through their +windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these +delicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday +of the year. Have they not hugged the damp, +dark earth long enough? Hidden from the wrath of +Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the +primitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And +now, the rain having partly extinguished the inner, +hidden flame, they come out to bask in the sun, and +drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come, almost +slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They +come out to worship at the shrine of the sweet-souled, +God-absorbed Rabia of Attar. In their bright, glowing +faces what a delectable message from the under +world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are +red with the kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span> +unseen, the dark and damp of the earth +are translated into warmth and colour and shade. +Ay, these dear little children, unfolding their soft +green scrolls and reading aloud such odes on Modesty +and Beauty, are as inspiring as the star-crowned night. +And every chink in my terrace walls seems to breathe +a message of sweetness and light and love.</p> +<p>“Know you not the anecdote about the enchanting +Goddess Rabia, as related by Attar in his <i>Biographies +of Sufi Mystics and Saints</i>? Here it is. Rabia was +asked if she hated the devil, and she replied, ‘No.’ +Asked again why, she said, ‘Being absorbed in love, +I have no time to hate.’ Now, all the inhabitants of +my terraces and fields seem to echo this sublime sentiment +of their Goddess. The air and sunshine, nay, +the very rocks are imbued with it. See, how the +fissures in the boulders yonder seem to sympathise +with the gaps in the terrace walls: the cyclamen leaves +in the one are salaaming the cyclamen flowers in the +other. O, these terraces would have delighted the +heart of the American naturalist Thoreau. He could +not have desired stone walls with more gaps in them. +But mind you, these are not dark, ugly, hollow, hopeless +chinks. Behind every one of them lurks a mystery. +Far back in the niches I can see the busts of the +poets who wrote the poems which these beautiful wild +flowers are reading to me. Yes, the authors are dead, +and what I behold now are the flowers of their +amours. These are the offspring of their embraces, +the crystallised dew of their love. Yes, this one single, +simple act of love brings forth an infinite variety of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span> +flowers to celebrate the death of the finite outward +shape and the eternal essence of life perennial. In +complete surrender lies the divineness of things +eternal. This is the key-note of the Oriental mystic +poets. And I incline to the belief that they of all +bards have sung best the song of love. In rambling +through the fields with these beautiful children of the +terraces, I know not what draws me to Al-Fared, the +one erotic-mystic poet of Arabia, whose interminable +rhymes have a perennial charm. Perhaps such lines +as these,––</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">‘</span>All that is fair is fairer when she rises,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>All that is sweet is sweeter when she is here;</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>And every form of beauty she surprises</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>With one brief word she whispers in its ear:</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="leadquote">‘</span>Thy wondrous charms, O let them not deceive thee;<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>They are but borrowed from her for a while;</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Thine outward guise and loveliness would grieve thee,</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>If in thine inmost soul she did not smile.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="leadquote">‘</span>All colours, forms, into each other merging,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>Are woven on her Loom of Unity;</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>For she alone is One in All diverging,</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>And she alone is absolute and free.’</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>“Now, I will bring you to a scene most curiously +suggestive. Behold that little knot of daisies pressing +around the alone anemone beneath the spreading +leaves of the colocasia. Here is a rout at the Countess +Casiacole’s, and these are the débutantes crowding +around the Celebrity of the day. But would they do +so if they were sensible of their own worth, if they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span> +knew that their idol, flaunting the crimson crown of +popularity, had no more, and perhaps less, of the pure +essence of life than any of them? But let Celebrity +stand there and enjoy her hour; to-morrow the +Ploughman will come.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“The sage, with its spikes of greyish blue flowers, +its fibrous, velvety leaves, its strong, pungent perfume, +which is not squandered or repressed, is the stoic of +my native terraces. It responds generously to the personal +touch, and serves the Lebanonese, rich and poor +alike, with a little luxury. Ay, who of us, wandering +on foreign strands, does not remember the warm +foot-bath, perfumed with sage leaves, his mother used +to give him before going to bed? Our dear +mothers!”––And here, Khalid goes in raptures and +tears about his sorry experience in Baalbek and the +anguish and sorrow of his poor mother. “But while +I stand,” he continues, “let me be like the sage, a live-oak +among shrubs, indifferent as the oak or pine to +the winds and storms. And as the sun is setting, find +you no solace in the thought, O Khalid, that some +angel herb-gatherer will preserve the perfume in your +leaves, to refresh therewith in other worlds your dear +poor mother?</p> +<p>“My native terraces are rich with faith and love, +luxuriant with the life divine and the wondrous symbols +thereof. And the grass here is not cut and +trimmed as in the artificial gardens and the cold dull +lawns of city folk, whose love for Nature is either +an experiment, a sport, a business, or a fad. ‘A +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span> +dilettantism in Nature is barren and unworthy,’ says +Emerson. But of all the lovers of Nature, the children +are the least dilettanteish. And every day here +I see a proof of this. Behold them wading to their +knees in that lusty grass, hunting the classic lotus +with which to deck their olive branches for the high +mass and ceremony of Palm Sunday. But alas, my +lusty grass and my beautiful wild flowers do not enjoy +the morning of Spring. Here, the ploughman +comes, carrying his long plough and goad on his +shoulder, and with him his wife lugging the yoke and +his boy leading the oxen. Alas, the sun shall not set on +these bright, glowing, green terraces, whose walls are +very ramparts of flowers. There, the boy with his +scythe is paving the way for his father’s plough; the +grass is mowed and given to the oxen as a bribe to +do the ugly business. And all for the sake of the ugly +mulberries, which are cultivated for the ugly silk-worms. +Come, let us to the heath, where the hiss of +the scythe and the ‘ho-back’ and ‘oho’ of the ploughman +are not heard.</p> +<p>“But let us swing from the road. Come, the +hedges of Nature are not as impassable as the hedges +of man. Through these scrub oaks and wild pears, +between this tangle of thickets, over the clematis and +blackberry bush,––and here we are under the pines, +the lofty and majestic pines. How different are these +natural hedges, growing in wild disorder, from the +ugly cactus fences with which my neighbours choose to +shut in their homes, and even their souls. But my business +now is not with them. There are my friends +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span> +the children again gathering the pine-needles of last +summer for lighting the fire of the silk-worm nursery. +And down that narrow foot-path, meandering around +the boulders and disappearing among the thickets, see +what big loads of brushwood are moving towards us. +Beneath them my swarthy and hardy peasants are +plodding up the hill asweat and athirst. When I first +descended to the wadi, one such load of brushwood +emerging suddenly from behind a cliff surprised and +frightened me. But soon I was reminded of the moving +forest in Macbeth. The man bowed beneath the +load was hidden from view, and the boy directly behind +was sweating under a load as big as that of his +father. ‘<i>Awafy!</i>’ (Allah give you strength), I said, +greeting them. ‘And increase of health to you,’ they +replied. I then asked the boy how far down do +they have to go for their brushwood, and laying down +his load on a stone to rest, he points below, saying, +‘Here, near the river.’ But this ‘Here, near the +river’ is more than four hours’ walk from the village.––Allah +preserve you in your strength, my +Brothers. And they pass along, plodding slowly under +their overshadowing burdens. A hard-hearted +Naturalist, who goes so deep into Nature as to be +far from the vital core even as the dilettante, might +not have any sympathy to throw away on such occasions. +But of what good is the love of Nature that +consists only in classification and dissection? I carry +no note-book with me when I go down the wadi or +out into the fields. I am content if I bring back a +few impressions of some reassuring instance of faith, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span> +a few pictures, and an armful of wild flowers and +odoriferous shrubs. Let the learned manual maker +concern himself with the facts; he is content with +jotting down in his note-book the names and lineage +of every insect and every herb.</p> +<p>“But Man? What is he to these scientific Naturalists? +If they meet a stranger on the road, they +pass him by, their eyes intent on the breviary of Nature, +somewhat after the fashion of my priests, who +are fond of praying in the open-air at sundown. +No, I do not have to prove to my Brothers that my +love of Nature is but second to my love of life. I +am interested in my fellow men as in my fellow trees +and flowers. ‘The beauty of Nature,’ Emerson +again, ‘must always seem unreal and mocking until +the landscape has human figures, that are as good as +itself.’ And ’tis well, if they are but half as good. +To me, the discovery of a woodman in the wadi were +as pleasing as the discovery of a woodchuck or a woodswallow +or a woodbine. For in the soul of the woodman +is a song, I muse, as sweet as the rhythmic strains +of the goldfinch, if it could be evoked. But the soul +plodding up the hill under its heavy overshadowing +burden, what breath has it left for song? The man +bowed beneath the load, the soul bowed beneath the +man! Alas, I seem to behold but moving burdens +in my country. And yet, my swarthy and shrunken, +but firm-fibred people plod along, content, patient, +meek; and when they reach the summit of the hill +with their crushing burdens, they still have breath +enough to troll a favourite ditty or serenade the night. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span></p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">‘</span>I come to thee, O Night,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>I’m at thy feet;</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>I can not see, O Night,</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>But thy breath is sweet.’</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>“And so is the breath of the pines. Here, the air +is surcharged with perfume. In it floats the aromatic +soul of many a flower. But the perfume-soul +of the pines seems to tower over all others, just as +its material shape lifts its artistic head over the oak, +the cercis, and the terabinth. And though tall and +stately, my native pines are not forbidding. They are +so pruned that the snags serve as a most convenient +ladder. Such was my pleasure mounting for the +green cones, the salted pinons of which are delicious. +But I confess they seem to stick in the stomach as the +pitch of the cones sticks on the hands. This, however, +though it remains for days, works no evil; but +the pinons in the stomach, and the stomach on the +nerves,––that is a different question.</p> +<p>“The only pines I have seen in the United States +are those in front of Emerson’s house in Concord; +but compared with my native trees, they are scrubby +and mean. These pine parasols under which I lay +me, forgiving and forgetting, are fit for the gods. +And although closely planted, they grow and flourish +without much ado. I have seen spots not exceeding +a few hundred square feet holding over thirty trees, +and withal stout and lusty and towering. Indeed, +the floor of the Tent seems too narrow at times for +its crowded guests; but beneath the surface there is +room for every root, and over it, the sky is broad +enough for all. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span></p> +<p>“Ah, the bewildering vistas through the variegated +pillars, taking in a strip of sea here, a mountain peak +there, have an air of enchantment from which no +human formula can release a pilgrim-soul. They remind +me––no; they can not remind me of anything +more imposing. But when I was visiting the +great Mosques of Cairo I was reminded of them. +Yes, the pine forests are the great mosques of Nature. +And for art-lovers, what perennial beauty of an antique +art is here. These majestic pillars arched with +foliage, propping a light-green ceiling, from which +cones hang in pairs and in clusters, and through which +curiously shaped clouds can be seen moving in a cerulean +sky; and at night, instead of the clouds, the +stars––the distant, twinkling, white and blue stars––what +to these are the decorations in the ancient +mosques? There, the baroques, the arabesques, the +colourings gorgeous, are dead, at least inanimate; here, +they palpitate with life. The moving, swelling, flaming, +flowing life is mystically interwoven in the evergreen +ceiling and the stately colonnades. Ay, even +the horizon yonder, with its planets and constellations +rising and setting ever, is a part of the ceiling +decoration.</p> +<p>“Here in this grand Mosque of Nature, I read +my own Korân. I, Khalid, a Beduin in the desert +of life, a vagabond on the highway of thought, I come +to this glorious Mosque, the only place of worship +open to me, to heal my broken soul in the perfumed +atmosphere of its celestial vistas. The mihrabs here +are not in this direction nor in that. But whereso +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span> +one turns there are niches in which the living spirit of +Allah is ever present. Here, then, I prostrate me +and read a few Chapters of MY Holy Book. After +which I resign myself to my eternal Mother and the +soft western breezes lull me asleep. Yea, and even +like my poor brother Moslem sleeping on his hair-mat +in a dark corner of his airy Mosque, I dream my +dream of contentment and resignation and love.</p> +<p>“See the ploughman strutting home, his goad in his +hand, his plough on his shoulder, as if he had done +his duty. Allah be praised, the flowers in the terrace-walls +are secure. That is why, I believe, my +American brother Thoreau liked walls with many +gaps in them. The sweet wild daughters of Spring +can live therein their natural life without being +molested by the scythe or the plough. Allah be +praised a hundred times and one.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT' id='CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<h3>SIGNS OF THE HERMIT</h3> +</div> +<p>Although we claim some knowledge of the +Lebanon mountains, having landed there in our +journey earthward, and having since then, our limbs +waxing firm and strong, made many a journey +through them, we could not, after developing, through +many readings, Khalid’s spiritual films, identify them +with the vicinage which he made his Kaaba. On +what hill, in what wadi, under what pines did he +ruminate and extravagate, we could not from these +idealised pictures ascertain. For a spiritual film is +other than a photographic one. A poet’s lens is +endowed with a seeing eye, an insight, and a faculty +to choose and compose. Hence the difficulty in tracing +the footsteps of Fancy––in locating its cave, its +nest, or its Kaaba. His pine-mosque we could find +anywhere, at any altitude; his vineyards, too, and his +glades; for our mountain scenery, its beauty alternating +between the placid and the rugged––the tame +terrace soil and the wild, forbidding majesty––is allwhere +almost the same. But where in these rocky +and cavernous recesses of the world can we to-day +find the ancient Lebanon troglodyte, whom Khalid +has seen, and visited in his hut, and even talked with? +It is this that forces us to seek his diggings, to trace, +if possible, his footsteps. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span></p> +<p>In the K. L. MS., as we have once remarked and +more than once hinted, we find much that is unduly +inflated, truly Oriental; much that is platitudinous, +ludicrous, which we have suppressed. But never +could we question the Author’s veracity and sincerity +of purpose. Whether he crawled like a zoöphyte, +soared like an eagle, or fought, like Ali, the giants +of the lower world, he is genuine, and oft-times +amusingly truthful. But the many questionable pages +on this curious subject of the eremite, what are we +to do with them? If they are imaginary, there is too +much in this Book against quackery to daunt us. +And yet, if Khalid has found the troglodyte, whom +we thought to be an extinct species, he should have +left us a few legends about it.</p> +<p>We have visited the ancient caverns of the Lebanon +troglodytes in the cliffs overhanging the river +of Wadi Kadeesha, and found nothing there but +blind bats, and mosses, and dreary vacuity. No, not +a vestage of the fossil is there, not a skull, not a shinbone. +We have also inquired in the monasteries near +the Cedars, and we were frankly told that no monk +to-day fancies such a life. And if he did, he would +not give his brother monks the trouble of carrying +his daily bread to a cave in those forbidden cliffs. +And yet, Simeon Stylites, he of the Pillar, who remained +for thirty years perched on the top of it, was +a Syrian shepherd. But who of his descendants to-day +would as much as pass one night on the top of +that pillar? Curious eleemosynary phases of our +monkish system, these modern times reveal. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span></p> +<p>On our way from a journey to the Cedars, while +engaged in the present Work, we passed through a +pine forest, in which were some tangled bushes of the +clematis. The muleteer stops near one of these and +stoops to reach something he had seen therein. No +treasure-trove, alas, as he supposed; but merely a +book for which he lacerated his hands and which he +cursed and handed to us, saying, “This must be the +breviary of some monk.”</p> +<p>No, it was an English book, and of American origin, +and of a kind quite rare in America. Indeed, +here were a find and surprise as agreeable as Khalid’s +sweetbrier bush. Henry Thoreau’s <i>Week</i>! What +a miracle of chance. Whose this mutilated copy of +the <i>Week</i>, we thought? Who in these mountains, +having been in America, took more interest in the +Dreamer of Walden Woods than in peddling and +trading? We walk our mule, looking about in vague, +restless surprise, as if seeking in the woods a lost companion, +and lo, we reach a monarch pine on which is +carved the name of––Khalid! This book, then, +must be his; the name on the pine tree is surely his +own; we know his hand as well as his turn of mind. +But who can say if this be his Kaaba, this his pine-mosque? +Might he not only have passed through these +glades to other parts? Signs, indeed, are here of his +feet and hands, if not of his tent-pegs. And what +signifies his stay? No matter how long he might +have put up here, it is but a passage, deeply considered: +like Thoreau’s passage through Walden woods, +like Mohammad’s through the desert. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span></p> +<p>This leisure hour is the nipple of the soul. And +fortunate they who are not artificially suckled, who +know this hour no matter how brief, who get their +nipple at the right time. If they do not, no pabulum +ever after, will their indurated tissues assimilate. +Do you wonder why the world is full of crusty souls? +and why to them this infant hour, this suckling while, +is so repugnant? But we must not intrude more of +such remarks about mankind. Whether rightly suckled +or not, we manage to live; but whether we do so +marmot-like or Maronite-like, is not the question here +to be considered. To pray for your bread or to burrow +in the earth for it, is it not the same with most +people? Given a missionary with a Bible in his hip-pocket +or a peasant with a load of brushwood on his +back and the same gastric coefficient, and you will +have in either case a resulting expansion for six feet +of coffin ground and a fraction of Allah’s mercy. +Our poor missionary, is it worth while to cross the +seas for this? Marmot-like or Maronite-like––but +soft you know! Here is our peasant with his overshadowing +load of brushwood. And there is another, +and another. They are carrying fuel to the lime-pit +ahead of us yonder. What brow-sweat, what +time, what fire, what suffering and patient toil, the +lime-washing, or mere liming, of our houses and sepulchres, +requires. That cone structure there, that artificial +volcano, with its crackling, flaming bowels and +its fuliginous, coruscating crater, must our hardy +peasants feed continually for twenty days and nights.</p> +<p>But the book and the name on the pine, we would +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span> +know more of these signs, if possible. And so, we +visit the labourers of the kiln. They are yödling, the +while they work, and jesting and laughing. The +stokers, with flaming, swollen eyes, their tawny complexion +waxing a brilliant bronze, their sweat making +golden furrows therein, with their pikes and pitchforks +busy, are terribly magnificent to behold. Here +be men who would destroy Bastilles for you, if it +were nominated in the bond. And there is the monk-foreman––the +kiln is of the monastery’s estate––reading +his breviary while the lime is in making. +Indeed, these sodalities of the Lebanons are not what +their vows and ascetic theologies would make them. +No lean-jowled, hungry-looking devotees, living in +exiguity and droning in exinanition their prayers,––not +by any means. Their flesh-pots are not a few, +and their table is a marvel of ascetism! And why +not, if their fat estates––three-quarter of the lands +here is held in mortmain by the clergy––can yield +anything, from silk cocoons to lime-pits? They will +clothe you in silk at least; they will lime-wash your +homes and sepulchres, if they cannot lime-wash anything +else. Thanks to them so long as they keep some +reminiscence of business in their heads to keep the +Devil out of it.</p> +<p>The monk-foreman is reading with one eye and +watching with the other. “Work,” cries he, “every +minute wasted is stolen from the abbey. And whoso +steals, look in the pit: its fire is nothing compared +with Juhannam.” And the argument serves its purpose. +The labourers hurry hither and thither, bringing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span> +brushwood near; the first stoker pitches to the +second, the second to the third, and he feeds the flaming, +smoking, coruscating volcano. “<i>Yallah!</i>” +(Keep it up) exclaims the monk-foreman. “Burn +the devil’s creed,” cries one. “Burn hell,” cries another. +And thus jesting in earnest, mightily working +and enduring, they burn the mountains into lime, +they make the very rocks yield somewhat.––Strength +and blessings, brothers.</p> +<p>After the usual inquiry of whence and whither, his +monkship offers the snuff-box. “No? roll you, then, +a cigarette,” taking out a plush pouch containing a +mixture of the choicest native roots. These, we were +told, are grown on the monastery’s estate. We +speak of the cocoon products of the season.</p> +<p>“Beshrew the mulberries!” exclaims the monk. +“We are turning all our estates into fruit orchards +and orangeries. The cultivation of the silk-worm +is in itself an abomination. And while its income +to-day is not as much as it was ten years ago, the expenditure +has risen twofold. America is ruining our +agriculture; and soon, I suppose, we have to send to +China for labourers. Why, those who do not emigrate +demand twice as much to-day for half the work +they used to do five years ago; and those who return +from America strut about like country gentlemen deploring +the barrenness of their native soil.”</p> +<p>And one subject leading to another, for our monk +is a glib talker, we come to the cheese-makers, the +goatherds. “Even these honest rustics,” says he, +“are becoming sophisticated (<i>mafsudin</i>). Their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span> +cheese is no longer what it was, nor is their faith. +For Civilisation, passing by their huts in some shape +or other, whispers in their ears something about cleverness +and adulteration. And mistaking the one for +the other, they abstract the butter from the milk and +leave the verdigris in the utensils. This lust of gain +is one of the diseases which come from Europe and +America,––it is a plague which even the goatherd +cannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the +cheese-monger goes these days ptomaine poison is +certain to follow.”</p> +<p>“And why does not the Government interfere?” +we ask.</p> +<p>“Because the Government,” replies our monk in +a dry, droll air and gesture, “does not eat cheese.”</p> +<p>And the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it. +For this, as well as their butter, olive oil, and wine, +is made on their own estates, under their own supervision.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he resumes, placing his breviary in his +pocket and taking out the snuff-box; “not long ago +one who lived in these parts––a young man from +Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest +yonder––bought some cheese from one of these muleteer +cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell +sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way +to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching +beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw +that young man, and were I not passing by I know +not what would have become of him. I helped him +to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span> +and he remained with us three days. He ate +of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to +like both very much. And ever since, while he was +here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a +tray of his own make––he occupied himself in making +wicker-baskets and trays––and ask in exchange +some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent, +this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like +the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But +he was queer. The clock in him was not wound +right––he was always ahead or behind time, always +complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he +did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often +would I bring him some of our cookery. But he +never accepted anything without giving something in +exchange.”</p> +<p>Unmistakable signs.</p> +<p>“And his black turban,” continues the monk, +“over his long flowing hair made him look like our +<ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">hermit.”</ins> (Strange coincidence!) “On your way here +have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far +from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is +the Hermitage.”</p> +<p>We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded +by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who +would mistake that for a troglodyte’s cave? “And +this young man from Baalbek,” we ask, “how did +he live in this forest?”</p> +<p>“Yonder,” points the monk, “he cleared and +cleaned for himself a little space which he made his +workshop. And up in the pines he constructed a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span> +platform, which he walled and covered with boughs. +And when he was not working or walking, he would +be there among the branches, either singing or asleep. +I used to envy him that nest in the pines.”</p> +<p>“And did he ever go to church?”</p> +<p>“He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good +Friday and on Easter Sunday, I think.”</p> +<p>“And did he visit the abbey often?”</p> +<p>“Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil.” +(Shame, O Khalid!) “But he often repaired to +the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to +his conversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed, +but never quarrelled. I like that young man +in spite of his oddities of thought, which savoured at +times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me; +never tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious +as our Hermit, I think. Roll another cigarette.”</p> +<p>“Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your +opinion of him?”</p> +<p>“Well, h’m––h’m––go visit him. A good man +he is, but very simple. And between us, he likes +money too much. H’m, h’m, go visit him. If I +were not engaged at present, I would accompany you +thither.”</p> +<p>We thank our good monk and retrace our steps +to the Hermitage, rolling meanwhile in our mind +that awful remark about the Hermit’s love of money. +Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and +worships thee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe +it. The grudges of monks against each other +often reach darker and more fatal depths. Alas, if +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span> +the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated, +what shall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If +the salt of the earth––but not to the nunnery nor +to the monkery, we go. Rather let us to the Hermitage, +Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest, +not in sport.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA' id='CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<h3>THE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA</h3> +</div> +<p>This, then, is the cave of our troglodyte! Allah +be praised, even the hermits of the Lebanon +mountains, like the prophets of America and other +electric-age species, are subject to the laws of evolution. +A cottage and chapel set in a vineyard, the most +beautiful we have yet seen, looms up in this rocky +wilderness like an oasis in a desert. For many miles +around, the vicinage presents a volcanic aspect, wild, +barren, howlingly dreary. At the foot of Mt. Sanneen +in the east, beyond many ravines, are villages +and verdure; and from the last terrace in the vineyard +one overlooks the deep chasm which can boast +of a rivulet in winter. But in the summer its nakedness +is appalling. The sun turns its pocket inside +out, so to speak, exposing its boulders, its little <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'wind-rows' across lines">windrows</ins> +of sands, and its dry ditches full of dead fish +spawn. And the cold, rocky horizon, rising so high +and near, shuts out the sea and hides from the Hermit +the glory of the sundown. But we can behold +its effects on Mt. Sanneen, on the clouds above us, +on the glass casements in the villages far away. The +mountains in the east are mantled with etherial lilac +alternating with mauve; the clouds are touched with +purple and gold; the casements in the distance are +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span> +scintillating with mystical carbuncles: the sun is setting +in the Mediterranean,––he is waving his farewell +to the hills.</p> +<p>We reach the first gate of the Hermitage; and the +odour peculiar to monks and monkeries, a mixed +smell of mould and incense and burning oil, greets +us as we enter into a small open space in the centre +of which is a Persian lilac tree. To the right is a +barbed-wire fence shutting in the vineyard; directly +opposite is the door of the chapel; and near it is a +wicket before which stands a withered old woman. +Against the wall is a stone bench where another +woman is seated. As we enter, we hear her, standing +at the wicket, talking to some one behind the +scene. “Yes, that is the name of my husband,” says +she. “Allah have mercy on his soul,” sighs an exiguous +voice within; “pray for him, pray for him.” +And the woman, taking to weeping, blubbers out, +“Will thirty masses do, think your Reverence?” +“Yes, that will cheer his soul,” replies the oracle.</p> +<p>The old woman thereupon enters the chapel, pays +the priest or serving-monk therein, one hundred piasters +for thirty masses, and goes away in tears. The +next woman rises to the gate. “I am the mother +of––,” she says. “Ah, the mother of––,” repeats +the exiguous voice. “How are you? (She must be +an old customer.) How is your husband? How are +your children? And those in America, are they well, +are they prosperous? Yes, yes, your deceased son. +Well, h’m––h’m––you must come again. I can not +tell you anything yet. Come again next week.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span> +And she, too, visits the chapel, counts out some money +to the serving-monk, and leaves the Hermitage, drying +her tears.</p> +<p>The Reader, who must have recognised the squeaking, +snuffling, exiguous voice, knows not perhaps that +the Hermit, in certain moments of <i>inkhitaf</i> (abstraction, +levitation) has glimpses into the spirit-world +and can tell while in this otherworldliness how the +Christian souls are faring, and how many masses +those in Purgatory need before they can rejoin the +bosom of Father Abraham. And those who seek +consolation and guidance through his occult ministrations +are mostly women. But the money collected +for masses, let it here be said, as well as the income +of the vineyard, the Hermit touches not. The +monks are the owners of the occult establishment, +and they know better than he what to do with the +revenue. But how far this ancient religious Medium +can go in the spirit-world, and how honest he might +be in his otherworldliness, let those say who have experience +in spookery and table-rapping.</p> +<p>Now, the women having done and gone, the wicket +is open, and the serving-monk ushers us through the +dark and stivy corridor to the rear, where a few +boxes marked “Made in America”––petroleum +boxes, these––are offered us as seats. Before the +door of the last cell are a few potsherds in which +sweet basil plants are withering from thirst. Presently, +the door squeaks, and one, not drooping like +the plants, comes out to greet us. This is Father +Abd’ul-Messiah (Servitor of the Christ), as the Hermit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span> +is called. Here, indeed, is an up-to-date hermit, +not an antique troglodyte. Lean and lathy, he is, but +not hungry-looking; quick of eye and gesture; quick +of step, too. He seems always on the alert, as if +surrounded continually with spirits. He is young, +withal, or keeps so, at least, through the grace and +ministration of Allah and the Virgin. His long unkempt +hair and beard are innocent of a single white +line. And his health? “Through my five and +twenty years of seclusion,” said he, “I have not +known any disease, except, now and then, in the +spring season, when the sap begins to flow, I am +visited by Allah with chills and fever.––No; I eat +but one meal a day.––Yes; I am happy, Allah be +praised, quite happy, very happy.”</p> +<p>And he lifts his eyes heavenward, and sighs and +rubs his hands in joyful satisfaction. To us, this +Servitor of the Christ seemed not to have passed the +climacteric. But truly, as he avowed, he was entering +the fifth lustrum beyond it. Such are the advantages +of the ascetic life, and of such ascetics the +Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can carry +twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and +youth, and health, and happiness.</p> +<p>We then venture a question about the sack-cloth, +a trace of which was seen under his tunic sleeve. +And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the drooping +sweet basils in silence. No, he likes not to speak of +these mortifications of the flesh. After some meditation +he tells us, however, that the sack-cloth on the +first month is annoying, torturing. “But the flesh,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span> +he continues naïvely, “is inured to it, as the pile, in +the course of time, is broken and softened down.” +And with an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and +sighs his assurance. For his Reverence always punctuates +his speech with these sweet sighs of joy. The +serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his +ear, and we are asked to “scent the air” a while in +the vineyard.</p> +<p>This lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit +tills and cultivates alone. And so thoroughly the +work is done that hardly a stone can be seen in the +soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls +that one would think they were built with line and +plummet. The vines are handsomely trimmed and +trellised, and here and there, to break the monotony +of the rows, a fig, an apricot, an almond, or an olive, +spreads its umbrageous boughs. Indeed, it is most +cheering in the wilderness, most refreshing to the +senses, this lovely vineyard, the loveliest we have +seen.</p> +<p>Father Abd’ul-Messiah might be a descendant of +Simeon of the Pillar for all we know; but instead +of perching on the top of it, he breaks it down and +builds with its stones a wall of his vineyard. Here +he comes with his serving-monk, and we resume the +conversation under the almond tree.</p> +<p>“You should come in the grape season to taste of +my fruits,” says he.</p> +<p>“And do you like the grape?” we ask.</p> +<p>“Yes, but I prefer to cultivate it.”</p> +<p>“Throughout the season,” the serving-monk puts +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span> +in, “and though the grapes be so plentiful, he tastes +them not.”</p> +<p>“No?”</p> +<p>The Hermit is silent; for, as we have said, he is +reluctant in making such confessions. Virtue, once +bragged about, once you pride yourself upon it, ceases +to be such.</p> +<p>In his vineyard the Hermit is most thorough, even +scientific. One would think that he believed only in +work. No; he does not sprinkle the vines with holy +water to keep the grubs away. Herein he has sense +enough to know that only in <i>kabrit</i> (sulphur) is +the phylactery which destroys the phylloxera.</p> +<p>“And what do you do when you are not working +in your vineyard or praying?”</p> +<p>“I have always somewhat to do, always. For +to be idle is to open the door for Iblis. I might +walk up and down this corridor, counting the slabs +therein, and consider my time well spent.” Saying +which he rises and points to the sky. The purple +fringes of the clouds are gone to sable; the lilac tints +on the mountains are waxing grey; and the sombre +twilight with his torch––the evening star had risen––is +following in the wake of day; ’tis the hour of +prayer.</p> +<p>But before we leave him to his devotion, we ask +to be permitted to see his cell. Ah, that is against +the monastic rules. We insist. And with a h’m, +h’m, and a shake of the head, he rubs his hands caressingly +and opens the door. Yes, the Reader shall +peep into this eight by six cell, which is littered all +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span> +around with rubbish, sacred and profane. In the corner +is a broken stove with a broken pipe attached,––broken +to let some of the smoke into the room, we +are told. “For smoke,” quoth the Hermit, quoting +the Doctor, “destroys the microbes––and keeps the +room warm after the fire goes out.”</p> +<p>In the corner opposite the stove is a little altar +with the conventional icons and gewgaws and a number +of prayer books lying pell-mell around. Nearby +is an old pair of shoes, in which are stuck a few +candles and St. Anthony’s Book of Contemplations. +In the corner behind the door is a large cage, a pantry, +suspended middleway between the floor and ceiling, +containing a few earthen pots, an oil lamp, and +a jar, covered with a cloth. Between the pantry +and the altar, on a hair-mat spread on the floor, +sleeps his Reverence. And his bed is not so hard as +you might suppose, Reader; for, to serve your curiosity, +we have been rude enough to lift up a corner +of the cloth, and we found underneath a substantial +mattress! On the bed is his book of accounts, which, +being opened, when we entered, he hastened to close.</p> +<p>“You keep accounts, too, Reverence?”</p> +<p>“Indeed, so. That is a duty devolved on every +one with mortal memory.”</p> +<p>Let it not be supposed, however, that he has charge +of the crops. In his journal he keeps the accounts +of his masses? And here be evil sufficient for the +day.</p> +<p>This, then, is the inventory of Abd’ul-Messiah’s +cell. And we do not think we have omitted much +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span> +of importance. Yes; in the fourth corner, which +we have not mentioned, are three or four petroleum +cans containing provisions. From one of these he +brings out a handful of dried figs, from another a +pinch of incense, which he gives us as a token of his +love and blessing. One thing we fain would emphasise, +before we conclude our account. The +money part of this eremitic business need not be +harshly judged; for we must bear in mind that this +honest Servitor of Christ is strong enough not to +have his will in the matter. And remember, too, +that the abbey’s bills of expenses run high. If one +of the monks, therefore, is blessed with a talent for +solitude and seclusion, his brother monks shall profit +by it. Indeed, we were told, that the income of the +Hermitage, that is, the sum total in gold of the occult +and the agricultural endeavours of Abd’ul-Messiah, +is enough to defray the yearly expenditures of +the monkery. Further, we have nothing to say on +the subject. But Khalid has. And of his lengthy +lucubration on <i>The Uses of Solitude</i>, we cull the +following:</p> +<p>“Every one’s life at certain times,” writes he, “is +either a Temple, a Hermitage, or a Vineyard: every +one, in order to flee the momentary afflictions of Destiny, +takes refuge either in God, or in Solitude, or in +Work. And of a truth, work is the balm of the sore +mind of the world. God and Solitude are luxuries +which only a few among us nowadays can afford. But +he who lives in the three, though his life be that of a +silk larva in its cocoon, is he not individually considered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span> +a good man? Is he not a mystic, though uncreative, +centre of goodness? Surely, his influence, his Me +alone considered, is living and benign, and though it +is not life-giving. He is a flickering taper under +a bushel; and this, <i>billah</i>, were better than the +pissasphaltum-souls which bushels of quackery and pretence +can not hide. But alas, that a good man by +nature should be so weak as to surrender himself entirely +to a lot of bad men. For the monks, my brother +Hermit, being a silk worm in its cocoon, will asphyxiate +the larva after its work is done, and utilise the silk. +Ay, after the Larva dies, they pickle and preserve it in +their chapel for the benefit of those who sought its +oracles in life. Let the beef-packers of America take +notice; the monks of my country are in the market +with ‘canned hermits!’</p> +<p>“And this Larva, be it remembered, is not subject +to decay; a saint does not decompose in the flesh like +mortal sinners. One of these, I have been told, dead +fifty years ago and now canonised, can be seen yet in +one of the monasteries of North Lebanon, keeping well +his flesh and bones together––divinely embalmed. It +has been truly said that the work of a good man never +dies; and these leathery hermits continue in death as in +life to counsel and console the Faithful.</p> +<p>“In the past, these Larvæ, not being cultivated for +the market, continued their natural course of development +and issued out of their silk prisons full fledged +moths. But those who cultivate them to-day are in +sore need. They have masses and indulgences to sell; +they have big bills to pay. But whether left to grow +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span> +their wings or not, their solitude is that of a cocoon +larva, narrow, stale, unprofitable to the world. While +that of a philosopher, a Thoreau, for instance, might +be called Nature’s filter; and one, issuing therefrom +benefited in every sense, morally, physically, spiritually, +can be said to have been filtered through Solitude.”</p> +<p>“The study of life at a distance is inutile; the study +of it at close range is defective. The only method +left, therefore, and perhaps the true one, is that of +the artist at his canvas. He works at his picture an +hour or two, and retires a little to study and criticise +it from a distance. It is impossible to withdraw +entirely from life and pretend to take an interest +in it. Either like my brother Hermit in these parts, +a spiritual larva in its cocoon, or like a Thoreau, +who during his period of seclusion, peeped every fortnight +into the village to keep up at least his practice +of human speech. Else what is the use of solitude? +A life of fantasy, I muse, is nearer to the +heart of Nature and Truth than a life in sack-cloth +and ashes....</p> +<p>“And yet, deeply considered, this eremitic business +presents another aspect. For does not the eremite +through his art of prayer and devotion, seek an ideal? +Is he not a transcendentalist, at least in the German +sense of the word? Is not his philosophy above all +the senses, as the term implies, and common sense included? +For through Mother Church, and with +closed eyes, he will attain the ideal, of which my +German philosopher, through the logic-mill, and with +eyes open, hardly gets a glimpse. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span></p> +<p>“The devout and poetic souls, and though they +walk among the crowd, live most of their lives in +solitude. Through Mother Sorrow, or Mother +Fancy, or Mother Church, they are ever seeking the +ideal, which to them is otherwise unattainable. And +whether a howler of Turabu or a member of the +French Academy, man, in this penumbra of faith +and doubt, of superstition and imagination, is much +the same. ‘The higher powers in us,’ says Novalis, +‘which one day, as Genii, shall fulfil our will, +are for the present, Muses, which refresh us on our +toilsome course with sweet remembrances.’ And the +jinn, the fairies, the angels, the muses, are as young +and vivacious to-day as they were in the Arabian +and Gaelic Ages of Romance.</p> +<p>“But whether Mother Church or Poetry or Philosophy +or Music be the magic-medium, the result +is much the same if the motive be not religiously +sincere, sincerely religious, piously pure, lofty, and +humane. Ay, my Larva-Hermit, with all his bigotry +and straitness of soul, stands higher than most of +your artists and poets and musicians of the present +day. For a life sincerely spent between the Temple +and the Vineyard, between devotion and honest +labour, producing to one man of all mankind some +positive good, is not to be compared with the life +which oscillates continuously between egoism and +vanity, quackery and cowardice, selfishness and pretence, +and which never rises, do what it may, above +the larva state....</p> +<p>“Let every one cultivate with pious sincerity some +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span> +such vineyard as my Hermit’s and the world will +not further need reform. For through all the vapour +and mist of his ascetic theology, through the tortuous +chasm of his eremitic logic, through the bigotry +and crass superstition of his soul, I can always +see the Vineyard on the one side of his cell, and the +Church on the other, and say to myself: Here be +a man who is never idle; here be one who loves the +leisure praised by Socrates, and hates the sluggishness +which Iblis decks and titivates. And if he +crawls between his Church and his Vineyard, and +burrows in both for a solution of life, nay, spins in +both the cocoon of his ideal, he ought not to be judged +from on high. Come thou near him; descend; descend +a little and see: has he not a task, and though +it be of the taper-under-the-bushel kind? Has he not +a faith and a sincerity which in a Worm of the +Earth ought to be reckoned sublime? ‘If there were +sorrow in heaven,’ he once said to me, ‘how many +there would continuously lament the time they wasted +in this world?’</p> +<p>“O my Brothers, build your Temples and have +your Vineyards, even though it be in the rocky wilderness.”</p> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_5' id='linki_5'></a> +<img src='images/illus-222.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 384px; height: 202px;' /><br /> +</div> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<p class="h2" >BOOK THE THIRD</p> +<p class="h2" >IN KULMAKAN</p> +</div> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_6' id='linki_6'></a> +<img src='images/illus-226.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 464px; height: 387px;' /><br /> +</div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='TO_GOD' id='TO_GOD'></a> +<h2>TO GOD<a name='FNanchor_0003' id='FNanchor_0003'></a><a href='#Footnote_0003' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a></h2> +</div> +<p><i>In the religious systems of mankind, I sought +thee, O God, in vain; in their machine-made dogmas +and theologies, I sought thee in vain; in their +churches and temples and mosques, I sought thee long, +and long in vain; but in the Sacred Books of the +World, what have I found? A letter of thy name, O +God, I have deciphered in the Vedas, another in the +Zend-Avesta, another in the Bible, another in the +Korân. Ay, even in the Book of the Royal Society +and in the Records of the Society for Psychical Research, +have I found the diacritical signs which the infant +races of this Planet Earth have not yet learned to +apply to the consonants of thy name. The lisping infant +races of this Earth, when will they learn to pronounce +thy name entire? Who shall supply the Vowels +which shall unite the Gutturals of the Sacred +Books? Who shall point out the dashes which compound +the opposite loadstars in the various regions of +thy Heaven? On the veil of the eternal mystery are +palimpsests of which every race has deciphered a consonant. +And through the diacritical marks which the +seers and paleologists of the future shall furnish, the +various dissonances in thy name shall be reduced, for +the sake of the infant races of the Earth, to perfect +harmony.</i>––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid.</span></p> +<hr class='fn' /> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0003' id='Footnote_0003'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0003'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p> +Arabic Symbol. +</p></div> +<hr class='major' /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME' id='CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<h3>THE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME</h3> +</div> +<p>“Why this exaggerated sense of thine importance,” +Khalid asks himself in the K. L. MS., “when +a little ptomaine in thy cheese can poison the source +of thy lofty contemplations? Why this inflated conception +of thy Me, when an infusion of poppy seeds +might lull it to sleep, even to stupefaction? What +avails thy logic when a little of the Mandragora can +melt the material universe into golden, unfolding infinities +of dreams? Why take thyself so seriously +when a leaf of henbane, taken by mistake in thy salad, +can destroy thee? But the soul is not dependent on +health or disease. The soul is the source of both +health and disease. And life, therefore, is either a +healthy or a diseased state of the soul.</p> +<p>“One day, when I was rolling these questions in my +mind, and working on a reed basket to present to my +friend the Hermit as a farewell memento, his serving-monk +brings me some dried figs in a blue kerchief and +says, ‘My Master greets thee and prays thee come to +him.’ I do so the following morning, bringing with +me the finished basket, and as I enter the Hermitage +court, I find him repairing a stone wall in the vineyard. +As he sees me, he hastens to put on his cloak that I +might not remark the sack-cloth he wore, and with a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span> +pious smile of assurance and thankfulness, welcomes +and embraces me, as is his wont. We sit down in the +corridor before the chapel door. The odorous vapor +of what was still burning in the censer within hung +above us. The holy atmosphere mantled the dread +silence of the place. And the slow, insinuating smell +of incense, like the fumes of gunga, weighed heavy on +my eyelids and seemed to brush from my memory the +cobwebs of time. A drowsiness possessed me; I felt +like one awaking from a dream. I asked for the water +jug, which the Hermit hastened to bring. And looking +through the door of the chapel, I saw on the altar a +burning cresset flickering like the planet Mercury on +a December morning. How often did I light such a +cresset when a boy, I mused. Yes, I was an acolyte +once. I swang the censer and drank deep of the incense +fumes as I chanted in Syriac the service. And I +remember when I made a mistake one day in reading +the Epistle of Paul, the priest, who was of an irascible +humour, took me by the ear and made me spell the +words I could not pronounce. And the boys in the congregation +tittered gleefully. In my mortification was +honey for them. Such was my pride, nevertheless, +such the joy I felt, when, of all the boys that gathered +round the lectern at vespers, I was called upon to read +in the <i>sinksar</i> (hagiography) the Life of the Saint of +the day.</p> +<p>“I knew then that to steal, for instance, is a sin; +and yet, I emptied the box of wafers every morning +after mass and shared them with the very boys who +laughed at my mistakes. One day, in the purest intention, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span> +I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and +he would not eat it. I felt insulted, and never after +did I pilfer a wafer. Now, as I muse on these sallies +of boyish waywardness I am impressed with the idea +that the certainty and daring of Ignorance, or might I +say Innocence, are great. Indeed, to the pure everything +is pure. But strange to relate that as I sat in +the corridor of the Hermitage and saw the light flickering +on the altar, I hankered for a wafer, and was +tempted to go into the chapel and filch one. What +prevented me? Alas, knowledge makes sceptics and +cowards of us all. And the pursuit of knowledge, according +to my Hermit, nay, the noblest pursuit, even +the serving of God, ceases to be a virtue the moment +we begin to enjoy it.</p> +<p>“‘It is necessary to conquer, not only our instincts,’ +he continued, ‘but our intellectual and our +spiritual passions as well. To force our will in the +obedience of a higher will, to leave behind all our +mundane desires in the pursuit of the one great desire, +herein lies the essence of true virtue. St. Anthony +would snatch his hours of devotion from the Devil. +Even prayer to him was a struggle, an effort not to +feel the joy of it. Yes, we must always disobey our +impulses, and resist the tyranny of our desires. When +I have a strong desire to pray, I go out into the vineyard +and work. When I begin to enjoy my work in +the vineyard, I cease to do it well. Therefore, I take +up my breviary. Do that which you must not do, +when you are suffering, and you will not want to do +it again, when you are happy. The other day, one +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span> +who visited the Hermitage, spoke to me of you, O +Khalid. He said you were what is called an anarchist. +And after explaining to me what is meant by this––I +never heard of such a religion before––I discovered +to my surprise that I, too, am an anarchist. But there +is this difference between us: I obey only God and +the authority of God, and you obey your instincts and +what is called the authority of reason. Yours, O Khalid, +is a narrow conception of anarchy. In truth, you +should try to be an anarchist like me: subordinate your +personality, your will and mind and soul, to a higher +will and intelligence, and resist with all your power +everything else. Why do you not come to the Hermitage +for a few days and make me your confessor?’</p> +<p>“‘I do not confess in private, and I can not sleep +within doors.’</p> +<p>“‘You do not have to do so; the booth under the almond +tree is at your disposal. Come for a spiritual +exercise of one week only.’</p> +<p>“‘I have been going through such an exercise for a +year, and soon I shall leave my cloister in the pines.’</p> +<p>“‘What say you? You are leaving our neighbourhood? +No, no; remain here, O Khalid. Come, live +with me in the Hermitage. Come back to Mother +Church; return not to the wicked world. O Khalid, +we must inherit the Kingdom of Allah, and we can not +do so by being anarchist like the prowlers of the forest. +Meditate on the insignificance and evanescence +of human life.’</p> +<p>“‘But it lies within us, O my Brother, to make it +significant and eternal.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span></p> +<p>“‘Yes, truly, in the bosom of Mother Church. +Come back to your Mother––come to the Hermitage––let +us pass this life together.’</p> +<p>“‘And what will you do, if in the end you discover +that I am in the right?’</p> +<p>“Here he paused a moment, and, casting on me a +benignant glance, makes this reply: ‘Then, I will +rejoice, rejoice,’ he gasped; ‘for we shall both be in the +right. You will become an anarchist like me and not +against the wretched authorities of the world, but +against your real enemies, Instinct and Reason.’</p> +<p>“And thus, now and then, he would salt his argument +with a pinch of casuistic wit. Once he was hard +set, and, to escape the alternatives of the situation, he +condescended to tell me the story of his first and only +love.</p> +<p>“‘In my youth,’ said the Hermit, ‘I was a shoemaker, +and not a little fastidious as a craftsman. In +fact, I am, and always have been, an extremist, a purist. +I can not tolerate the cobblings of life. Either +do your work skilfully, devotedly, earnestly, or do it +not. So, as a shoemaker, I succeeded very well. +Truth to tell, my work was as good, as neat, as elegant +as that of the best craftsman in Beirut. And you +know, Beirut is noted for its shoemakers. Yes, I was +successful as any of them, and I counted among my +customers the bishop of the diocese himself. One day, +forgive me, Allah! a young girl, the daughter of a +peasant neighbour, comes into the shop to order a pair +of shoes. In taking the measure of her foot––but I +must not linger on these details. A shoemaker can +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span> +not fail to notice the shape of his customer’s foot. +Well, I measured, too, her ankle––ah, forgive me, +Allah!</p> +<p>“‘In brief, when the shoes were finished––I spent +a whole day in the finishing touches––I made her a +present of them. And she, in recognition of my favor, +made a plush tobacco bag, on which my name was +worked in gold threads, and sent it to me, wrapped in +a silk handkerchief, with her brother. Now, that is +the opening chapter. I will abruptly come to the last, +skipping the intermediate parts, for they are too silly, +all of them. I will only say that I was as earnest, as +sincere, as devoted in this affair of love as I was in +my craft. Of a truth, I was mad about both.</p> +<p>“‘Now the closing chapter. One day I went to see +her––we were engaged––and found she had gone to +the spring for water. I follow her there and find her +talking to a young man, a shoemaker like myself. No, +he was but a cobbler. On the following day, going +again to see her, I find this cobbler there. I remonstrate +with her, but in vain. And what is worse, she +had sent to him the shoes I made, to be repaired. He +was patching my own work! I swallowed my ire and +went back to my shop. A week later, to be brief, I +went there again, and what I beheld made my body +shiver. She, the wench. Forgive me, Allah! had her +hands around his neck and her lips––yes, her lying +lips, on his cheek! No, no; even then I did not utter +a word. I could but cry in the depth of my heart. +How can woman be so faithless, so treacherous––in +my heart I cried. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span></p> +<p>“‘It was a terrible shock; and from it I lay in bed +for days with chills and fever. Now, when I recovered, +I was determined on pursuing a new course of +life. No longer would I measure women’s feet. I +sold my stock, closed my shop, and entered the monastery. +I heard afterwards that she married that young +cobbler; emigrated with him to America; deserted him +there; returned to her native village; married again, +and fled with her second husband to South Africa. +Allah be praised! even He appreciates the difference +between a shoemaker and a cobbler; and the bad woman +He gives to the bad craftsman. That is why I say, +Never be a cobbler, whatever you do.</p> +<p>“‘But in the monastery––draw near, I will speak +freely––in the monastery, too, there are cobblers and +shoemakers. There, too, is much ungodliness, much +treachery, much cobbling. Ah me, I must not speak +thus. Forgive me, Allah! But I promised to tell +you the whole story. Therefore, I will speak freely. +After passing some years in the monastery, years of +probation and grief they were, I fell sick with a virulent +fever. The abbot, seeing that there was little +chance of my recovery, would not send for the physician. +And so, I languished for weeks, suffering from +thirst and burning pains and hunger. I raved and +chattered in my delirium. I betrayed myself, too, +they told me. The monks my brothers, even during +my suffering, made a scandal of the love affair I related. +They said that I exposed my wounds and my +broken heart before the Virgin, that I sinned in thought +and word on my death-bed. Allah forgive them. It +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span> +may be, however; for I know not what I said and what +I did. But when I recovered, I was determined not to +remain in the monastery, and not to return to the +world. The wicked world, I disentangled myself absolutely +from its poisoned meshes. I came to the Hermitage, +to this place. And never, since I made my +second remove until now, have I known disease, or +sorrow, nor treachery, which is worse than both. Allah +be praised! One’s people, one’s brothers, one’s +lovers and friends, are a hindrance and botheration. +We are nothing, nothing: God is everything. God is +the only reality. And in God alone is my refuge. +That is my story in brief. If I did not like you, I +would not have told it, and so freely. Meditate upon +it, and on the insignificance and evanescence of human +life. The world is a snare, and a bad snare, at that. +For it can not hold us long enough in it to learn to +like it. It is a cobbler’s snare. The world is full of +cobblers, O Khalid. Come away from it; be an ideal +craftsman––be an extremist––be a purist––come +live with me. Let us join our souls in devotion, and +our hearts in love. Come, let us till and cultivate +this vineyard together.’</p> +<p>“And taking me by the hand, he shows me a cell +furnished with a hair-mat, a <i>masnad</i> (leaning pillow), +and a chair. ‘This cell,’ says he, ‘was occupied by +the Bishop when he came here for a spiritual exercise +of three weeks. It shall be yours if you come; it’s the +best cell in the Hermitage. Now, let us visit the +chapel.’ I go in with him, and as we are coming out, +I ask him child-like for a wafer. He brings the box +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span> +straightway, begs me to take as much as I desire, and +placing his hand on my shoulder, encircles me with +one of his benignant glances, saying, ‘Allah illumine +thy heart, O Khalid.’ ‘Allah hear thy prayer,’ I reply. +And we part in tears.”</p> +<p>Here Khalid bursts in ecstasy about the higher spiritual +kingdom, and chops a little logic about the I and +the not-I, the Reality and the non-Reality.––“God,” +says the Hermit. “Thought,” says the +Idealist, “that is the only Reality.” And what is +Thought, and what is God, and what is Matter, and +what is Spirit? They are the mysterious vessels of +Life, which are always being filled by Love and emptied +by Logic. “The external world,” says the Materialist––“Does +not exist,” says the Idealist. “’Tis +immaterial if it does or not,” says the Hermit. And +what if the three are wrong? The Universe, knowable +and unknowable, will it be affected a whit by it? +If the German Professor’s Chair of Logic and Philosophy +were set up in the Hermitage, would anything be +gained or lost? Let the <i>I</i> deny the stars, and they +will nevertheless roll in silence above it. Let the not-I +crush this I, this “thinking reed,” and the higher universal +I, rising above the stars and flooding the sidereal +heavens with light, will warm, remold, and regenerate +the world.</p> +<p>“I can conceive of a power,” writes Khalid in that +vexing Manuscript, “which can create a beautiful +parti-colored sun-flower of the shattered fragments of +Idealism, Materialism, and my Hermit’s theology. +Why not, if in the New World––” And here, of a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span> +sudden, to surprise and bewilder us, he drags in Mrs. +Eddy and the Prophet Dowie yoked under the yoke of +Whitman. He marks the <i>Key to Scripture</i> with blades +from <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, and such fuel as he gathers from +both, he lights with an ember borrowed from the chariot +to Elijah. And thus, for ten whole pages, beating +continually, now in the dark of Metaphysics, now in +the dusk of Science; losing himself in the tangled +bushes of English Materialism, and German Mysticism, +and Arabic Sufism; calling now to Berkeley, now +to Hackel; meeting with Spencer here, with Al-Gazzaly +there; and endeavoring to extricate himself in the +end with some such efforts as “the Natural being +Negativity, the Spiritual must be the opposite of that, +and both united in God form the Absolute,” etc., etc. +But we shall not give ourselves further pain in laying +before the English reader the like heavy and unwieldy +lumber. Whoever relishes such stuff, and can +digest it, need not apply to Khalid; for, in this case, +he is but a poor third-hand caterer. Better go to the +Manufacturers direct; they are within reach of every +one in this Age of Machinery and Popular Editions. +But there are passages here, of which Khalid can say, +‘The Mortar at least is mine.’ And in this Mortar +he mixes and titrates with his Neighbour’s Pestle some +of his fantasy and insight. Of these we offer a sample:</p> +<p>“I say with psychologists, as the organism, so is the +personality. The revelation of the Me is perfect in +proportion to the sound state of the Medium. But +according to the Arabic proverb, the jar oozes of its +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span> +contents. If these be of a putridinous mixture, therefore, +no matter how sound the jar, the ooze is not going +to smell of ambergris and musk. So, it all depends +on the contents with which the Potter fills his +jugs and pipkins, I assure you. And if the contents +are good and the jar is sound, we get such excellence +of soul as is rare among mortals. If the contents are +excellent and the jar is cracked, the objective influence +will then predominate, and putrescence, soon or +late, will set in. Now, the Me in the majority of +mankind comes to this world in a cracked pipkin, and +it oozes out entirely as soon as it liquifies in youth. +The pipkin, therefore, goes through life empty and +cracked, ever sounding flat and false. While in +others the Me is enclosed in a sealed straw-covered +flask and can only be awakened by either evaporation +or decapitation, in other words, by a spiritual revolution. +And in the very few among mortals, it emerges +out of the iron calyx of a flower of red-hot steel, or +flows from the transparent, odoriferous bosom of a +rose of light. In the first we have a Cæsar, an Alexander, +a Napoleon; in the second, a Buddha, a Socrates, +a Christ.</p> +<p>“But consider that Science, in the course of psychological +analysis, speaks of Christ, Napoleon, and +Shakespeare, as patients. Such exalted states of the +soul, such activity of the mind, such exuberance of +spiritual strength, are but the results of the transformation +of the Me in the subject, we are told, and +this transformation has its roots in the organism. +But why, I ask, should there be such a gulf between +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span> +individuals, such a difference in their Mes, when a difference +in the organism is a trifle in comparison? +How account for the ebb and flow in the souls, or let +us say, in the expression of the individualities, of Mohammad +the Prophet, for instance, and Mohammad +the camel-herd? And why is it in psychological +states that are similar, the consciousness of the one is +like a mountain peak, so to speak, and that of the +other like a cave?</p> +<p>“A soldier is severely wounded in battle and a +change takes place in his nervous organism, by reason +of which he loses his organic consciousness; or, to speak +in the phraseology of the psychologist, he loses the +sense of his own body, of his physical personality. +The cause of this change is probably the wound received; +but the nature of the change can be explained +only by hypotheses, which are become matters of +choice and taste––and sometimes of personal interest +among scientists. Now, when the question is resolved +by hypothesis, is not even a layman free to +offer one? If I say the Glass is shattered and the +Me within is sadly reflected, or in a more tragic instance +the light of the Me runs out, would I not be +offering thee a solution as dear and tenable as that +of the professor of psychology?”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN' id='CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3>THE VOICE OF THE DAWN</h3> +</div> +<p>Breathless but scathless, we emerge from +the mazes of metaphysics and psychology where +man and the soul are ever playing hide-and-seek; and +where Khalid was pleased to display a little of his +killing skill in fencing. To those mazes, we promise +the Reader, we shall not return again. In our present +sojourn, however, it is necessary to go through the +swamps and Jordans as well as the mountains and +plains. Otherwise, we would not have lingered a +breathing while in the lowlands of mystery. But now +we know how far Khalid went in seeking health, and +how deep in seeking the Me, which he would disentangle +from the meshes of philosophy and anchoretism, +and bring back to life, triumphant, loving, joyous, +free. And how far he succeeded in this, we shall soon +know.</p> +<p>On the morning of his last day in the pines, meanwhile, +we behold him in the chariot of Apollo serenading +the stars. He no longer would thrust a poker +down his windpipe; for he breathes as freely as the +mountain bears and chirps as joyously as the swallows. +And his lungs? The lungs of the pines are not as +sound. And his eyes? Well, he can gaze at the rising +sun without adverting the head or squinting or +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span> +shedding a tear. Now, as a sign of this healthy state +of body and mind, and his healthier resolve to return +to the world, to live opposite his friend the Hermit +on the other antipode of life, and furthermore, as a +relief from the exhausting tortuosities of thought in +the last Chapter, we give here a piece of description +notably symbolical.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“I slept very early last night; the lights in the +chapel of the abbey were still flickering, and the +monks were chanting the complines. The mellow +music of a drizzle seemed to respond sombrely to the +melancholy echo of the choir. About midnight the +rain beat heavily on the pine roof of the forest, and +the thunder must have struck very near, between me +and the monks. But rising very early this morning +to commune for the last time with the pensive silence +of dawn in the pines, I am greeted, as I peep out of +my booth, by a knot of ogling stars. But where is +the opaque breath of the storm, where are the clouds? +None seem to hang on the horizon, and the sky is as +limpid and clear as the dawn of a new life. Glorious, +this interval between night and dawn. Delicious, the +flavour of the forest after a storm. Intoxicating, the +odours of the earth, refreshed and satisfied. Divine, +the whispers of the morning air, divine!</p> +<p>“But where is the rain, and where are the thunderbolts +of last night? The forest and the atmosphere +retain but the sweet and scented memories of their +storming passion. Such a December morning in these +mountain heights is a marvel of enduring freshness and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span> +ardour. All round one gets a vivid illusion of Spring. +The soft breezes caressing the pines shake from their +boughs the only evidence of last night’s storm. And +these are more like the dew of Summer than the lees +of the copious tears of parting Autumn. A glorious +morning, too glorious to be enjoyed by a solitary soul. +But near the rivulet yonder stands a fox sniffing the +morning air. Welcome, my friend. Welcome to my +coffee, too.</p> +<p>“I gather my mulberry sticks, kindle them with a +handful of dried pine needles, roast my coffee beans, +and grind them while the water boils in the pot. In +half an hour I am qualified to go about my business. +The cups and coffee utensils I wash and restore to +the chest––and what else have I to do to-day? Pack +up? Allah be praised, I have little packing to do. +I would pack up, if I could, a ton of the pine air and +the forest perfume, a strip of this limpid sky, and a +cluster of those stars. Never at such an hour and +in this season of the year did I enjoy such transporting +limpidity in the atmosphere and such reassuring +expansiveness on the horizon. Why, even the stars, +the constellations, and the planets, are all here to enjoy +this with me. Not one of them, I think, is +absent.</p> +<p>“The mountains are lost in the heavens. They are +seeking, as it were, the sisters of the little flowers +sleeping at their feet. The moon, resembling a +crushed orange, is sinking in the Mediterranean. +The outlines of earth and sky all round are vague, indistinct. +Were not the sky so clear and the atmosphere +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span> +so rare, thus affording the planets and the constellations +to shed their modicum of light, the dusk of +this hour would have deprived the scene of much of +its pensive beauty of colour and shade. But there is +Pegasus, Andromeda, Aldebaran, not to mention +Venus and Jupiter and Saturn,––these alone can conquer +the right wing of darkness. And there is Mercury, +like a lighted cresset shaken by the winds, +flapping his violet wings above the Northeastern horizon; +and Mars, like a piece of gold held out by +the trembling hand of a miser, is sinking in the blue +of the sea with Neptune; the Pleiades are stepping +on the trail of the blushing moon; the Balance lingers +behind to weigh the destinies of the heroes who are +to contend with the dawn; while Venus, peeping from +her tower over Mt. Sanneen, is sending love vibrations +to all. I would tell thee more if I knew. But +I swear to thee I never read through the hornbook of +the heavens. But if I can not name and locate more +of the stars, I can tell thee this about them <ins class="trchange" title="Original may be ';'">all:</ins> they +are the embers of certainty eternally glowing in the +ashes of doubt.</p> +<p>“The Eastern horizon is yet lost in the dusk; the +false dawn is spreading the figments of its illusion; +the trees in the distance seem like rain-clouds; and +the amorphous shadows of the monasteries on the +mountain heights and hilltops all around, have not +yet developed into silhouettes. Everything, except +the river in the wadi below, is yet asleep. Not even +the swallows are astir. Ah, but my neighbour yonder +is; the light in the loophole of his hut sends a struggling +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span> +ray through the mulberries, and the tintinnabulations +of his daughter’s loom are like so many stones +thrown into this sleeping pond of silence. The loom-girl +in these parts is never too early at her harness +and shuttle. I know a family here whose loom and +spinning wheel are never idle: the wife works at the +loom in the day and her boy at the wheel; while in +the night, her husband and his old mother keep up +the game. And this hardly secures for them their +flour and lentils the year round. But I concern not +myself now with questions of economy.</p> +<p>“There, another of my neighbours is awake; and +the hinges of his door, shrieking terribly, fiendishly, +startle the swallows from their sleep. And here are +the muleteers, yodling, as they pass by, their</p> +<div class="poem"> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">‘</span>Dhome, Dhome, Dhome,<br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>O mother, he is come;</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Hide me, hide me quickly,</span><br /> +<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>And say I am not home.’</span><br /></p> +</div> +<p>“Lo, the horizon is disentangling itself from the +meshes of darkness. The dust of haze and dusk on +the scalloped edges of the mountains, is blown away +by the first breath of dawn. The lighter grey of the +horizon is mirrored in the clearer blue of the sea. +But the darkness seems to gather on the breast of the +sloping hills. Conquered on the heights, it retreats +into the wadi. Ay, the darkest hour is nearest the +dawn.</p> +<p>“Now the light grey is become a lavender; the outlines +of earth and sky are become more distinct; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span> +the mountain peaks, the dusky veil being rent, are +separating themselves from the heaven’s embrace; the +trees in the distance no longer seem like rain-clouds; +and the silhouettes of the monasteries are casting off +the cloak of night. The lavender is melting now into +heliotrope, and the heliotrope is bursting here and +there in pink; the stars are waning, the constellations +are dying out, and the planets are following in their +wake. The darkness, too, which has not yet retreated +from the wadi, must soon follow; for the front guard +of the dawn is near. Behold the shimmer of their +steel! And see, in the dust of the retreating darkness, +the ochre veins of the lime cliffs are now perceptible. +And that huge pillar, which looked like +the standard-bearer of Night, is transformed into a +belfry; and a monk can be seen peeping through the +ogive beneath it. Mt. Sanneen, its black and ochre +scales thrown in relief on a coat of grey, is like a +huge panther sleeping over the many-throated ravine +of Kisrawan. Ah, the pink flower of dawn is bursting +in golden glory, thrilling in orange and saffron, +flaming with the ardency of love and hope. The +dawn! The glow and glamour of the Eastern +dawn!...</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“The dawn of a new life, of a better, purer, +healthier, higher spiritual kingdom. I would have its +temples and those of the vast empire of wealth and +material well-being, stand side by side. Ay, I would +even rear an altar to the Soul in the temple of Materialism, +and an altar to Materialism in the temple +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span> +of the Soul. Each shall have its due, each shall glory +in the sacred purity and strength of life; each shall +develop and expand, but never at the expense of the +other. I will have neither the renunciation which +ends in a kind of idiocy dignified with a philosophic +or a theologic name, nor the worldliness which ends +in bestiality. I am a citizen of two worlds––a citizen +of the Universe; I owe allegiance to two kingdoms. +In my heart are those stars and that sun, and +the LIGHT of those stars and that sun.</p> +<p>“Yes, I am equally devoted both to the material +and the spiritual. And when the two in me are opposed +to each other, conflicting, inimical, obdurate, +my attitude towards them is neither that of my friend +the Hermit nor that of my European superman. I +sit down, shut my eyes, compose myself, and concentrate +my mind on the mobility of things. If the +clouds are moving, why, I have but to sit down and +let them move away. I let my No-will, in this +case, dominate my will, and that serves my purpose +well. To be sure, every question tormenting us +would resolve itself favourably, or at least indifferently, +if we did not always rush in, wildly, +madly, and arrogate to ourselves such claims of authority +and knowledge as would make Olympus +shake with laughter. The resignation and passiveness +of the spirit should always alternate equitably +with the terrible strivings of the will. For the dervish +who whirls himself into a foaming ecstasy of devotion +and the strenuous American who works himself +up to a sweating ecstasy of gain, are the two poles +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span> +of the same absurdity, the two ends of one evil. Indeed, +to my way of thinking, the man on the Stock +Exchange and the demagogue on the stump, for instance, +are brothers to the blatant corybant.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC' id='CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>THE SELF ECSTATIC</h3> +</div> +<p>To graft the strenuosity of Europe and America +upon the ease of the Orient, the materialism of +the West upon the spirituality of the East,––this to +us seems to be the principal aim of Khalid. But +often in his wanderings and divagations of thought +does he give us fresh proof of the truism that no two +opposing elements meet and fuse without both losing +their original identity. You may place the bit of contentment +in the mouth of ambition, so to speak, and +jog along in your sterile course between the vast +wheat fields groaning under the thousand-toothed +plough and the gardens of delight swooning with devotion +and sensuality. But cross ambition with contentment +and you get the hinny of indifference or the +monster of fatalism. We do not say that indifference +at certain passes of life, and certain stages, is not +healthy, and fatalism not powerful; but both we believe +are factors as potent in commerce and trade as +pertinacity and calculation. “But is there not room in +the garden of delight for a wheat field?” asks Khalid. +“Can we not apply the bow to the telegraph wires of +the world and make them the vehicle of music as of +stock quotations? Can we not simplify life as we +are simplifying the machinery of industry? Can we +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span> +not consecrate its Temple to the Trinity of Devotion, +Art, and Work, or Religion, Romance, and +Trade?”</p> +<p>This seems to be the gist of Khalid’s gospel. This, +through the labyrinths of doubt and contradiction, is +the pinnacle of faith he would reach. And often in +this labyrinthic gloom, where a gleam of light from +some recess of thought or fancy reveals here a Hermit +in his cloister, there an Artist in his studio, below a +Nawab in his orgies, above a Broker on the Stock Exchange, +we have paused to ask a question about these +glaring contrarieties in his life and thought. And +always would he make this reply: “I have frequently +moved and removed between extremes; I have often +worked and slept in opposing camps. So, do not expect +from me anything like the consistency with which +the majority of mankind solder and shape their life. +Deep thought seems often, if not always, inconsistent +at the first blush. The intensity and passiveness of +the spirit are as natural in their attraction and repulsion +as the elements, whose harmony is only patent +on the surface. Consistency is superficial, narrow, +one-sided. I am both ambitious, therefore, and contented. +My ambition is that of the earth, the ever +producing and resuscitating earth, doing the will of +God, combatting the rasure of time; and my contentment +is that of the majestic pines, faring alike in +shade and sunshine, in calm and storm, in winter as +in spring. Ambition and Contentment are the night +and day of my life-journey. The day makes room +for the fruits of solacement which the night brings; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span> +and the night gives a cup of the cordial of contentment +to make good the promise of day to day.</p> +<p>“Ay, while sweating in the tortuous path, I never +cease to cherish the feeling in which I was nourished; +the West for me means ambition, the East, contentment: +my heart is ever in the one, my soul, in the +other. And I care not for the freedom which does +not free both; I seek not the welfare of the one without +the other. But unlike my Phœnician ancestors, +the spiritual with me shall not be limited by the +natural; it shall go far above it, beyond or below it, +saturating, sustaining, purifying what in external nature +is but a symbol of the invisible. Nor is my idea +of the spiritual developed in opposition to nature, and +in a manner inimical to its laws and claims, as in +Judaism and Christianity.</p> +<p>“The spiritual and natural are so united, so inextricably +entwined around each other, that I can not +conceive of them separately, independently. And +both in the abstract sense are purportless and ineffectual +without Consciousness. They are blind, dumb +forces, beautiful, barbaric pageants, careering without +aim or design through the immensities of No-where +and No-time, if they are not impregnated and +nourished with Thought, that is to say, with Consciousness, +vitalised and purified. You may impregnate +them with philosophy, nourish them with art; +they both emanate from them, and remain as skidding +clouds, as shining mirages, as wandering dust, until +they find their exponent in Man.</p> +<p>“I tell thee then that Man, that is to say Consciousness, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span> +vitalised and purified, in other words Thought––that +alone is real and eternal. And Man is supreme, +only when he is the proper exponent of Nature, +and spirit, and God: the three divine sources from +which he issues, in which he is sustained, and to +which he must return. Nature and the spiritual, +without this embodied intelligence, this somatic being, +called man or angel or ape, are as ermine on a +wax figure. The human factor, the exponent intelligence, +the intellective and sensuous faculties, these, +my Brothers, are whole, sublime, holy, only when, in +a state of continuous expansion, the harmony among +themselves and the affirmative ties between them and +Nature, are perfect and pure. No, the spiritual ought +not and can not be free from the sensuous, even the +sensual. The true life, the full life, the life, pure, +robust, sublime, is that in which all the nobler and +higher aspirations of the soul AND THE BODY are +given free and unlimited scope, with the view of developing +the divine strain in Man, and realising to +some extent the romantic as well as the material +hopes of the race. God, Nature, Spirit, Passion––Passion, +Spirit, Nature, God––in some such panorama +would I paint the life of a highly developed being. +Any of these elements lacking, and the life is +wanting, defective, impure.</p> +<p>“I have no faith in men who were conceived in a +perfunctory manner, on a pragmatical system, so to +speak; the wife receiving her husband in bed as she +would a tedious guest at an afternoon tea. Only two +flames uniting produce a third; but a flame and a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span> +name, or a flame and a spunge, produce a hiff and +nothing. Oh, that the children of the race are all +born phœnix-like in the fire of noble and sacred +passion, in the purgatory, as it were, of Love. What +a race, what a race we should have. What men, what +women! Yes, that is how the children of the earth +should be conceived, not on a pragmatical system, in +an I-don’t-care-about-the-issue manner. I believe in +evoking the spirit, in dreaming a little about the gods +of Olympus, and a little, too, about the gods of the +abysmal depths, before the bodily communion. And +in earnest, O my Brother, let us do this, despite +what old Socrates says about the propriety and wisdom +of approaching your wife with prudence and +gravity....”</p> +<p>And thus, if we did not often halloo, Khalid, like +a huntsman pursuing his game, would lose himself in +the pathless, lugubrious damp of the forest. If we +did not prevent him at times, holding firmly to his +coat-tail, he would desperately pursue the ghost of +his thoughts even on such precipitous paths to those +very depths in which Socrates and Montaigne always +felt at home. But he, a feverish, clamorous, obstreperous +stripling of a Beduin, what chance has he +in extricating his barbaric instincts from such thorny +hedges of philosophy? And had he not quoted Socrates +in that last paragraph, it would have been expunged. +No, we are not utterly lost to the fine sense +of propriety of this chaste and demure age. But no +matter how etiolated and sickly the thought, it regains +its colour and health when it breathes the literary air. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244' name='page_244'></a>244</span> +Prudery can not but relish the tang of lubricity when +flavoured with the classical. Moreover, if Socrates +and Montaigne speak freely of these midnight matters, +why not Khalid, if he has anything new to say, +any good advice to offer. But how good and how +new are his views let the Reader judge.</p> +<p>’Tis very well to speak “of evoking the spirit before +the bodily communion,” but those who can boast +of a deeper experience in such matters will find in +Socrates’ dictum, quoted by Montaigne, the very gist +of reason and wisdom. Those wise ones were as +far-sighted as they were far gone. And moderation, +as it was justly said once, is the respiration of the +philosopher. But Khalid, though always invoking the +distant luminary of transcendentalism for light, can +not arrogate to himself this high title. The expansion +of all the faculties, and the reduction of the demands +of society and the individual to the lowest +term;––this, as we understand it, is the aim of transcendentalism. +And Khalid’s distance from the orbit +of this grand luminary seems to vary with his moods; +and these vary with the librations and revolutions of +the moon. Hallucinated, moonstruck Khalid, your +harmonising and affinitative efforts do not always +succeed. That is our opinion of the matter. And +the Reader, who is no respecter of editors, might quarrel +with it, for all we know.</p> +<p>Only by standing firmly in the centre can one preserve +the equilibrium of one’s thoughts. But Khalid +seldom speaks of equilibrium: he cares not how he +fares in falling on either side of the fence, so he knows +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span> +what lies behind. Howbeit, we can not conceive of how +the affinity of the mind and soul with the senses, and +the harmony between these and nature, are possible, +if not exteriorised in that very superman whom Khalid +so much dreads, and on whom he often casts a +lingering glance of admiration. So there you are. +We must either rise to a higher consciousness on the +ruins of a lower one, of no-consciousness, rather, or +go on seeming and simulating, aspiring, perspiring, +and suffering, until our turn comes. Death denies no +one. Meanwhile, Khalid’s rhapsodies on his way +back to the city, we shall heed and try to echo.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>“On the high road of the universal spirit,” he +sings, “the world, the whole world before me, thrilling +and radiating, chanting of freedom, faith, hope, +health and power, and joy. Back to the City, O +Khalid,––the City where Truth, and Faith, and +Honesty, and Wisdom, are ever suffering, ever +struggling, ever triumphing. No, it matters not with +me if the spirit of intelligence and power, of freedom +and culture, which must go the rounds of the earth, +is always dominated by the instinct of self-interest. +That must be; that is inevitable. But the instinct of +self-interest, O my Brother, goes with the flesh; the +body-politic dies; nations rise and fall; and the eternal +Spirit, the progenitor of all ideals, passes to better +or worse hands, still chastening and strengthening +itself in the process.</p> +<p>“The Orient and Occident, the male and female of +the Spirit, the two great streams in which the body +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span> +and soul of man are refreshed, invigorated, purified––of +both I sing, in both I glory, to both I consecrate +my life, for both I shall work and suffer and die. +My Brothers, the most highly developed being is +neither European nor Oriental; but rather he who +partakes of the finer qualities of both the European +genius and the Asiatic prophet.</p> +<p>“Give me, ye mighty nations of the West, the +material comforts of life; and thou, my East, let me +partake of thy spiritual heritage. Give me, America, +thy hand; and thou, too, Asia. Thou land of origination, +where Light and Spirit first arose, disdain not +the gifts which the nations of the West bring thee; +and thou land of organisation and power, where Science +and Freedom reign supreme, disdain not the +bounties of the sunrise.</p> +<p>“If the discoveries and attainments of Science will +make the body of man cleaner, healthier, stronger, +happier, the inexhaustible Oriental source of romantic +and spiritual beauty will never cease to give the soul +of man the restfulness and solacement it is ever craving. +And remember, Europa, remember, Asia, that +foreign culture is as necessary to the spirit of a nation +as is foreign commerce to its industries. Elsewise, +thy materialism, Europa, or thy spiritualism, Asia, no +matter how trenchant and impregnable, no matter +how deep the foundation, how broad the superstructure +thereof, is vulgar, narrow, mean––is nothing, in +a word, but parochialism.</p> +<p>“I swear that neither religious nor industrial slavery +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span> +shall forever hold the world in political servitude. +No; the world shall be free of the authority, absolute, +blind, tyrannical, of both the Captains of Industry +and the High Priests of the Temple. And who +shall help to free it? Science alone can not do it; +Science and Faith must do it.</p> +<p>“I say with thee, O Goethe, ‘Light, more light!’ +I say with thee, O Tolstoi, ‘Love, more love!’ I +say with thee, O Ibsen, ‘Will, more will!’ Light, +Love, and Will––the one is as necessary as the +other; the one is dangerous without the others. +Light, Love, and Will, are the three eternal, vital +sources of the higher, truer, purer cosmic life.</p> +<p>“Light, Love, and Will––with corals and pearls +from their seas would I crown thee, O my City. In +these streams would I baptise thy children, O my +City. The mind, and the heart, and the soul of man +I would baptise in this mountain lake, this high Jordan +of Truth, on the flourishing and odoriferous +banks of Science and Religion, under the sacred <i>sidr</i> +of Reason and Faith.</p> +<p>“Ay, in the Lakes of Light, Love, and Will, I +would baptise all mankind. For in this alone is +power and glory, O my European Brothers; in this +alone is faith and joy, O my Brothers of Asia.</p> +<p>“The Hudson, the Mississippi, the Amazon, the +Thames, the Seine, the Rhine, the Danube, the Euphrates, +the Ganges––every one of these great +streams shall be such a Jordan in the future. In +every one of them shall flow the confluent Rivers of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span> +Light, Love, and Will. In every one of them shall +sail the barks of the higher aspirations and hopes of +mankind.</p> +<p>“I come now to be baptised, O my City. I come +to slake my thirst in thy Jordan. I come to launch +my little skiff, to do my little work, to pay my little +debt.</p> +<p>“In thy public-squares, O my City, I would raise +monuments to Nature; in thy theatres to Poesy and +Thought; in thy bazaars to Art; in thy homes, to +Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'Good-will' across lines">Goodwill;</ins> +in thy courts, to Power and Mercy; in thy +schools, to Simplicity; in thy hospitals, to Faith; and +in thy public-halls to Freedom and Culture. And all +these, without Light, Love, and Will, are but hollow +affairs, high-sounding inanities. Without Light, +Love, and Will, even thy Nabobs in the end shall +curse thee; and with these, thy hammals under their +burdens shall thank the heavens under which thy +domes and turrets and minarets arise.”</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY' id='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>ON THE OPEN HIGHWAY</h3> +</div> +<p>And Khalid, packing his few worldly belongings +in one of his reed baskets, gives the rest to his +neighbours, leaves his booth in the pines to the swallows, +and bids the monks and his friend the Hermit +farewell. The joy of the wayfaring! Now, where +is the jubbah, the black jubbah of coarse wool, which +we bought from one of the monks? He wraps himself +in it, tightens well his shoe-strings, draws his fur +cap over his ears, carries his basket on his back, takes +up his staff, lights his cigarette, and resolutely sets +forth. The joy of the wayfaring! We accompany +him on the open highway, through the rocky wilderness, +down to the fertile plains, back to the city. +For the account he gives us of his journey enables +us to fill up the lacuna in Shakib’s <i>Histoire Intime</i>, +before we can have recourse to it again.</p> +<p>“From the cliffs ’neath which the lily blooms,” he +muses as he issues out of the forest and reaches the top +of the mountain, “to the cliffs round which the eagles +flit,––what a glorious promontory! What a contrast +at this height, in this immensity, between the arid +rocky haunts of the mountain bear and eagle and the +spreading, vivifying verdure surrounding the haunts of +man. On one side are the sylvan valleys, the thick +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span> +grown ravines, the meandering rivulets, the fertile +plains, the silent villages, and on the distant horizon, +the sea, rising like a blue wall, standing like a stage +scene; on the other, a howling immensity of boulders +and prickly shrubs and plants, an arid wilderness––the +haunt of the eagle, the mountain bear, and the +goatherd. One step in this direction, and the entire +panorama of verdant hills and valleys is lost to view. +Its spreading, riant beauty is hidden behind that little +cliff. I penetrate through this forest of rocks, where +the brigands, I am told, lie in ambush for the caravans +traveling between the valley of the Leontes and the +villages of the lowland. But the brigands can not +harm a dervish; my penury is my amulet––my salvation.</p> +<p>“The horizon, as I proceed, shrinks to a distance of +ten minutes’ walk across. And thus, from one circle +of rocks to another, I pass through ten of them before +I hear again the friendly voice of the rill, and behold +again the comforting countenance of the sylvan slopes. +I reach a little grove of slender poplars, under the brow +of a little hill, from which issues a little limpid stream +and runs gurgling through the little ferns and bushes +down the heath. I swing from the road and follow +this gentle rill; I can not find a better companion now. +But the wanton lures me to a village far from the road +on the other side of the gorge. Now, I must either +retrace my steps to get to it by a long detour, or cross +the gorge, descending to the deep bottom and ascending +in a tangled and tortuous path to reach the main +road on the breast of the opposite escarpment. Here is +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span> +a short-cut which is long and weary. It lures me as +the stream; it cheats me with a name. And when I +am again on the open road, I look back with a sigh of +relief on the dangers I had passed. I can forgive the +luring rill, which still smiles to me innocently from +afar, but not the deluding, ensnaring ravine. The +muleteer who saw me struggling through the tangled +bushes up the pathless, hopeless steep, assures me that +my mother is a pious woman, else I would have slipped +and gone into an hundred pieces among the rocks below. +‘Her prayers have saved thee,’ quoth he; ‘thank +thy God.’</p> +<p>“And walking together a pace, he points to the +dizzy precipice around which I climbed and adds: +‘Thou seest that rock? I hallooed to thee when thou +wert creeping around it, but thou didst not hear me. +From that same rock a woodman fell last week, and, +falling, looked like a potted bird. He must have died +before he reached the ground. His bones are scattered +among those rocks. Thank thy God and thy +mother. Her prayers have saved thee.’</p> +<p>“My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how +long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, +even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the +unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as +thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming +as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, +sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. +For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, +and for his salvation? How many beads each night +dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span> +thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating +thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever +since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.––Let me +kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let +me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.––No, +I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must +sit me a spell beneath this pine––and weep. O Khalid, +wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of +this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a +sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a +grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there +is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in +ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy +mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter +how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter +how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are +always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the +ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. +Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead +in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, +I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined +thee, O Khalid.––</p> +<p>“There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to +the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in +the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd +and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his +flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful +reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, +and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think +Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham’s servant’s +eyes than was this wight in mine. ‘Where dost thou +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span> +sleep?’ I ask, ‘Under this rock,’ he replies. And he +shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished +with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the +picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil +lamp, ever burning, I am told. ‘And this altar,’ quoth +the shepherd, ‘was my mother’s. When she died she +bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, +and keep the oil burning in her memory.’ Saying +which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, +is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume +my march.</p> +<p>“At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, +I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies +a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar +relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the +mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I +hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making +kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon +peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which +he tends and cultivates better than he does his children.</p> +<p>“When I stood on the top of the steep, the village +glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a +strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was +above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled +houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters +and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on +the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on +its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred +lights. I descend into the village and stop before the +first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span> +little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her +mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a +comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand +manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, +amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre +and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns +my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. +There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an +alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had +been in America. He does not ask me the conventional +questions about my religious persuasion; but +after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers +me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the +coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest +for the night.––</p> +<p>“Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a +cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of +ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes +trampling upon Plato’s pride. I survey the hall, +which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and +in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the +wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among +which I noticed those of the King and Queen of +England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon +by an American artist, an autographed copy of +an English Duke’s, and a large photograph of a banquet +of one of the political Clubs of New York. On +the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card +album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more +than once in the United States. And knowing that I, +too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span> +of his broken English. His father, he tells me, +speaks English even as good as he does, having been a +dragoman for forty years.</p> +<p>“After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds +for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture.” +Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was +anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in +the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I +Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, +and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from +America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty +of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. +And he excuses himself, saying, “I am waygone from +the day’s wayfaring.” The instrument of torture is +stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where +a mattress is spread for him on the floor.</p> +<p>“In the morning,” he continues, “mine host accompanies +me through the populous village, which is +noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, +this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and +its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people +cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly +artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and +weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt +and cast into bells; and from their native soil they +dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. +The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in +other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can +the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, +a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his +church. The sound of these foundries’ anvils, translated +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span> +into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be +heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria.</p> +<p>“We descend to the potteries below, not on the +carriage road which serpentines through the village, +and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep +path, between the noise of the loom and spinning +wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. +And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol +thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated +in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we +except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, +nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient +and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah +carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder +did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such +vessels did the widow, by Elijah’s miracle, multiply +her jug of oil.</p> +<p>“The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did +not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell +of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. ‘But the +proprietor,’ quoth mine host, ‘is very honourable, and +of a fine wit.’ As honourable as a sweater can be, I +thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a +piece. I know personally one of them, who is a +Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day +buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust +any of his employees at the scales; they do not know +how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. +Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the +weights makes a difference in his favour of more than +ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span> +of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant’s +pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can +satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised +thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the +cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private +chapel––he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs +of old, this khawaja––tells me many edifying things. +Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. +As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is +generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is +grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, +one must open his purse as often as he forces the +purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage +this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the +pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin +and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest +told me about his usurious propensities.</p> +<p>“What a contrast between him and the swarthy, +leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think +that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. +I can not believe that, to produce one +roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I +can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing +spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and +basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a +double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his +collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he +misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He +battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, +on extortion, on usury. His tree is better +manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span> +tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a +word, this great khawaja is what I call a political +coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre +and lustiness.</p> +<p>“But he is not the only example in the village of +this superabundance of health; the priests are many +more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition +to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed +with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, +has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds +with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, +in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, +can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye +swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! +Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns +thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, +thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, +as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as +beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy +pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish +as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered +with thy white-stone homes, peeping here +through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts +and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a +mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon +thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, +throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering +withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this +beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, +like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee +more; farewell. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span></p> +<p>“I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the +ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour’s +ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. +On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze +Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, +and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a +bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, +the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue +of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it +her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will +be happier and more prosperous under its régime, I +can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the +Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I +know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary +the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the +name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the +sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The +Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, +and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, +the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the +Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, +masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed +Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd’ul-Hamid. +’Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans +can serve the cause of the Virgin!</p> +<p>“I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and +mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and +behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, +standing before the monument, looks down upon me, +reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down +at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span> +my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my +mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For +thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For +thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this +inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. +My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my +tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. +Only thus is reconciliation possible.</p> +<p>“Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross +many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass +through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and +Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. +At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time +has spared enough to engage the interest of archæologists. +Let the Pères Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, +make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can +only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship +are the same to-day as they were in the days of +my Phœnician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well +for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed +figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death +of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman +near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures +there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of +Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble +mystery.</p> +<p>“At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are +ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a +few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was +consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women +of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span> +Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and +Adonis,––these, I believe, are one and the same. +Their myth borrowed from the Phœnicians, the Egyptians, +and the Romans, from either of the two. But +the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the +Phœnicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology +triumphs in its evolution.</p> +<p>“Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, +devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the +women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on +this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance +with their dust, I build my <i>athafa</i> (little kitchen), +Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the +three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, +kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet +oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. +I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the +Americans do.<a name='FNanchor_0004' id='FNanchor_0004'></a><a href='#Footnote_0004' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> I had as lief fry them in vinegar or +syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. +But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity +of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and +drink a little hot water after them? This savours of +originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. +Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate +over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break +a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span> +fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be +solesistically simple even in their kitchen.</p> +<p>“Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out +of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, +and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, +and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But +let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on +the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the +great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of +Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the +reign of Abd’ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods––who, +however, were content in being present and applauding +the devouring skill of the peptic host and +toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would +give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for +such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. +But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed +book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone +through the fruit course––and is not the olive a +fruit?––I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. +And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf +or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, +can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which +Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before +and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and +dishes I praise the good gods.</p> +<p>“And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug +my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three +hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated +in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge +mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span> +dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, +the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay +down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little +village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low +of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged +woman, who stands in her door before which is a +pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my +salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, ‘Be kind to +tarry overnight.’ But can one be kinder than such an +hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she +calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) +and bring some water for the stranger. ‘Methinks +thou wouldst wash thy feet,’ quoth she. Indeed, that +is as essential and refreshing, after a day’s walk, as +washing one’s face. I sit me down, therefore, under +the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and +the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, +pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from +her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the +pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put +on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket +near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely +but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are +spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the +corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of +beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; +and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and +a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and +smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached +to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a +bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span> +the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing +the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the +furniture and provision of mine hostess.</p> +<p>“Her son, a youth of not more than two score +years, returns from his day’s labour a while after I +had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe +and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet +him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. +Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth +and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of +water. After having washed, he enters, salaams +graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then +brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting +of only bread and olives. ‘Thou wilt overlook +our penury,’ she falters out; ‘here be all we +have.’ In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the +Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her +jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray +before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. +I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the +two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an +apology on the tray––the mother, abashed, protests––and +we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. +When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and +they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And +the mother, in taking hers, tells me naïvely, and with +a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a +cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. +And ’tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows +her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and +spark. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span></p> +<p>“She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and +rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is +a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated +to America, did not send a single piaster or even write +a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of +usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw +a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall +mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts +rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. +Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing +to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he +takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, +the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies.</p> +<p>“‘He could read and write, my son,’ quoth she, +sobbing; ‘of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous +in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of +the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there +a eulogium of his own composition, for which he +received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent +him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my +son. He wrote a beautiful hand––both Arabic and +French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. +Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never +live!’</p> +<p>“She then tells me how they lost their last head +of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night +they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, +sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and +carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of +her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the +village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span> +cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan +woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at +length of her sorrows, three mattresses––all she had––are +laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little +girl had to sleep with her mother.</p> +<p>“Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and +pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, +the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour’s walk, and +the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. +I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; +I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the +horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, +seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I +cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my +journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath +are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below +is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter +of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain +heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile +plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I +reach the immense building––the first or the last of +the village, according to your direction––which, from +the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A +huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture +altogether different from the conventional +Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three +pointed arches in the façade, and a gable of pink tiles; +but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental +arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of +place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard +by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span> +there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the +age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese +and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a +narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns +my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in +an injured air, after I had made known to her my +desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores.</p> +<p>“‘You may come in for breakfast,’ she adds; and +clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table +for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into +a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table +is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of +affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green +olives. The servant, who is curious to know my +name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells +me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, +and the castle, which is building, is their new +home.</p> +<p>“Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about +the grave of Renan’s sister. She pauses amazed, +blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me +from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions +with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, +I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer +to mine: ‘The sister of whom, thou sayst? That +Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? +Yes; his sister died and was buried here, +but no Christian remembers her for good. She must +have been a bad one like her brother, who was an +infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.––What +wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span> +Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away +from around the grave some stones and dust? Go +thou with him––(this to the servant) and show him +the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.’ +This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from +the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish.</p> +<p>“We come to the cemetery near the church in the +centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was +laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an +oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; +and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, +make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, +no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. +And of this I take up a handful, like ‘the idiot +Franje’; but instead of carrying it away, I press +therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near +the vault.––When the mothers and the sisters of these +sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these +kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred +purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then +we shall have, and what sisters!</p> +<p>“I pass through the village descending on the carriage +road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the +shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles +of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs +in which the archæologist finds somewhat to noise +abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially +necrophagous. For consider, what would become +of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield +somewhat of nourishment,––a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, +or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span> +I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I +can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise +and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business +of ‘cashing,’ as it were, the ruins and remains, the +ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Archæology for +archæology’s sake is pardonable; archæology for the +sake of writing a book is intolerable; and archæology +for lucre is abominable.</p> +<p>“At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phœnician +origin, which is occupied by the mudir of the +District. Entering the gate, near which is a chapel +consecrated to Our Lady of that name, where litigants, +when they can not prove their claims, are made +to swear to them, we pass through a court between +rows of Persian lilac trees, into a dark, stivy arcade +on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells used as +stables. Reaching the citadel proper, we mount a +high stairway to the loft occupied by the mudir. +This, too, is partitioned, but with cotton sheeting, into +various apartments.</p> +<p>“The zabtie, in zouave uniform, at the door, would +have me wait standing in the corridor outside; for +his Excellency is at dinner. And Excellency, as affable +as his zabtie, hearing the parley without, growls +behind the scene and orders me gruffly to go to the +court. ‘This is not the place to make a complaint,’ +he adds. But the stranger at thy door, O gracious +Excellency, complains not against any one in this +world; and if he did, assure thee, he would not complain +to the authorities of this world. This, or some +such plainness of distemper, the zouave communicates +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span> +to his superior behind the cotton sheeting, who presently +comes out, his anger somewhat abated, and, taking +me for a monk––my jubbah is responsible for the +deception––invites me to the sitting-room in the +enormous loophole of the citadel. He himself was +beginning to complain of the litigants who pester him +at his home, and apologise for his ill humour, when +suddenly, disabused on seeing my trousers beneath +my jubbah, he subjects me to the usual cross-examination. +I could not refrain from thinking that, not +being of the cowled gentry, he regretted having +honoured me with an apology.</p> +<p>“But after knowing somewhat of the pilgrim +stranger, especially that he had been in America, Excellency +tempers the severity of his expression and +evinces an agreeable curiosity. He would know many +things of that distant country; especially about a +Gold-Mining Syndicate, or Gold-Mining Fake, in +which he invested a few hundred pounds of his fortune. +And I make reply, ‘I know nothing about Gold +Mines and Syndicates, Excellency: but methinks if +there be gold in such schemes, the grubbing, grabbing +Americans would not let it come to Syria.’ ‘Indeed, +so,’ he murmurs, musing; ‘indeed, so.’ And +clapping for the serving-zabtie––the mudirs and +kaiemkams of the Lebanon make these zabties, whose +duty is to serve papers, serve, too, in their homes––he +orders for me a cup of coffee. And further complaining +to me, he curses America for robbing the country +of its men and labourers.––‘We can no more find tenants +for our estates, despite the fact that they get +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span> +more of the income than we do. The shreek +(partner), or tenant, is rightly called so. For the +owner of an estate that yields fifty pounds, for instance, +barely gets half of it; while the shreek, he +who tills and cultivates the land, gets away with the +other half, sniffing and grumbling withal. Of a +truth, land-tenants are not so well-off anywhere. And +if the land but yields a considerable portion, any one +with a few grains of the energy of those Americans, +would prefer to be a shreek than a real-estate owner.’ +Thus, his Excellency, complaining of the times, regretting +his losses, cursing America and its Gold +Mines; and having done, drops the narghilah tube +from his hand and dozes on the divan.</p> +<p>“I muse meanwhile on Time, who sees in a citadel +of the ancient Phœnicians, after many thousand years, +that same propensity for gold, that same instinct for +trade. The Phœnicians worked gold mines in +Thrace, and the Syrians, their descendants, are working +gold mines in America. But are we as daring, +as independent, as honest? I am not certain, however, +if those Phœnicians had anything to do with bubbles. +My friend Sanchuniathon writes nothing on the subject. +History records not a single instance of a gold-mine +bubble in Thrace, or a silver ditto in Africa. +Apart from this, have we, the descendants of those +honest Phœnicians, any of their inventive skill and +bold initiative? They taught other nations the art +of ship-building; we can not as much as learn from +other nations the art of building a gig. They transmitted +to the people of the West a knowledge of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272' name='page_272'></a>272</span> +mathematics, weights, and measures; we can not as +much as weigh or measure the little good Europe is +transmitting to us. They always fought bravely +against their conquerors, always gave evidence of their +love of independence; and we dare not raise a finger +or whisper a word against the red Tyrant by whom +we are degraded and enslaved. We are content in +paying tribute to a criminal Government for pressing +upon our necks the yoke and fettering hopelessly our +minds and souls––and my brave Phœnicians, ah, how +bravely they thought and fought. What daring +deeds they accomplished! what mysteries of art and +science they unveiled!</p> +<p>“On these shores they hammered at the door of +invention, and, entering, showed the world how glass +is made; how colours are extracted from pigments; +how to measure, and count, and communicate human +thought. The swarthy sons of the eternal billows, +how shy they were of the mountains, how enamoured +of the sea! For the mountains, it was truly said, +divide nations, and the seas connect them. And +my Phœnicians, mind you, were for connection +always. Everywhere, they lived on the shores, and +ever were they ready to set sail.</p> +<p>“In this mammoth loophole, measuring about ten +yards in length,––this the thickness of the wall––I +muse of another people skilled in the art of building. +But between the helots who built the pyramids and +the freemen who built this massive citadel, what a +contrast! The Egyptian mind could only invent +fables; the Phœnician was the vehicle of commerce +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span> +and the useful arts. The Egyptians would protect +their dead from the tyranny of Time; the Phœnicians +would protect themselves, the living, from the invading +enemy: those based their lives on the vagaries of +the future; these built it on the solid rock of the +present....”</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>But we have had enough of Khalid’s gush about the +Phœnicians, and we confess we can not further walk +with him on this journey. So, we leave his Excellency +the mudir snoring on the divan, groaning under +the incubus of the Gold Mine Fake, bemoaning his +losses in America; pass the zabtie in zouave uniform, +who is likewise snoring on the door-step; and, hurrying +down the stairway and out through the stivy +arcade, we say farewell to Our Lady of the Gate, and +get into one of the carriages which ply the shore +between Junie and Jbail. We reach Junie about +sundown, and Allah be praised! Even this toy of +a train brings us, in thirty minutes, to Beirut.</p> +<hr class='fn' /> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0004' id='Footnote_0004'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0004'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p> +Khalid would speak here of poached eggs, we believe. +And the Americans, to be fair, are not so totally ignorant +of the art of frying. They have lard––much worse than +water––in which they cook, or poach, or fry––but the +change in the name does not change the taste. So, we let +Khalid’s stricture on fried eggs and boiled cabbage stand.––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor.</span> +</p></div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274' name='page_274'></a>274</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS' id='CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>UNION AND PROGRESS</h3> +</div> +<p>Had not Khalid in his retirement touched his philosophic +raptures with a little local colouring, had +he not given an account of his tramping tour +in the Lebanons, the hiatus in Shakib’s <i>Histoire Intime</i> +could not have been bridged. It would have +remained, much to our vexation and sorrow, somewhat +like the ravine in which Khalid almost lost his +life. But now we return, after a year’s absence, to +our Scribe, who at this time in Baalbek is soldering +and hammering out rhymes in praise of Niazi and +Enver, Abd’ul-Hamid and the Dastur (Constitution).</p> +<p>“When Khalid, after his cousin’s marriage, suddenly +disappeared from Baalbek,” writes he, “I felt +that something had struck me violently on the brow, +and everything around me was dark. I could not +withhold my tears: I wept like a child, even like +Khalid’s mother. I remember he would often speak +of suicide in those days. And on the evening of that +fatal day we spent many hours discussing the question. +‘Why is not one free to kill himself,’ he +finally asked, ‘if one is free to become a Jesuit?’ +But I did not believe he was in earnest. Alas, he +was. For on the morning of the following day, I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span> +went up to his tent on the roof and found nothing of +Khalid’s belongings but a pamphlet on the subject, +‘Is Suicide a Sin?’ and right under the title the +monosyllable LA (no) and his signature. The frightfulness +of his intention stood like a spectre before +me. I clapped one hand upon the other and wept. +I made inquiries in the city and in the neighbouring +places, but to no purpose. Oh, that dreadful, dismal +day, when everywhither I went something seemed to +whisper in my heart, ‘Khalid is no more.’ It was +the first time in my life that I felt the pangs of separation, +the sting of death and sorrow. The days and +months passed, heartlessly confirming my conjecture, +my belief.</p> +<p>“One evening, when the last glimmer of hope +passed away, I sat down and composed a threnody in +his memory. And I sent it to one of the newspapers +of Beirut, in the hope that Khalid, if he still lived, +might chance to see it. It was published and quoted +by other journals here and in Egypt, who, in their +eulogies, spoke of Khalid as the young Baalbekian +philosopher and poet. One of these newspapers, +whose editor is a dear friend of mine, and of comely +ancient virtue, did not mention, from a subtle sense +of tender regard for my feelings, the fact that Khalid +committed suicide. ‘He died,’ the Notice said, ‘of +a sudden and violent defluxion of rheums,<a name='FNanchor_0005' id='FNanchor_0005'></a><a href='#Footnote_0005' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> which baffled +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span> +the physician and resisted his skill and physic.’ +Another journal, whose editor’s religion is of the +Jesuitical pattern, spoke of him as a miserable God-abandoned +wretch who was not entitled to the right +of Christian burial; and fulminated at its contemporaries +for eulogising the youthful infidel and moaning +his death, thus spreading and justifying his evil +example.</p> +<p>“And so, the days passed, and the months, and +Khalid was still dead. In the summer of this year, +when the Constitution was proclaimed, and the +country was rioting in the saturnalia of Freedom +and Equality, my sorrow was keener, deeper than +ever. Not I alone, but the cities and the deserts of +Syria and Arabia, missed my loving friend. How +gloriously he would have filled the tribune of the day, +I sadly mused.... O Khalid, I can never forgive +this crime of thine against the sacred rites of +Friendship. Such heartlessness, such inexorable +cruelty, I have never before observed in thee. No +matter how much thou hast profited by thy retirement +to the mountains, no matter how much thy +solitude hath given thee of health and power and +wisdom, thy cruel remissness can not altogether be +drowned in my rejoicing. To forget those who love +thee above everything else in the world,––thy mother, +thy cousin, thine affectionate brother––”</p> +<p>And our Scribe goes on, blubbering like a good +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span> +Syrian his complaint and joy, gushing now in verse, +now in what is worse, in rhymed prose, until he +reaches the point which is to us of import. Khalid, +in the winter of the first year of the Dastur (Constitution) +writes to him many letters from Beirut, +of which he gives us not less than fifty! And of +these, the following, if not the most piquant and interesting, +are the most indispensable to our History.</p> +<p>Letter I (As numbered in the Original)</p> +<blockquote> +<p>My loving Brother Shakib:</p> +<p>To whom, if not to you, before all, should I send +the first word of peace, the first sign of the resurrection? +To my mother? To my cousin Najma? +Well, yes. But if I write to them, my letters will be +brought to you to be read and answered. So I write +now direct, hoping that you will convey to them these +tidings of joy. ’Tis more than a year now since I +slinked out of Baalbek, leaving you in the dark about +me. Surely, I deserve the chastisement of your bitterest +thoughts. But what could I do? Such is +the rigour of the sort of life I lived that any communication +with the outside world, especially with friends +and lovers, would have marred it. So, I had to be +silent as the pines in which I put up, until I became +as healthy as the swallows, my companions there. +When we meet, I shall recount to you the many curious +incidents of my solitude and my journey in the +sacred hills of Lebanon. To these auspicious mountains, +my Brother, I am indebted for the health and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span> +joy and wisdom that are now mine; and yours, too, +if you consider.</p> +<p>Strange, is it not, that throughout my journey, +and I have passed in many villages, nothing heard I +of this great political upheaval in the Empire. Probably +the people of the Lebanons cherish not the Revolution. +There is so much in common, I find, between +them and the Celtic races, who always in such +instances have been more royalists than the king. +And I think Mt. Lebanon is going to be the Vendée +of the Turks.</p> +<p>I have been in Beirut but a few days. And +truly, I could not believe my eyes, when in the Place +de la Concorde (I hope the Turks are not going to +follow in the steps of the French Revolutionists in all +things), I could not believe my eyes, when, in this +muddy Square, on the holy Stump of Liberty, I beheld +my old friend the Spouter dispensing to the turbaned +and tarboushed crowd, among which were +cameleers and muleteers with their camels and mules, +of the blessing of that triple political abracadabra of +the France of more than a century passed. Liberty, +Fraternity, Equality!––it’s a shame that the show +has been running for six months now and I did not +know it. I begin by applauding the Spouters of Concord +Square, the donkey that I am. But how, with +my cursed impulsiveness, can I always keep on the +sidewalk of reason? I, who have suckled of the milk +of freedom and broke the bottle, too, on my Nurse’s +head, I am not to blame, if from sheer joy, I cheer +those who are crowning her on a dung-hill with +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span> +wreaths of stable straw. It’s better, billah, than +breaking the bottle on her head, is it not? And so, +let the Spouters spout. And let the sheikh and the +priest and the rabbi embrace on that very Stump and +make up. Live the Era of Concord and peace and +love! Live the Dastur! Hurrah for the Union +and Progress Heroes! Come down to Beirut and +do some shouting with your fellow citizens.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Letter V</p> +<blockquote> +<p>No; I do not approve of your idea of associating +with that young Mohammedan editor. You know +what is said about the tiger and its spots. Besides, +I had another offer from a Christian oldtimer; but +you might as well ask me to become a Jesuit as to +became a Journalist. I wrote last week a political +article, in which I criticised Majesty’s Address to +the Parliament, and mauled those oleaginous, palavering, +mealy-mouthed Representatives, who would +not dare point out the lies in it. They hear the Chief +Clerk read of “the efforts made by the Government +during the past thirty years in the interest of education,” +and applaud; while at the Royal Banquet they +jostle and hustle each other to kiss the edge of +Majesty’s frock-coat. The abject slaves!</p> +<p>The article was much quoted and commented upon; +I was flouted by many, defended by a few, these asked: +“Was the Government of Abd’ul-Hamid, committing +all its crimes in the interest of education, were we +being trained by the Censorship and the Bosphorus +Terror for the Dastur?” “But the person of +Majesty, the sacredness of the Khalifate,” cried the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span> +others. And a certain one, in the course of his attack, +denies the existence of Khalid, who died, said +he, a year ago. And what matters it if a dead man +can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of its +walking spectres a breath of life?</p> +<p>I spoke last night in one of the music halls and +gave the Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The +poor Christians!––they feared the Government in the +old régime; they cower before the boatmen in this. +For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their +prestige and power. They are a sort of commune +and are yet supreme. Yes, they are always riding +the whirlwind and directing the storm. And who +dares say a word against them? Every one of them, +in his swagger and bluster, is an Abd’ul-Hamid. +Alas, everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman’s +shriek can silence the Press and make the Spouters +tremble.</p> +<p>I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the +Colleges here on the “Moral Revolution.” Believe +me, I would not utter a word or write a line if I +were not impelled to it. And just as soon as some +one comes to the front to champion in this land spiritual +and moral freedom, I’ll go “way back and sit +down.” For why should I then give myself the +trouble? And the applause of the multitude, mind +you, brings me not a single olive.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Letter XXII</p> +<blockquote> +<p>I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was +coming up to say farewell to you and mother. For +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span> +I like not Beirut, where one in winter must go +about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer. +I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city +of mud, would have said of this? Besides, a city +ruled by boatmen is not a city for gentlemen to live +in. So, I made up my mind to get out of it, and +quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken +my coffee, some one knocked at my door. I open, +and lo, a policeman in shabby uniform, makes inquiry +about Khalid. What have I done, I thought, to +deserve this visit? And before I had time to imagine +the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to +Syria of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique. +I am desired in this to come at my earliest convenience +to the Club to meet this gentleman. There, I +am received by an Army Officer and a certain Ahmed +Bey. And after the coffee and the formalities of civility +are over, I am asked to accompany them on a +tour to the principal cities of upper Syria––to Damascus, +Homs, Hama, and Aleppo. The young +Army Officer is to speechify in Turkish, I, in Arabic, +and Ahmed Bey, who is as oleaginous as a Turk +could be, will take up, I think, the collection. Seeing +in this a chance to spread the Idea among our +people, I accept, and in a fortnight we shall be in +Damascus. You must come there, for I am burning +to meet and embrace you.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Letter XXV</p> +<blockquote> +<p>Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why, +nothing gave me greater pleasure ever since I have +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span> +been here than this: I was crossing the Square on +my way to the Club, when some one plucking at my +jubbah angrily greets me. I look back, and behold +our dear old Im-Hanna, who has just returned from +New York. She stood there waving her hand wildly +and rating me for not returning her salaam. “You +know no one any more, O Khalid,” she said plaintively; +“I call to you three times and you look not, +hear not. No matter, O Khalid.” Thereupon, she +embraces me as fondly as my mother. “And why,” +she inquired, “do you wear this black jubbah? Are +you now a monk? Were it not for that long hair +and that cap of yours, I would not have known you. +Let me see, isn’t that the cap I bought you in New +York?” And she takes it off my head to examine +it. “Yes, that’s it. How good of you to keep it. +Well, how are you now? Do you cough any more? +Are you still crazy about books? I don’t think so, +for you have rosy cheeks now.” And sobbing for joy, +she embraces me again and again.</p> +<p>She is neatly dressed, wears a silk fiché, and is as +alert as ever. In the afternoon, I visit her at the +Hotel, and she asks me to accompany her to the Bank, +where she cashes three bills of exchange for three +hundred pounds each! I ask her what she is going +to do with all this money, and she tells me that she +is going to build a little home for her grandson and +send him to the College of the Americans here.</p> +<p>“And is there like America in all the world?” she +exclaims. “Ah, my heart for America!” And on +asking her why she did not remain there: “Fear not; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span> +just as soon as I build my house and place my son +in the College I am going back to New York. What, +O Khalid, will you return with me?” She then +takes some gold pieces in her hand, and lowering her +voice: “May be you need some money; take, take +these.” Dear old Im-Hanna, I would not refuse her +favour, and I would not accept one such. What was +I to do? Coming through the Jewellers’ bazaar I +hit upon an idea, and with the money she slipped +into my pocket, I bought a gold watch in one of the +stores and charged her to present it to her grandson. +“Say it is from his brother, your other grandson +Khalid.” She protests, scolds, and finally takes the +watch, saying, “Well, nothing is changed in you: still +the same crazy Khalid.”</p> +<p>To-morrow she is coming to see my room, and to +cook for me a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>! Ah, the old days +in the cellar!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In the thirtieth Letter, one of considerable length, +dated March, is an exceedingly titillating divagation +on the <i>gulma</i> (oustraation of <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing ')'">animals)</ins>, called forth, we +are told, “by the rut of the d–––d cats in the +yard.” Poor Khalid can not sleep. One night he +jumps out of bed and chases them away with his +skillet, saying, “Why don’t I make such a row, ye +wantons?” They come again the following night, +and Khalid on the following morning moves to a +Hotel which, by good or ill chance, is adjacent to the +lupanars of the city. His window opens on another +yard in which other cats, alas!––of the human species +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span> +this time––are caterwauling, harrowing the soul of +him and the night. He makes a second remove, but +finds himself disturbed this time by the rut of a +certain roebuck within. Nature, O Khalid, will not +be cheated, no more than she will be abused, without +retaliating soon or late. True, you got out of many +ruts heretofore; but this you can not get out of except +you go deeper into it. Your anecdotes from Ad-Damiry +and your quotations from Montaigne shall +not help you. And your allusions to March-cats and +March-Khalids are too pitiful to be humorous. Indeed, +were not the tang of lubricity in this Letter too +strong, we would have given in full the confession +it contains.</p> +<p>We now come to the last of this Series, in which +Khalid speaks of a certain American lady, a Mrs. +Goodfree, or Gotfry, who is a votary of Ebbas Effendi, +the Pope of Babism at Heifa. Mrs. Gotfry +may not be a Babist in the strict sense of the word; +but she is a votary and worshipper of the Bab. To +her the personal element in a creed is of more importance +than the ism. Hence, her pilgrimage every +year to Heifa. She comes with presents and gold; +and Ebbas Effendi, who is not impervious to the influence +of other gods than his own, permits her into +the sanctuary, where she shares with him the light of +divine revelation and returns to the States, as the +Priestess of the Cult, to bless and console the Faithful. +Khalid was dining with Ahmed Bey at the +Grand Hotel––but here is a portion of the Letter.</p> +<p>By a devilish mischance she occupied the seat opposite +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span> +to mine. And in this trap of Iblis was decoy +enough for a poor mouse like me. It is an age since +I beheld such an Oriental gem in an American +setting; or such a strange Southern beauty in an +exotic frame. For one would think her from the +South, or further down from Mexico. Nay, of Andalusian, +and consequently of Arabian, origin she must +be. Her hair and her eyes are of the richest jet; her +glance, voluptuous, mysterious; her complexion, +neither white nor olive, but partakes of both,––a +gauze-like shade of heliotrope, as it were, over a pink +and straw surface, if you can imagine that; and her +expression, a play between devotion and diabolism––now +a question mark to love, now an exclamation +to sorrow, and at times a dash between both. +By what mysterious medium of romance and adventure +did America produce such a beauty, I can +not tell. Perhaps she, too, can not. If you saw her, +O Shakib, you’d do nothing for months but dedicate +odes to her eyes,––to the deep, dark infinity of their +luring, devouring beauty,––which seem to drop honey +and poison from every arched hair of their fulsome +lashes. Withal,––another devilish mischance,––she +was dressed in black and wore a white silk ruffle, like +myself. And her age? Well, she can not have +passed her sixth lustrum. And really, as the Novelist +would say in his Novel, she looks ten years younger.... +To say we were attracted to each other +were presumptuous: but <i>I was</i> taken.... Near +her sat a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, with +whom she was conversing when we entered. That +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span> +is the lady whose beauty, when she was sitting, I described +to you: but when she got up to leave the table,––alas, +and <i>ay me</i>, and all the other expressions of +regret and <ins class="trchange" title="Changed ',' to '.'">sorrow.</ins> That such a beautiful face should +be denied a corresponding beauty of figure. And +what is more pitiable about her, she is lame in the +right leg. Poor dear Misfortune, I wish it were in +my power to add an inch of my limb to hers.</p> +<p>And Khalid goes on limping, drooling, alassing, to +the end. After dinner he is introduced to his “poor +dear Misfortune” by his Syrian friend. But being +with Ahmed Bey he can not remain this evening. On +the following day, however, he is invited to lunch; +and on the terrace facing the sea, they pass the afternoon +discussing various subjects. Mrs. Gotfry is surprised +how a Syrian of Khalid’s mind can not see the +beauties of Babism, or Buhaism, as it is now called, +and the lofty spirituality of the Bab. But she forgives +him his lack of faith, gives him her card, and +invites him to her home, if he ever returns to the +United States.</p> +<p>Now, maugre the fact that, in a postscript to this +Letter, Khalid closes with these words, “And what +have I to do with priests and priestesses?” we can not +but harbour a suspicion that his “Union and Progress” +tour is bound to have more than a political +significance. By ill or good hap those words are +beginning to assume a double meaning; and maugre +all efforts to the contrary, the days must soon unfold +the twofold tendency and result of the “Union and +Progress” ideas of Khalid.</p> +<hr class='fn' /> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0005' id='Footnote_0005'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0005'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p> +In some parts of Syria, as in Arabia, almost every ill and +affection is attributed to the rheums, or called so. Rheumatism, +for instance, is explained by the Arab quack as a defluxion +of rheums, failing to discharge through the upper +orifices, progress downward, and settling in the muscles and +joints, produce the affection. And might there not be more +truth in that than the diagnosis of him who is a Membre de +la Faculté de Medicine de France?––<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor.</span> +</p></div> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT' id='CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>REVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT</h3> +</div> +<p>“Even Carlyle can be longwinded and short-sighted +on occasions. ‘Once in destroying the +False,’ says he, ‘there was a certain inspiration.’ +And always there is, to be sure, my Master. For +the world is not Europe, and the final decision on +Who Is and What Is To Rule, was not delivered +by the French Revolution. The Orient, the land of +origination and prophecy, must yet solve for itself +this eternal problem of the Old and New, the False +and True. And whether by Revolutions, Speculations, +or Constitutions, ancient Revelation will be +purged and restored to its original pristine purity: +the superannuated lumber that accumulated around +it during centuries of apathy, fatalism, and sloth, must +go: the dust and mould and cobwebs of the Temple +will be swept away. Indeed, ‘a war must be +eternally waged on evils eternally renewed.’ The +genius of destruction has done its work, you say, O +my esteemed Master? and there is nothing more to +destroy? The gods might say this of other worlds +than ours. In Europe, as in Asia, there is to be +considered and remembered: if this mass of things +we call humanity and civilisation were as healthy as +the eternal powers would have them, the healthiest of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288' name='page_288'></a>288</span> +the race would not be constantly studying and dissecting +our social and political ills.</p> +<p>“In a certain sense, we are healthier to-day than +the Europeans; but our health is that of the slave and +not the master: it is of more benefit to others than +it is to ourselves. We are doomed to be the drudges +of neurasthenic, psychopathic, egoistic masters, if we +do not open our minds to the light of science and +truth. ‘Every age has its Book,’ says the Prophet. +But every book, if it aspires to be a guide to life, must +contain of the eternal truth what was in the one that +preceded it. We can not afford to let aught of this +die. Leave the principal original altar in the Temple, +and destroy all the others. Light on that altar the +torch of science, which the better mind and cleaner +hand of Europe are transmitting to us, and place your +foot upon its false and unspeakable divinities. The +gods of wealth, of egoism, of alcohol, of fornication, +we must not acknowledge; nay, we must resist unto +death their malign influence and power. But alas, +what are we doing to-day? Instead of looking up to +the pure and lofty souls of Europe for guidance, we +welter in the mud with the lowest and most degenerate. +We are beginning to know and appreciate +English whiskey, but not English freedom; we know +the French grisettes, but not the French sages; we +guzzle German beer, but of German wisdom we +taste not a drop.</p> +<p>“O my Brothers, let us cease rejoicing in the +Dastur; for at heart we know no freedom, nor truth, +nor order. We elect our representatives to Parliament, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289' name='page_289'></a>289</span> +but not unlike the Europeans; we borrow from +France what the deeper and higher mind of France no +longer believes; we imitate England in what England +has long since discarded; but our Books of Revelation, +which made France and Germany and England what +they are, and in which is the divine essence of truth +and right and freedom, we do not rightly understand. +A thousand falsehoods are cluttered around the truth +to conceal it from us. I call you back, O my +Brothers, to the good old virtues of our ancestors. +Without these the Revolution will miscarry and our +Dastur will not be worth a date-stone. Our ancestors,––they +never bowed their proud neck to tyranny, +whether represented in an autocrat or in a body of +autocrats; they never betrayed their friends; they +never soiled their fingers with the coin of usury; they +never sacrificed their manhood to fashion; they never +endangered in the cafés and lupanars their health and +reason. The Mosque and the Church, notwithstanding +the ignorance and bigotry they foster, are still better +than lunatic asylums. And Europe can not have +enough of these to-day.</p> +<p>“Continence, purity of heart, fidelity, simplicity, a +sense of true manhood, magnanimity of spirit, a healthiness +of body and mind,––these are the beautiful ancient +virtues. These are the supreme truths of the +Books of Revelation: in these consists the lofty spirituality +of the Orient. But through what thick, obscene +growths we must pass to-day, through what cactus +hedges and thistle-fields we must penetrate, before we +rise again to those heights. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290' name='page_290'></a>290</span></p> +<p>“‘There can be no Revolution without a Reformation,’ +says a German philosopher. And truly so. For +the fetters which bind us can not be shaken off, before +the conscience is emancipated. A political revolution +must always be preceded by a spiritual one, that it +might have some enduring effect. Otherwise, things +will revert to their previous state of rottenness as sure +as Allah lives. But mind you, I do not say, Cut down +the hedges; mow the thistle-fields; uproot the obscene +plants; no: I only ask you to go through them, and +out of them, to return no more. Sell your little estate +there, if you have one; sell it at any price: give it +away and let the dead bury their dead. Cease to work +in those thorny fields, and God and nature will do the +rest.</p> +<p>“I am for a reformation by emigration. And +quietly, peacefully, this can be done. Nor fire, nor +sword bring I: only this I say: Will and do; resolve +and act upon your resolution. The emigration of +the mind before the revolution of the state, my Brothers. +The soul must be free, and the mind, before +one has a right to be a member of a free Government, +before one can justly enjoy his rights and perform his +duties as a subject. But a voting slave, O my Brothers, +is the pitifulest spectacle under the sun. And remember +that neither the Dastur, nor the Unionists, nor +the Press, can give you this spiritual freedom, if you do +not awake and emigrate. Come up to the highlands: +here is a patrimony for each of you; here are vineyards +to cultivate. Leave the thistle-fields and marshes behind; +regret nothing. Come out of the superstitions +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291' name='page_291'></a>291</span> +of the sheikhs and ulema; of the barren mazes of the +sufis; of the deadly swamps of theolougues and priests: +emigrate! Every one of us should be a Niazi in this +moral struggle, an Enver in this spiritual revolution. +A little will-power, a little heroism, added to those virtues +I have named, the solid virtues of our ancestors, +and the Orient will no longer be an object of scorn +and gain to commercial Europe. We shall then stand +on an equal footing with the Europeans. Ay, with the +legacy of science which we shall learn to invest, and +with our spirituality divested of its cobwebs, and purified, +we shall stand even higher than the Americans +and Europeans.”––</p> +<p>On the following day Damascus was simmering +with excitement––Damascus, the stronghold of the +ulema––the learned fanatics––whom Khalid has +lightly pinched. But they scarcely felt it; they could +not believe it. Now, the gentry of Islam, the sheikhs +and ulema, would hear this lack-beard dervish, as he +was called. But they disdain to stand with the rabble +in the Midan or congregate with the <i>Mutafarnejin</i> +(Europeanised) in the public Halls. Nowhere but +at the Mosque, therefore, can they hear what this +Khalid has to say. This was accordingly decided +upon, and, being approved by all parties concerned,––the +Mufti, the Vali, the Deputies of the Holy Society +and the speaker,––a day was set for the great address +at the great Mosque of Omaiyah.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, the blatant Officer, the wheedling +Politician, and the lack-beard Dervish, are feasted by +the personages and functionaries of Damascus. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292' name='page_292'></a>292</span> +Vali, the Mufti, Abdallah Pasha,––he who owns +more than two score villages and has more than five +thousand braves at his beck and call,––these, and +others of less standing, vie with each other in honouring +the distinguished visitors. And after the banqueting, +while Ahmed Bey retires to a private room +with his host to discuss the political situation, Khalid, +to escape the torturing curiosity of the bores and +quidnuncs of the evening, goes out to the open court, +and under an orange tree, around the gurgling fountain, +breathes again of quietude and peace. Nay, +breathes deeply of the heavy perfume of the white +jasmines of his country, while musing of the scarlet +salvias of a distant land.</p> +<p>And what if the salvia, as by a miracle, blossoms +on the jasmine? What if the former stifles the latter? +Indeed, one can escape boredom, but not love. +One can flee the quidnuncs of the salon, but not the +questioning perplexity of one’s heart. A truce now +to ambiguities.</p> +<p>’Tis high time that we give a brief account of what +took place after Khalid took leave of Mrs. Gotfry. +Many “devilish mischances” have since then conspired +against Khalid’s peace of mind. For when +they were leaving Beirut, only a few minutes before +the train started, Mrs. Gotfry, who was also going to +Damascus, steps into the same carriage, which he and +his companions occupied: mischance first. Arriving +in Damascus they both stay at the same Hotel: mischance +second. At table this time he occupies the seat +next to hers, and once, rising simultaneously, their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293' name='page_293'></a>293</span> +limbs touch: mischance third. And the last and +worst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her +own is in the same side-hall opposite to his. Now, who +could have ordered it thus, of all the earthly powers? +And who can say what so many mischances might not +produce? True, a thousand thistles do not make a +rose; but with destiny this logic does not hold. For +every new mischance makes us forget the one preceding; +and the last and worst is bound to be the harbinger +of good fortune. Yes, every people, we +imagine, has its aphorisms on the subject: Distress is +the key of relief, says the Arabic proverb; The strait +leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The darkest hour +is nearest the dawn, says the English.</p> +<p>But we must not make any stipulations with time, +or trust in aphorisms. We do not know what Mrs. +Gotfry’s ideas are on the subject. Nor can we say +how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences. +In her religious heart, might there not be some shadow +of an ancient superstition, some mystical, instinctive +strain, in which the preternatural is resolved? That +is a question which neither our Scribe nor his Master +will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful +so far in the discharge of our editorial duty, can +not at this juncture afford to fabricate.</p> +<p>We know, however, that the Priestess of Buhaism +and the beardless, long-haired Dervish have many a +conversation together: in the train, in the Hotel, in +the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their +hearts and minds, and drink of each other’s wine of +thought and fancy. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294' name='page_294'></a>294</span></p> +<p>“I first mistook you for a Mohammedan,” she said +to him once; and he assured her that she was not mistaken.</p> +<p>“Then, you are not a Christian?”</p> +<p>“I am a Christian, <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">too.”</ins></p> +<p>And he relates of the Buha when he was on trial +in Rhodes. “Of what religion are you,” asks the +Judge. “I am neither a Camel-driver nor a Carpenter,” +replies the Buha, alluding thereby to Mohammad +and Christ. “If you ask me the same question,” +Khalid continues––“but I see you are uncomfortable.” +And he takes up the cushion which had fallen +behind the divan, and places it under her arm. He +then lights a cigarette and holds it up to her inquiringly. +Yes? He, therefore, lights another for himself, +and continues. “If you ask me the same question +that was asked the Buha, I would not hesitate in +saying that I am both a Camel-driver and Carpenter. +I might also be a Buhaist in a certain sense. I renounce +falsehood, whatsoever be the guise it assumes; +and I embrace truth, wheresoever I find it. Indeed, +every religion is good and true, if it serves the high +purpose of its founder. And they are false, all of +them, when they serve the low purpose of their high +priests. Take the lowest of the Arab tribes, for instance, +and you will find in their truculent spirit a +strain of faith sublime, though it is only evinced at +times. The Beduins, rovers and raveners, manslayers +and thieves, are in their house of moe-hair the kindest +hosts, the noblest and most generous of men. +They receive the wayfarer, though he be an enemy, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295' name='page_295'></a>295</span> +and he eats and drinks and sleeps with them under +the same root, in the assurance of Allah. If a religion +makes a savage so good, so kind, it has well +served its purpose. As for me, I admire the grand +passion in both the Camel-driver and the Carpenter: +the barbaric grandeur, the magnanimity and fidelity +of the Arab as well as the sublime spirituality, the +divine beauty, of the Nazarene, I deeply reverence. +And in one sense, the one is the complement of the +other: the two combined are <i>my</i> ideal of a Divinity.”</p> +<p>And now we descend from the chariot of the +empyrean where we are riding with gods and apostles, +and enter into one drawn by mortal coursers. We go +out for a drive, and alight from the carriage in the +poplar grove, to meander in its shades, along its streams. +But digressing from one path into another, we enter +unaware the eternal vista of love. There, on a +boulder washed by the murmuring current, in the +shade of the silver-tufted poplars, Khalid and Mrs. +Gotfry sit down for a rest.</p> +<p>“Everything in life must always resolve itself into +love,” said Khalid, as he stood on the rock holding out +his hand to his friend. “Love is the divine solvent. +Love is the splendour of God.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Gotfry paused at the last words. She was +startled by this image. Love, the splendour of God? +Why, the Bab, the Buha, is the splendour of God. +Buha mean splendour. The Buha, therefore, is love. +Love is the new religion. It is the old religion, the +eternal religion, the only religion. How came he by +this, this young Syrian? Would he rival the Buha? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296' name='page_296'></a>296</span> +Rise above him? They are of kindred races––their +ancestors, too, may be mine. Love the splendour of +God––God the splendour of Love. Have I been +all along fooling myself? Did I not know my own +heart?</p> +<p>These, and more such, passed through Mrs. Gotfry’s +mind, as shuttles through a loom, while Khalid +was helping her up to her seat on the boulder, which +is washed by the murmuring current.</p> +<p>“If life were such a rock under our feet,” said he, +pressing his lips upon her hand, “the divine currents +around it will melt it, soon or late, into love.”</p> +<p>They light cigarettes. A fresh breeze is blowing +from the city. It is following them with the perfume +of its gardens. The falling leaves are whispering +in the grove to the swaying boughs. The narcissus +is nodding to the myrtle across the way. And +the bulbuls are pouring their golden splendour of +song. Khalid speaks.</p> +<p>“Beauty either detains, repels, or enchants. The +first is purely external, linear; the second is an imitation +of the first, its artistic artificial ideal, so to speak; +and the third”––He is silent. His eyes, gazing into +hers, take up the cue.</p> +<p>Mrs. Gotfry turns from him exhausted. She looks +into the water.</p> +<p>“See the rose-beds in the stream; see the lovely +pebbles dancing around them.”</p> +<p>“I can see everything in your eyes, which are like +limpid lakes shaded with weeping-willows. I can +even hear bulbuls singing in your brows.––Turn not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297' name='page_297'></a>297</span> +from me your eyes. They reflect the pearls of your +soul and the flowers of your body, even as those +crystal waters reflect the pebbles and rose-beds beneath.”</p> +<p>“Did you not say that love is the splendour of +God?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Then, why look for it in my eyes?”</p> +<p>“And why look for it in the heart of the heavens, +in the depths of the sea––in the infinities of everything +that is beautiful and terrible––in the breath +of that little flower, in the song of the bulbul, in the +whispers of your silken lashes, in––”</p> +<p>“Shut your eyes, Khalid; be more spiritual.”</p> +<p>“With my eyes open I see but one face; with my +eyes closed I see a million faces: they are all yours. +And they are loving, and sweet, and kind. But I am +content with one, with the carnate symbol of them, +with you, and though you be cold and cruel. The +divine splendour is here, and here and here––”</p> +<p>“Why, your ardour is exhausting.”</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>But on their way back to the Hotel, Khalid gives +her this from Swedenborg: “‘Do you love me’ means +‘do you see the same truth that I see?’”</p> +<p>There is no use. Khalid is impossible.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298' name='page_298'></a>298</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE' id='CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3>A DREAM OF EMPIRE</h3> +</div> +<p>“I’m not starving for pleasure,” Khalid once said +to Shakib; “nor for the light free love of an +exquisite caprice. Those little flowers that bloom and +wither in the blush of dawn are for the little butterflies. +The love that endures, give me that. And it +must be of the deepest divine strain,––as deep and +divine as maternal love. Man is of Eternity, not of +Time; and love, the highest attribute of man, must +be likewise. With me it must endure throughout all +worlds and immensities; else I would not raise a +finger for it. Pleasure, Shakib, is for the child within +us; sexual joy, for the animal; love, for the god. +That is why I say when you set your seal to the contract, +be sure it is of the kind which all the gods of +all the future worlds will raise to their lips in reverence.”</p> +<p>But Khalid’s child-spirit, not to say childishness, is +not, as he would have us believe, a thing of the past. +Nor are the animal and the god within him always +agreed as to what is and what is not a love divine and +eternal. In New York, to be sure, he often brushed +his wings against those flowerets that “bloom and +wither in the blush of dawn.” And he was not a +little pleased to find that the dust which gathers on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299' name='page_299'></a>299</span> +the wings adds a charm to the colouring of life. But +how false and trivial it was, after all. The gold dust +and the dust of the road, could they withstand a drop +of rain? A love dust-deep, as it were, close to the +earth; too mean and pitiful to be carried by the storm +over terrible abysses to glorious heights. A love, in +a word, without pain, that is to say impure. In +Baalbek, on the other hand, he drank deep of the pain, +but not of the joy, of love. He and his cousin +Najma had just lit in the shrine of Venus the candles +of the altar of the Virgin, when a villainous hand that +of Jesuitry, issuing from the darkness, clapped over +them the snuffer and carried his Happiness off. Here +was a love divine, the promised bliss of which was +snatched away from him.</p> +<p>And now in Damascus, he feels, for the first time, +the exquisite pain and joy of a love which he can not +yet fathom; a love, which like the storm, is carrying +him over terrible abysses to unknown heights. The +bitter sting of a Nay he never felt so keenly before. +The sleep-stifling torture and joy of suspense he did +not fully experience until now. But if he can not +sleep, he will work. He has but a few days to prepare +his address. He can not be too careful of what +he says, and how he says it. To speak at the great +Mosque of Omaiyah is a great privilege. A word +uttered there will reach the furthermost parts of the +Mohammedan world. Moreover, all the ulema and +all the heavy-turbaned fanatics will be there.</p> +<p>But he can not even work. On the table before +him is a pile of newspapers from all parts of Syria +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300' name='page_300'></a>300</span> +and Egypt––even from India––and all simmering, +as it were, with Khalid’s name, and Khalidism, and +Khalid scandals. He is hailed by some, assailed by +others; glorified and vilified in tawdry rhyme and +ponderous prose by Christians and Mohammedans +alike. “Our new Muhdi,” wrote an Egyptian wit +(one of those pallid prosers we once met in the +hasheesh dens, no doubt), “our new Muhdi has +added to his hareem an American beauty with an +Oriental leg.”</p> +<p>What he meant by this only the hasheesh smokers +know. “An instrument in the hands of some +American speculators, who would build sky-scrapers +on the ruins of our mosques,” wrote another. +“A lever with which England is undermining Al-Islam,” +cried a voice in India. “A base one in the +service of some European coalition, who, under the +pretext of preaching the spiritualities, is undoing the +work of the Revolution. The gibbet is for ordinary +traitors; for him the stake,” etc., etc.</p> +<p>On the other hand, he is hailed as the expected +one,––the true leader, the real emancipator,––“who +has in him the soul of the East and the mind of the +West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire.” Of +course, the foolish Damascene editor who wrote this +had to flee the country the following day. But +Khalid’s eyes lingered on that line. He read it and +reread it over and over again––forward and backward, +too. He juggled, so to speak, with its words.</p> +<p>How often people put us, though unwittingly, on +the path we are seeking, he thought. How often +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301' name='page_301'></a>301</span> +does a chance word uttered by a stranger reveal to us +our deepest aims and purposes.</p> +<p>Before him was ink and paper. He took up the +pen. But after scrawling and scribbling for ten +minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and arabesques, +and the one single word Dowla (Empire).</p> +<p>He could not think: he could only dream. The +soul of the East––The mind of the West––the +builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the Idea, +the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great +race who has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of +Arabia; the reclaiming of her land; the resuscitation +of her glory;––and why not? especially if backed +with American millions and the love of a great +woman. He is enraptured. He can neither sleep +nor think: he can but dream. He puts on his jubbah, +refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room. +He paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream +with wreaths of smoke. But the dim lights seemed +to be ogling each other and smiling, as he passed. +The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The +silence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He +knocks––knocks again.</p> +<p>The occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In +fact, she, too, could not sleep. The clock in the hall +outside had just struck one, and she was yet reading. +After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on +a kimono and opens the door. She is surprised.</p> +<p>“Anything the matter with you?”</p> +<p>“No; but I can not sleep.”</p> +<p>“That is amusing. And do you take me for a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302' name='page_302'></a>302</span> +soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch +yourself on the couch and try.” Saying which, she +laughed and hurried back to her bed.</p> +<p>“I did not come to sleep.”</p> +<p>“What then? How lovely of you to wake me up +so early.––No, no; don’t apologise. For truly, I +too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading. +Sit on the couch there and talk to me.––Of course, +you may smoke.––No, I prefer to sit in bed.”</p> +<p>Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On +the table before him are some antique colour prints +which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These +one can only get in Damascus. And––strange coincidence!––they +represented some of the heroes of +Arabia––Antar, Ali, Saladin, Harûn ar-Rashid––done +in gorgeous colouring, and in that deliciously +ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic nor +Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid +reads the poetry under each of them and translates +it into English. Mrs. Gotfry is charmed. Khalid +is lost in thought. He lays the picture of Saladin on +the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon +his friend, his face beaming with his dream.</p> +<p>“Jamilah.” It was the first time he called her by +her first name––an Arabic name which, as a Bahaist +she had adopted. And she was neither surprised nor +displeased.</p> +<p>“We need another Saladin to-day,––a Saladin of +the Idea, who will wage a crusade, not against +Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against those +Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303' name='page_303'></a>303</span></p> +<p>“Whom do you mean?”</p> +<p>“I mean the Turks. They were given a last +chance to rise; they tried and failed. They can not +rise. They are demoralised; they have no stamina, +no character; no inborn love for truth and art; no +instinctive or acquired sense of right and justice. +Whiskey and debauch and high-sounding inanities +about fraternity and equality can not regenerate an +Empire. The Turk must go: he will go. But out +in those deserts is a race which is always young, a race +that never withers; a strong, healthy, keen-eyed, +quick-witted race; a fighting, fanatical race; a race +that gave Europe a civilisation, that gave the world +a religion; a race with a past as glorious as Rome’s; +and with a future, too, if we had an Ali or a Saladin. +But He who made those heroes will make others like +them, better, too. He may have made one already, +and that one may be wandering now in the desert. +Now think what can be done in Arabia, think what +the Arabs can accomplish, if American arms and an +up-to-date Korân are spread broadcast among them. +With my words and your love and influence, with our +powers united, we can build an Arab Empire, we can +resuscitate the Arab Empire of the past. Abd’ul-Wahhab, +you know, is the Luther of Arabia; and +Wahhabism is not dead. It is only slumbering in +Nejd. We will wake it; arm it; infuse into it the +living spirit of the Idea. We will begin by building +a plant for the manufacture of arms on the shore of +the Euphrates, and a University in Yaman. The +Turk must go––at least out of Arabia. And the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304' name='page_304'></a>304</span> +Turk in Europe, Europe will look after. No; the +Arab will never be virtually conquered. Nominally, +maybe. And I doubt if any of the European Powers +can do it. Why? Chiefly because Arabia has a +Prophet. She produced one and she will produce +more. Cannons can destroy Empires; but only the +living voice, the inspired voice can build them.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Gotfry is silent. In Khalid’s vagaries is a +big idea, which she can not wholly grasp. And she +is moreover devoted to another cause––the light of +the world––the splendour of God––Buhaism. But +why not spread it in Arabia as in America? She will +talk to Ebbas Effendi about Khalid. He is young, +eloquent, rising to power. And with her love, and +influence superadded, what might he not do? what +might he not accomplish? These ideas flashed +through her mind, while Khalid was pacing up and +down the room, which was already filled with smoke. +She is absorbed in thought. Khalid comes near her +bed, bends over her, and buries his face in her wealth +of black hair.</p> +<p>Mrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream.</p> +<p>“I can not see all that you see.”</p> +<p>“Then you do not love me.”</p> +<p>“Why do you say that? Here, now go sit down. +Oh, I am suffocating. The smoke is so thick in the +room I can scarcely see you. And it is so late.––No, +no. Give me time to think on the subject. Now, +come.”</p> +<p>And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window +to let out Khalid and his smoke. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305' name='page_305'></a>305</span></p> +<p>“Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can +not sleep, try to write. And if you can not write, +read. And if you can neither read nor write nor +sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a +walk. Good night. There. Good night. But don’t +forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb to-morrow.”</p> +<p>The astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if +you do not feel like walking, take a dip in the River +Barada. But in her words, to be sure, were a +douche cold enough for Khalid. Now, to be just and +comprehensive in our History we must record here +that she, too, did not, and could not sleep that night. +The thought that Khalid would make a good apostle +of Buhaism and incidentally a good companion, insinuated +itself between the lines on every page of the +book she was trying to read.</p> +<p>On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who +is introduced to us by Shakib in these words:</p> +<p>“A Muslem, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson, +but by going about his business. He seldom deigns +to write; and yet, his words are quoted by every writer +of the day, and on every subject sacred and profane. +His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives +after his own mind and in his own robes; an Arab +who prays after no Imam, but directly to Allah and +his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust knowledge +on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo +and Damascus; a philosopher who would not give an +orange peel for the opinion of the world; an ascetic +who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage +who does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306' name='page_306'></a>306</span> +withal to amuse even a Diogenes:––this is the noted +Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom Mrs. Gotfry once +met at Ebbas Effendy’s in Akka, and whom she was +desirous of meeting again. When we first went to +visit him, this charming lady and Khalid and I, we +had to knock at the door until his neighbour peered +from one of the windows above and told us that the +Sheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we +must come in the evening. I learned afterwards that +he, reversing the habitual practice of mankind, works +at night and sleeps during the day.</p> +<p>“We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with +a lamp in his hand, peers through a small square opening +in the door to see who is knocking. He knew +neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry––‘Eigh!’ +he mused. And as he beheld her face in +the lamplight he exclaimed ‘Marhaba (welcome)! +Marhaba!’ and hastened to unbolt the door. We +are shown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small +court, up to his study. Which is a three-walled +room––a sort of stage––opening on the court, and +innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair. While he +and Mrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian, +I was wondering why in Damascus, the city of +seven rivers and of poetry and song, should there be a +court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated +fountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the +Sheikh can not tolerate the noise of the water; and +so, suffering from thirst and neglect, the fountain +goes to ruin.</p> +<p>“On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307' name='page_307'></a>307</span> +old books and pamphlets; in the corner is the usual +straw mat, a cushion, and a sort of stool on which +are ink and paper. This he clears, places the cushion +upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits +down on the mat; and we are invited to arrange for +ourselves some books. Indeed, the Sheikh is right; +most of these tomes are good for nothing else.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.</p> +<p>“‘Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,’ said +he to Khalid; ‘that is ominous. Verily, there is +danger in thy path.’</p> +<p>“‘But he will embrace Buhaism,’ put in Mrs. Gotfry.</p> +<p>“‘That might save him. Buhaism is the old torch, +relighted after many centuries, by Allah.’</p> +<p>“Meanwhile Khalid was thinking of second-hand +Jerry of the second-hand book-shop of New York. +The Sheikh reminded him of his old friend.</p> +<p>“And I was holding in my hand a book on which +I chanced while arranging my seat. It was Debrett’s +Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage. How did +such a book find its way into the Sheikh’s rubbish, +I wondered. But birds of a feather, thought I.</p> +<p>“‘That book was sent to me,’ said he, ‘by a merchant +friend, who found it in the Bazaar. They send +me all kinds of books, these simple of heart. They +think I can read in all languages and discourse on all +subjects. Allah forgive them.’</p> +<p>“And when I tell him, in reply to his inquiry, that +the book treats of Titles, Orders, and Degrees of Precedence, +he utters a sharp whew, and with a quick +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308' name='page_308'></a>308</span> +gesture of weariness and disgust, tells me to take it. +‘I have my head full of our own ansab (pedigrees),’ +he adds, ‘and I have no more respect for a green turban +(the colour of the Muslem nobility) than I have +for this one,’ pointing to his, which is white.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks +of Wahhabism.</p> +<p>“‘It is Islam in its pristine purity; it is the Islam +of the first great Khalifs. “Mohammed is dead; but +Allah lives,” said Abu Bekr to the people on the death +of the Prophet. And Wahhabism is a direct telegraph +wire between mortal man and his God.</p> +<p>“‘But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the +most fanatical, when their doctrines are the most +pure?’ asked Khalid.</p> +<p>“‘In thy question is the answer to it. They are +fanatical <i>because</i> of their purity of doctrine, and +withal because they live in Nejd. If there were a +Wahhabi sect in Barr’ush-Sham (Syria), it would not +be thus, assure thee.’</p> +<p>“And expressing his liking for Khalid, he advises +him to be careful of his utterances in Damascus, if he +believes in self-preservation. ‘I am old,’ he continues; +‘and the ulema do not think my flesh is good +for sacrifice. But thou art young, and plump––a +tender yearling––ah, be careful sheikh Khalid. +Then, I do not talk to the people direct. I talk to +them through holy men and dervishes. The people +do not believe in a philosopher; but the holy man, and +though he attack the most sacred precepts of the +Faith, they will believe. And Damascus is the very +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309' name='page_309'></a>309</span> +hive of turbans, green and otherwise. So guard thee, +my child.’</p> +<p>“Mrs. Gotfry then asks for a minute’s privacy with +the Sheikh. And before he withdraws with her to the +court, he searches through a heap of mouldy tomes, +draws from beneath them a few yellow pamphlets on +the Comparative Study of the Semetic Alphabets and +on The Rights of the Khalifate––such is the scope of +his learning––and dusting these on his knee, presents +them to us, saying, ‘Judge us not severely.’</p> +<p>“This does not mean that he cares much if we do +or not. But in our country, in the Orient, even a +Diogenes does not disdain to handle the coin of affability. +We are always meekly asked, even by the most +supercilious, to overlook shortcomings, and condone.</p> +<p>“I could not in passing out, however, overlook +the string of orange peels which hung on a pole in the +court. Nor am I sensible of an indecorum if I give +out that the Sheikh lives on oranges, and preserves +the peels for kindling the fire. And this, his only +article of food, he buys at wholesale, like his robes +and undergarments. For he never changes or washes +anything. A robe is worn continually, worn out in +the run, and discarded. He no more believes in the +efficacy of soap than in the efficacy of a good reputation. +‘The good opinion of men,’ he says, ‘does not +wash our hearts and minds. And if these be clean, +all’s clean.’</p> +<p>“That is why, I think, he struck once with his staff +a journalist for inserting in his paper a laudatory notice +on the Sheikh’s system of living and thinking and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310' name='page_310'></a>310</span> +speaking of him as ‘a deep ocean of learning and wisdom.’ +Even in travelling he carries nothing with +him but his staff, that he might the quicker flee, or +put to flight, the vulgar curious. He puts on a few +extra robes, when he is going on a journey, and in +time, becoming threadbare, sheds them off as the serpent +its skin....”</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>And we pity our Scribe if he ever goes back to +Damascus after this, and the good Sheikh chances upon +him.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311' name='page_311'></a>311</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS' id='CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3>ADUMBRATIONS</h3> +</div> +<p>“In the morning of the eventful day,” it is set +forth in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>, “I was in Khalid’s +room writing a letter, when Ahmed Bey comes +in to confer with him. They remain together for +some while during which I could hear Khalid growl +and Ahmed Bey gently whispering, ‘But the Dastur, +the Unionists, Mother Society,’––this being the burden +of his song. When he leaves, Khalid, with a +scowl on his brow, paces up and down the room, +saying, ‘They would treat me like a school boy; they +would have me speak by rule, and according to their +own dictation. They even espy my words and actions +as if I were an enemy of the Constitution. No; +let them find another. The servile spouters in the +land are as plenty as summer flies. After I deliver +my address to-day, Shakib, we will take the first train +for Baalbek. I want to see my mother. No, billah! +I can not go any further with these Turks. +Why, read this.’ And he hands me the memorandum, +or outline of the speech given to him by Ahmed +Bey.”</p> +<p>And this, we learn, is a litany of praises, beginning +with Abd’ul-Hamid and ending with the ulema of +Damascus; which litany the Society Deputies would +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312' name='page_312'></a>312</span> +place in the mouth of Khalid for the good of all concerned. +Ay, for his good, too, if he but knew. If +he but looked behind him, he would have yielded a +whit, this Khalid. The deep chasm between him and +the Deputy, however, justifies the conduct of each on +his side: the lack of gumption in the one and the lack +of depth in the other render impossible any sort of +understanding between them. While we recommend, +therefore, the prudence of the oleaginous Ahmed, we +can not with justice condemn the perversity of our +fretful Khalid. For he who makes loud boast of +spiritual freedom, is, nevertheless, a slave of the Idea. +And slavery in some shape or shade will clutch at +the heart of the most powerful and most developed +of mortals. Poor Khalid! if Truth commands thee +to destroy the memorandum of Ahmed Bey, Wisdom +suggests that thou destroy, too, thine address. And +Wisdom in the person of Sheikh Taleb now knocks +at thy door.</p> +<p>The Sheikh is come to admonish Khalid, not to +return his visit. For at this hour of the day he +should have been a-bed; but his esteem for Mrs. Gotfry, +billah, his love, too, for her friend Khalid, and +his desire to avert a possible danger, banish sleep from +his eyes.</p> +<p>“My spirit is perturbed about thee,” thus further, +“and I can not feel at ease until I have given my +friendly counsel. Thou art free to follow it or not +to follow it. But for the sake of this beard Sheikh +Khalid, do not speak at the Mosque to-day. I know +the people of this City: they are ignorant, obtuse, fanatical, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313' name='page_313'></a>313</span> +blind. ‘God hath sealed up their hearts and +their hearing.’ They will not hear thee; they can not +understand thee. I know them better than thou: I +have lived amongst them for forty years. And what +talk have we wasted. They will not hear; they can +not see. It’s a dog’s tail, Sheikh Khalid. And what +Allah hath twisted, man can not straighten. So, let +it be. Let them wallow in their ignorance. Or, if +thou wilt help them, talk not to them direct. Use +the medium of the holy man, like myself. This is +my advice to thee. For thine own sake and for the +sake of that good woman, thy friend and mine, I give +it. Now, I can go and sleep. Salaam.”</p> +<p>And the grey beard of Sheikh Taleb and his sharp +blue eyes were animated, as he spoke, agitated like his +spirit. What he has heard abroad and what he suspects, +are shadowed forth in his friendly counsel. Let +Khalid reflect upon it. Our Scribe, at least, is persuaded +that Sheikh Taleb spoke as a friend. And he, +too, suspects that something is brewing abroad. He +would have Khalid hearken, therefore, to the Sheikh.</p> +<p>But Khalid in silence ponders the matter. And at +table, even Mrs. Gotfry can not induce him to +speak. She has just returned from the bazaar; +she could hardly make her way through the choked +arcade leading to the Mosque; the crowd is immense +and tumultuous; and a company of the Dragoons is +gone forth to open the way and maintain order. +“But I don’t think they are going to succeed,” she +added. Silently, impassively, Khalid hears this. +And after going through the second course, eating as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314' name='page_314'></a>314</span> +if he were dreaming, he gets up and leaves the table. +Mrs. Gotfry, somewhat concerned, orders her last +course, takes her thimble-full of coffee at a gulp, and, +leaving likewise, hurries upstairs and calls Khalid, +who was pacing up and down the hall, into her room.</p> +<p>“What is the matter with you?”</p> +<p>“Nothing, nothing,” murmured Khalid absent-mindedly.</p> +<p>“That’s not true. Everything belies your words. +Why, your actions, your expression, your silence oppresses +me. I know what is disturbing you. And I +would prevail upon you, if I could, to give up this +afternoon’s business. Don’t go; don’t speak. I have +a premonition that things are not going to end well. +Why, even my dragoman says that the Mohammedan +mob is intent upon some evil business. Be advised. +And since you are going to break with your associates, +why not do so now. The quicker the better. Come, +make up your mind. And we’ll not wait for the +morning train. We’ll leave for Baalbek in a special +carriage this afternoon. What say you?”</p> +<p>Just then the brass band in front of the Hotel +struck up the Dastur march in honour of the Sheikhs +who come to escort the Unionist Deputies and the +speaker to the Mosque.</p> +<p>“I have made up my mind. I have given my +word.”</p> +<p>And being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let +him go, presses his hand and wishes him good speed.</p> +<p>And here we are in the carriage on the right of the +green-turbaned Sheikh. We look disdainfully on the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315' name='page_315'></a>315</span> +troops, the brass band, and the crowd of nondescripts +that are leading the procession. We cross the bridge, +pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street +groaning with an electric tramway, we come to the +grand arcade in which the multitudes on both sides +are pressed against the walls and into the stalls by the +bullying Dragoons. We drive through until we +reach the arch, where some Khalif of the Omayiahs +used to take the air. And descending from the carriage, +we walk a few paces between two rows of book-shops, +and here we are in the court of the grand +Mosque Omayiah.</p> +<p>We elbow our way through the pressing, distressing +multitudes, following Ahmed Bey into the Mosque, +while the Army Officer mounts a platform in the +court and dispenses to the crowd there of his Turkish +blatherskite. We stand in the Mosque near the heavy +tapestried square which is said to be the sarcophagus +of St. John. Already a Sheikh is in the pulpit +preaching on the excellences of liberty, chopping out +definitions of equality, and quoting from Al-Hadith +to prove that all men are Allah’s children and that +the most favoured in Allah’s sight is he who is most +loving to his brother man. He then winds up with +an encomium on the heroes of the day, curses +vehemently the reactionaries and those who curse +them not (the Mosque resounds with “Curse the reactionists, +curse them all!”), tramples beneath his +heel every spy and informer of the New Era, invokes +the great Allah and his Apostle to watch over the +patriots and friends of the Ottoman nation, to visit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316' name='page_316'></a>316</span> +with grievous punishment its enemies, and––descends.</p> +<p>The silence of expectation ensues. The Mosque is +crowded; and the press of turbans is such that if a +pea were dropt from above it would not reach +the floor. From the pulpit the great Mohammedan +audience, with its red fezes, its green and white turbans, +seemed to Khalid like a verdant field overgrown +with daisies and poppies. “It is the beginning of +Arabia’s Spring, the resuscitation of the glory of +Islam,” and so forth; thus opening with a flourish of +flattery like the spouting tricksters whom he so +harshly judges. And what shall we say of him? It +were not fair quickly to condemn, to cry him down +at the start. Perhaps he was thus inspired by the +august assembly; perhaps he quailed and thought it +wise to follow thus far the advice of his friends. “It +was neither this nor that,” say our Scribe. “For as +he stood in the tribune, the picture of the field of +daisies and poppies suggested the picture of Spring. +A speaker is not always responsible for the frolics of +his fancy. Indeed, an audience of some five thousand +souls, all intent upon this opaque, mysterious Entity in +the tribune, is bound to reach the very heart of it; +for think what five thousand rays focussed on a sensitive +plate can do.” Thus our Scribe, apologetically.</p> +<p>But after the first contact and the vibrations of +enthusiasm and flattery that followed, Khalid regains +his equilibrium and reason, and strikes into his favourite +theme. He begins by arraigning the utilitarian +spirit of Europe, the rank materialism which is invading +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_317' name='page_317'></a>317</span> +our very temples of worship. God, Truth, +Virtue, with them, is no longer esteemed for its own +worth, but for what it can yield of the necessities and +luxuries of life. And with these cynical materialistic +abominations they would be supreme even in the East; +they would extinguish with their dominating spirit of +trade every noble virtue of the soul. And yet, they +make presumption of introducing civilisation by benevolent +assimilation, rather dissimulation. For even +an Englishman in our country, for instance, is unlike +himself in his own. The American, too, who is loud-lunged +about democracy and shirt-sleeve diplomacy, +wheedles and truckles as good as the wiliest of our +pashas. And further he exclaims:</p> +<p>“Not to Christian Europe as represented by the +State, therefore, or by the industrial powers of +wealth, or by the alluring charms of decadence in art +and literature, or by missionary and educational institutions, +would I have you turn for light and guidance. +No: from these plagues of civilisation protect us, +Allah! No: let us have nothing to do with that practical +Christianity which is become a sort of divine +key to Colonisation; a mint, as it were, which continually +replenishes the treasuries of Christendom. +Let us have nothing to do with their propagandas for +the propagation of supreme Fakes. No, no. Not +this Europe, O my Brothers, should we take for our +model or emulate: not the Europe which is being dereligionised +by Material Science; disorganised by +Communion and Anarchy; befuddled by Alcoholism; +enervated by Debauch. To another Europe indeed, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_318' name='page_318'></a>318</span> +would I direct you––a Europe, high, noble, healthy, +pure, and withal progressive. To the deep and inexhaustible +sources of genius there, of reason and wisdom +and truth, would I have you advert the mind. +The divine idealism of German philosophy, the lofty +purity of true French art, the strength and sterling +worth of English freedom,––these we should try to +emulate; these we should introduce into the gorgeous +besottedness of Oriental life, and literature, and religion....”</p> +<p>And thus, until he reaches the heart of his subject; +while the field of daisies and poppies before him +gently sways as under a soft morning breeze; nods, as +it were, its approbation.</p> +<p>“Truly,” he continues, “religion is purely a work +of the heart,––the human heart, and the heart of the +world as well. For have not the three monotheistic +religions been born in this very heart of the world, +in Arabia, Syria, and Palestine? And are not our +Books of Revelation the truest guides of life hitherto +known to man? How then are we to keep this Heart +pure, to free it, in other words, from the plagues I +have named? And how, on the other hand, are we +to strengthen it, to quicken its sluggish blood? In a +word, how are we to attain to the pinnacle of health, +and religion, and freedom,––of power, and love, and +light? By political revolutions, and insurrections, +and Dasturs? By blindly adopting the triple political +tradition of France, which after many years of +terror and bloodshed, only gave Europe a new Yoke, +a new Tyranny, a new grinding Machine? No, my +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_319' name='page_319'></a>319</span> +Brothers; not by political nomenclature, not by political +revolutions alone, shall the nations be emancipated.”</p> +<p>Whereupon Ahmed Bey begins to knit his brows; +Shakib shakes his head, biting his nether lip; and here +and there in the audience is heard a murmur about retrogression +and reaction. Khalid proceeds with his +allegory of the Muleteer and the Pack-Mule.</p> +<p>“See, the panel of the Mule is changed; the load, +too; and a few short-cuts are made in the rocky winding +road of statecraft and tyranny. Ah, the stolid, +patient, drudging Mule always exults in a new Panel, +which, indeed, seems necessary every decade, or so. +For the old one, when, from a sense of economy, or +from negligence or stupidity, is kept on for a length +of time, makes the back sore, and the Mule becomes +kickish and resty. Hence, the plasters of conservative +homeopathists, the operations suggested by political +leeches, the radical cures of social quacks, and such +like. But the Mule continues to kick against the +pricks; and the wise Muleteer, these days, when he +has not the price of a new Panel, or knows not how +to make one, sells him to the first bidder. And the +new owner thereupon washes the sores and wounds, +applies to them a salve of the patent kind, buys his +Mule a new Panel, and makes him do the work. +That is what I understand by a political revolution.... +And are the Ottoman people free to-day? +Who in all Syria and Arabia dare openly criticise the +new Owner of the Mule?</p> +<p>“Ours in a sense is a theocratic Government. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_320' name='page_320'></a>320</span> +only by reforming the religion on which it is based, +is political reform in any way possible and enduring.” +And here he argues that the so-called Reformation of +Islam, of which Jelal ud-Dïn el-Afghani and Mohammed +Abdu are the protagonists, is false. It is based on +theological juggling and traditional sophisms. Their +Al-Gazzali, whom they so much prize and quote, is +like the St. Augustine of the Christians: each of these +theologians finds in his own Book of Revelation a +divine criterion for measuring and judging all human +knowledge. No; a scientific truth can not be +measured by a Korânic epigram: the Korân, a divine +guide to life; a work of the heart should not attempt +to judge a work of the mind or should be judged +by it.</p> +<p>“But I would brush the cobwebs of interpretation +and sophism from this Work of the heart,” he cries; +“every spider’s web in the Mosque, I would sweep +away. The garments of your religion, I would have +you clean, O my Brothers. Ay, even the threadbare +adventitious wrappages, I would throw away. From +the religiosity and cant of to-day I call you back to +the religion pure of the heart....”</p> +<p>But the Field of poppies and daisies begins to sway +as under a gale. It is swelling violently, tumultuously.</p> +<p>“I would free al-Islam,” he continues, “from its +degrading customs, its stupefying traditions, its enslaving +superstitions, its imbruting cants.”</p> +<p>Here several voices in the audience order the +speaker to stop. “Innovation! Infidelity!” they cry. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321' name='page_321'></a>321</span></p> +<p>“The yearly pestiferous consequences of the Haji”––But +Khalid no longer can be heard. On all sides +zealotry raises and shakes a protesting hand; on all +sides it shrieks, objurgating, threatening. Here it +asks, “We would like to know if the speaker be a +Wahhabi.” From another part of the Mosque comes +the reply: “Ay, he is a Wahhabi.” And the voice +of the speaker thundering above the storm: “Only in +Wahhabism pure and simple is the reformation of al-Islam +possible.”... Finis.</p> +<p>Zealotry is set by the ear; the hornet’s nest is +stirred. Your field of poppies and daisies, O Khalid, +is miraculously transformed into a pit of furious grey +spectres and howling red spirits. And still you wait +in the tribune until the storm subside? Fool, fool! +Art now in a civilised assembly? Hast thou no eyes +to see, no ears to hear?</p> +<p>“Reactionist! Infidel! Innovator! Wahhabi! +Slay him! Kill him!”––Are these likely to subside +the while thou wait? By the tomb of St. +John there, get thee down, and quickly. Bravo, +Shakib!––He rushes to the tribune, drags him down +by the jubbah, and, with the help of another friend, +hustles him out of the Mosque. But the thirst for +blood pursues them. And Khalid receives in the +court outside a stiletto-thrust in the back and a slash +in the forehead above the brow down to the ear. +Which, indeed, we consider a part of his good fortune. +Like the muleteer of his Lebanon tour, we +attribute his escape with two wounds to the prayers +of his good mother. For he is now in the carriage +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_322' name='page_322'></a>322</span> +with Shakib, the blood streaming down his back and +over his face. With difficulty the driver makes his +way through the crowds, issues out of the arcade, and––crack +the whip! Quickly to the Hotel.</p> +<p>The multitudes behind us, both inside and outside +the Mosque, are violently divided; for the real reactionists +of Damascus, those who are hostile to the +Constitution and the statochratic Government, are +always watching for an opportunity to give the match +to the dry sedges of sedition. And so, the liberals, +who are also the friends of Khalid, and the fanatical +mobs of the ulema, will have it out among themselves. +They call each other reactionists, plotters, conspirators; +and thereupon the bludgeons and poniards are +brandished; the pistols here and there are fired; the +Dragoons hasten to the scene of battle––but we are +not writing now the History of the Ottoman Revolution. +We leave them to have it out among themselves +as best they can, and accompany our Khalid to +the Hotel.</p> +<p>Here the good Mrs. Gotfry washes the blood from +his face, and Shakib, after helping him to bed, hastens +to call the surgeon, who, having come straightway, +sews and dresses the wounds and assures us that they +are not dangerous. In the evening a number of +Sheikhs of an enlightened and generous strain, come +to inquire about him. They tell us that one of the +assailants of Khalid, a noted brigand, and ten of the +reactionists, are now in prison. The Society Deputies, +however, do not seem much concerned about their +wounded friend. Yes, they are concerned, but in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_323' name='page_323'></a>323</span> +another direction and on weightier matters. For the +telegraph wires on the following day were kept busy. +And in the afternoon of the second day after the +event, the man who helped Shakib to save Khalid from +the mob, comes to save Khalid’s life. The Superintendent +of the Telegraph himself is here to inform us +that Khalid was accused to the Military Tribunal as +a reactionist, and a cablegram, in which he is summoned +there, is just received.</p> +<p>“Had I delivered this to the Vali,” he continues, +“you would have been now in the hands of the police, +and to-morrow on your way to Constantinople. But +I shall not deliver it until you are safe out of the +City. And you must fly or abscond to-day, because I +can not delay the message until to-morrow.”</p> +<p>Now Khalid and Shakib and Mrs. Gotfry take +counsel together. The one train for Baalbek leaves +in the morning; the carriage road is ruined from disuse; +and only on horseback can we fly. So, Mrs. +Gotfry orders her dragoman to hire horses for three,––nay, +for four, since we must have an extra guide +with us,––and a muleteer for the baggage.</p> +<p>And here Shakib interposes a suggestion: “They +must not come to the Hotel. Be with them on the +road, near the first bridge, about the first hour of +night.”</p> +<p>At the office of the Hotel the dragoman leaves word +that they are leaving for a friend’s house on account +of their patient.</p> +<p>And after dinner Mrs. Gotfry and Khalid set +forth afoot, accompanied by Shakib. In five minutes +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_324' name='page_324'></a>324</span> +they reach the first bridge; the dragoman and the +guide, with their horses and lanterns, are there waiting. +Shakib helps Khalid to his horse and bids them +farewell. He will leave for Baalbek by the first +train, and be there ahead of them.</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>And now, Reader, were we really romancing, we +should here dilate of the lovely ride in the lovely +moonlight on the lovely road to Baalbek. But truth +to tell, the road is damnable, the welkin starless, the +night pitch-black, and our poor Dreamer is suffering +from his wounds.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_325' name='page_325'></a>325</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT' id='CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<h3>THE STONING AND FLIGHT</h3> +</div> +<p>“And whence the subtle thrill of joy in suffering +for the Truth,” asks Khalid. “Whence the +light that flows from the wounds of martyrs? Whence +the rapture that triumphs over their pain? In the +thick of night, through the alcoves of the mountains, +over their barren peaks, down through the wadi of +oblivion, silently they pass. And they dream. They +dream of appearance in disappearance; of triumph in +surrender; of sunrises in the sunset.</p> +<p>“A mighty tidal wave leaves high upon the beach a +mark which later on becomes the general level of the +ocean. And so do the great thinkers of the world,––the +poets and seers, the wise and strong and self-denying, +the proclaimers of the Religion of Man. And I +am but a scrub-oak in this forest of giants, my Brothers. +A scrub-oak which you might cut down, but not +uproot. Lop off my branches; apply the axe to my +trunk; make of my timber charcoal for the censers of +your temples of worship; but the roots of me are deep, +deep in the soil, beyond the reach of mortal hands. +They are even spreading under your tottering palaces +and temples....</p> +<p>“I dream of the awakening of the East; of puissant +Orient nations rising to glorify the Idea, to build temples +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_326' name='page_326'></a>326</span> +to the Universal Spirit––to Art, and Love, and +Truth, and Faith. What if I am lost in the alcoves +of the hills, if I vanish forever in the night? The +sun that sets must rise. It is rising and lighting up +the dark and distant continents even when setting. +Think of that, ye who gloat over the sinking of my +mortal self.</p> +<p>“No; an idea is never too early annunciated. The +good seed will grow among the rocks, and though the +heavens withhold from it the sunshine and rain. It is +because I will it, nay, because a higher Will than mine +wills it, that the spirit of Khalid shall yet flow among +your pilgrim caravans, through the fertile deserts of +Arabia, down to the fountain-head of Faith, to Mecca +and Medina,” et cetera.</p> +<p>This, perhaps the last of the rhapsodies of Khalid’s, +the Reader considering the circumstances under which +it was written, will no doubt condone. Further, however, +in the K. L. MS. we can not now proceed. Certainly +the Author is not wanting in the sort of courage +which is loud-lunged behind the writing table; his +sufficiency of spirit is remarkable, unutterable. But +we would he knew that the strong do not exult in their +strength, nor the wise in their wisdom. For to fly +and philosophize were one thing, and to philosophize +in prison were another. Khalid this time does not follow +closely in the way of the Masters. But he would +have done so, if we can believe Shakib in this, had not +Mrs. Gotfry persuaded him to the contrary. He +would have stood in the Turkish Areopagus at Constantinople, +defended himself somewhat Socratic before +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_327' name='page_327'></a>327</span> +his judges, and hung out his tung on a rickety gibbet +in the neighborhood of St. Sophia. But Mrs. Gotfry +spoiled his great chance. She cheated him of the +glory of dying for a noble cause.</p> +<p>“The Turks are not worth the sacrifice,” Shakib +heard her say, when Khalid ejaculated somewhat about +martyrdom. And when she offered to accompany +him, the flight did not seem shameful in his eyes. +Nay, it became necessary; and under the circumstances +it was, indeed, cowardice not to fly. For is it not as +noble to surrender one’s self to Love as to the Turks +or any other earthly despotism? Gladly, heroically, he +adventures forth, therefore, and philosophizes on the +way about the light that flows from the wounds of +persecution. But we regret that this celestial stream +is not unmixed; it is accompanied by blood and pus; +by distention and fever, and other inward and outward +sores.</p> +<p>In this grievous state, somewhat like Don Quixote +after the Battle of the Mill, our Khalid enters Baalbek. +If the reader likes the comparison between the +two Knights at this juncture, he must work it out for +himself. We can not be so uncharitable as that; especially +that our Knight is a compatriot, and is now, +after our weary journeyings together, become our +friend.––Our poor grievous friend who must submit +again to the surgeon’s knife.</p> +<p>Mrs. Gotfry would not let him go to his mother, +for she herself would nurse him. So, the doctor is +called to the Hotel. And after opening, disinfecting, +and dressing the wounds, he orders his patient to keep +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_328' name='page_328'></a>328</span> +in bed for some days. They will then visit the ruins +and resume their journeying to Egypt. Khalid no +longer would live in Syria,––in a country forever +doomed to be under the Turkish yoke, faring, nay, +misfaring alike in the New Era as in the Old.</p> +<p>Now, his mother, tottering with age and sorrow, +comes to the Hotel, and begs him in a flood of tears +to come home; for his father is now with the Jesuits of +Beirut and seldom comes to Baalbek. And his +cousin Najma, with a babe on her arm and a tale of +woe in her eyes, comes also to invite her cousin Khalid +to her house.</p> +<p>She is alone; her father died some months ago; her +husband, after the dethronement of Abd’ul-Hamid, being +implicated in the reaction-movement, fled the country; +and his relatives, to add to her affliction, would +deprive her of her child. She is alone; and sick in +the lungs. She coughs, too, the same sharp, dry, malignant +cough that once plagued Khalid. Ay, the same +disease which he buried in the pine forest of Mt. Lebanon, +he beholds the ghost of it now, more terrible and +heart-rending than anything he has yet seen or experienced. +The disease which he conquered is come +back in the person of his cousin Najma to conquer him. +And who can assure Khalid that it did not steal into +her breast along with his kisses? And yet, he is not +the only one in Baalbek who returned from America +with phthisis. O, but that thought is horrifying. Impossible––he +can not believe it.</p> +<p>But whether it be from you or from another, O Khalid, +there is the ghost of it beckoning to you. Look at +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_329' name='page_329'></a>329</span> +it. Are those the cheeks, those the eyes, this the body +which a year ago was a model of rural charm and +beauty and health? Is this the compensation of love? +Is there anything like it dreamt of in your philosophy? +There she is, who once in the ruined Temple of Venus +mixed the pomegranate flower of her cheeks with the +saffron of thy sickly lips. Wasted and dejected broken +in body and spirit, she sits by your bedside nursing her +baby and coughing all the while. And that fixed expression +of sadness, so habitual among the Arab women +who carry their punks and their children on their backs +and go a-begging, it seems as if it were an hundred +autumns old, this sadness. But right there, only a year +ago, the crimson poppies dallied with the laughing +breeze; the melting rubies dilated of health and joy.</p> +<p>And now, deploring, imploring, she asks: “Will +you not come to me, O Khalid? Will you not let me +nurse you? Come; and your mother, too, will live +with us. I am so lonesome, so miserable. And at +night the boys cast stones at my door. My husband’s +relatives put them to it because I would not give them +the child. And they circulate all kinds of calumnies +about me too.”</p> +<p>Khalid promises to come, and assures her that she +will not long remain alone. “And Allah willing,” he +adds, “you will recover and be happy again.”</p> +<p>She rises to go, when Mrs. Gotfry enters the room. +Khalid introduces his cousin as his dead bride. “What +do you mean?” she inquires. He promises to explain. +Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins> +in a round box inlaid with mother-of-pearl for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_330' name='page_330'></a>330</span> +Khalid’s guests. And taking the babe in her arms, +she fondles and kisses it, and gives its mother some advice +about suckling. “Not whenever the child cries, +but only at stated times,” she repeats.</p> +<p>So much about Khalid’s mother and cousin. A few +days after, when he is able to leave his room, he goes +to see them. His cousin Najma he would take with +him to Cairo. He would not leave her behind, a prey +to the cruelty of loneliness and disease. He tells her +this. She is overjoyed. She is ready to go whenever +he says. To-morrow? Please Allah, yes. But––</p> +<p>Please Allah, ill-luck is following. For on his +way back to the Hotel, a knot of boys, lying in +wait in one of the side streets, cast stones at him. +He looks back, and a missile whizzes above his head, +another hits him in the forehead almost undoing the +doctor’s work. Alas, that wound! Will it ever +heal? Khalid takes shelter in one of the shops; a +cameleer rates the boys and chases them away. The +stoning was repeated the following day, and the +cause of it, Shakib tells us, is patent. For when it +became known in Baalbek that Khalid, the excommunicated +one, is living in the Hotel, and with an +American woman! the old prejudices against him were +aroused, the old enemies were astirring. The priests +held up their hands in horror; the women wagged +their long tongues in the puddle of scandal; and the +most fanatical shrieked out, execrating, vituperating, +threatening even the respectable Shakib, who persists +in befriending this muleteer’s son. Excommunicated, +he now comes with this Americaniyah (American +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_331' name='page_331'></a>331</span> +woman) to corrupt the community. Horrible! We +will even go farther than this boy’s play of stoning. +We present petitions to the kaiemkam demanding the +expulsion of this Khalid from the Hotel, from the +City.</p> +<p>From other quarters, however, come heavier charges +against Khalid. The Government of Damascus has +not been idle ever since the seditious lack-beard Sheikh +disappeared. The telegraph wires, in all the principal +cities of Syria, are vibrating with inquiries about him, +with orders for his arrest. One such the kaiemkam +of Baalbek had just received when the petition of the +“Guardians of the Morals of the Community” was +presented to him. To this, the kaiemkam, in a perfunctory +manner, applies his seal, and assures his petitioners +that it will promptly be turned over to the +proper official. But Turk as Turks go, he “places +it under the cushion,” when they leave. Which expression, +translated into English means, he quashes it.</p> +<p>Now, by good chance, this is the same kaiemkam who +sent Khalid a year ago to prison, maugre the efforts +and importunities and other inducements of Shakib. +And this time, he will do him and his friend a good +turn. He was thinking of the many misfortunes of +this Khalid, and nursing a little pity for him, when +Shakib entered to offer a written complaint against a +few of the more noted instigators of the assailants of +his friend. His Excellency puts this in his pocket and +withdraws with Shakib into another room. A few +minutes after, Shakib was hurrying to the Hotel to +confer with his brother Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_332' name='page_332'></a>332</span></p> +<p>“I saw the Order with these very eyes,” said Shakib, +almost poking his two forefingers into them. +“The kaiemkam showed it to me.”</p> +<p>Hence, the secret preparations inside the Hotel and +out of it for a second remove, for a final flight. +Shakib packs up; Najma is all ready. And Khalid +cuts his hair, doffs his jubbah, and appears again in +the ordinary attire of civilised mortals. For how else +can he get out of Beirut and the telegraph wires +throughout Syria are flowing with orders for his arrest? +In a hat and frock-coat, therefore (furnished +by Shakib), he enters into the carriage with Mrs. Gotfry +about two hours after midnight; and, with their +whole retinue, make for Riak, and thence by train for +Beirut. Here Shakib obtains passports for himself +and Najma, and together with Mrs. Gotfry and her +dragoman, they board in the afternoon the Austrian +Liner for Port-Said; while, in the evening, walking at +the side of one of the boatmen, Khalid, passportless, +stealthily passes through the port, and rejoins his +friends.</p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_333' name='page_333'></a>333</span> +<a name='CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT' id='CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT'></a> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<h3>THE DESERT</h3> +</div> +<p>We remember seeing once a lithographic print +representing a Christmas legend of the Middle +Ages, in which a detachment of the Heavenly Host––big, +ugly, wild-looking angels––are pursuing, with +sword and pike, a group of terror-stricken little devils. +The idea in the picture produced such an impression +that one wished to see the helpless, pitiful imps in +heaven and the armed winged furies, their pursuers, in +the other place. Now, as we go through the many +pages of Shakib’s, in which he dilates of the mischances, +the persecutions, and the flights of Khalid, +and of which we have given an abstract, very brief +but comprehensive, in the preceding Chapters, we are +struck with the similarity in one sense between his +Dastur-legend, so to speak, and that of the Middle +Ages to which we have alluded. The devils in both +pictures are distressing, pitiful; while the winged persecutors +are horribly muscular, and withal atrociously +armed.</p> +<p>Indeed, this legend of the Turkish angels of Fraternity +and Equality, pursuing the Turkish little devils +of reaction, so called, is most killing. But we can +not see how the descendants of Yakut and Seljuk +Khan, whether pursuers or pursued, whether Dastur +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_334' name='page_334'></a>334</span> +winged furies they be, or Hamidian devils, are going to +hold their own in face of the fell Dragon which soon or +late must overtake them. That heavy, slow-going, +slow-thinking Monster––and it makes little difference +whether he comes from the North or from the West––will +wait until the contending parties exhaust their +strength and then––but this is not our subject. We +would that this pursuing business cease on all sides, +and that everybody of all parties concerned pursue +rather, and destroy, the big strong devil within them. +Thus sayeth the preacher. And thus, for once, we, +too. For does not every one of these furious angels +of Equality, whether in Constantinople, in Berlin, in +Paris, in London, or in New York, sit on his wings +and reveal his horns when he rises to power? We +are tired of wings that are really nothing but horns, +misshaped and misplaced.</p> +<p>Look at our French-swearing, whiskey-drinking +Tataric angels of the Dastur! Indeed, we rejoice +that our poor little Devil is now beyond the reach of +their dripping steel and rickety second-hand gibbets. +And yet, not very far; for if the British Government +consent or blink, Khalid and many real reactionists +whom Cairo harbours, would have to seek an asylum +elsewhere. And the third flight might not be as successful +as the others. But none such is necessary. +On the sands of the Libyan desert, not far from +Cairo and within wind of Helwan, they pitch their +tents. And Mrs. Gotfry is staying at Al-Hayat, +which is a stone’s throw from their evening fire. She +would have Khalid live there too, but he refuses. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_335' name='page_335'></a>335</span> +will live with his cousin and Shakib for a while. He +is captivated, we are told, by that little cherub of a +babe. But this does not prevent him from visiting +his friend the Buhaist Priestess every day and dining +often with her at the Hotel.</p> +<p>She, too, not infrequently comes to the camp. Indeed, +finding the solitude agreeable she has a tent +pitched near theirs. And as a relief from the noise +and bustle of tourists and the fatiguing formalities of +Hotel life, she repairs thither for a few days every +week.</p> +<p>Now, in this austere delicacy of the desert, where +allwhere is the softness of pure sand, Khalid is perfectly +happy. Never did he seem so careless, our +Scribe asserts, and so jovial and child-like in his joys. +Far from the noise and strife of politics, far from the +bewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes +and dreams and ambitions of life, he lives each day as +if it were the last of the world. Here are joys manifold +for a weary and persecuted spirit: the joy of +having your dearest friend and comrade with you; +the joy of nursing and helping to restore to health and +happiness the woman dearest to your heart; the joy +of a Love budding in beauty and profusion; and––this, +the rarest and sublimest for Khalid––the joy +of worshipping at the cradle––of fondling, caressing, +and bringing up one of the brightest, sweetest, loveliest +of babes.</p> +<p>Najib is his name––it were cruel to neutralise such +a prodigy––and he is just learning to walk and lisp. +Khalid teaches him the first step and the first monosyllable, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_336' name='page_336'></a>336</span> +receiving in return the first kiss which his infant +lips could voice. With what joy Najib makes +his first ten steps! With what zest would he practise +on the soft sands, laughing as he falls, and rising +to try again. And thus, does he quickly, wonderfully +develop, unfolding in the little circle of his caressers––in +his mother’s lap, in Shakib’s arms, on Khalid’s +back, on Mrs. Gotfry’s knee––the irresistible charm +of his precocious spirit.</p> +<p>In two months of desert life, Najib could run on +the sands and sit down when tired to rest; in two +months he could imitate in voice and gesture whatever +he heard or saw: the donkey’s bray, and with a +tilt of the head like him; the cry of the cock; the +shrill whistle of the train; and the howling of donkey +boys. His keen sense of discrimination in sounds is +incredible. And one day, seeing a Mohammedan +spreading his rug to pray, he begins to kneel and kiss +the ground in imitation of him. He even went into +the tent and brought Khalid’s jubbah to spread it on +the sand likewise for that purpose. So sensitive to +outside impressions is this child that he quickly responds +to the least suggestion and with the least effort. +Early in the morning, when the chill of night is still +on the sands, he toddles into Khalid’s tent cooing and +warbling his joy. A walking jasmine flower, a singing +ray of sunshine, Khalid calls him. And the +mother, on seeing her child thus develop, begins to +recuperate. In this little garden of happiness, her +hope begins to blossom.</p> +<p>But Khalid would like to know why Najib, on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_337' name='page_337'></a>337</span> +coming into his tent in the morning and seeing him +naked, always pointed with his little finger and with +questioning smile, to what protruded under the navel. +The like questions Khalid puts with the ease and +freedom of a child. And writes full pages about +them, too, in which he only succeeds in bamboozling +himself and us. For how can we account for everything +a child does? Even the psychologist with his +reflex-action theory does not solve the whole problem. +But Khalid would like to know––and perhaps not +so innocently does he dwell upon this subject as upon +others––he would like to know the significance of +Najib’s pointed finger and smile. It may be only an +accident, Khalid. “But an accident,” says he, “occurring +again and again in the same manner under +stated conditions ceases to be such.” And might not +the child, who is such an early and keen observer, +have previously seen his mother in native buff, and +was surprised to see that appendage in you, Khalid?</p> +<p>Even at Al-Hayat Najib is become popular. Khalid +often comes here carrying him on his back. And +how ready is the child to salaam everybody, and with +both hands, as he stands on the veranda steps. +“Surely,” says Khalid, “there is a deeper understanding +between man and child than between man +and man. For who but a child dare act so freely +among these polyglots of ceremony in this little world +of frills and frocks and feathers? Who but a child +dare approach without an introduction any one of these +solemn-looking tourists? Here then is the divine +source of the sweetest and purest joy. Here is that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_338' name='page_338'></a>338</span> +one touch of Nature which makes the whole world +kin. For the child, and though he be of the lowest +desert tribe, standing on the veranda of a fashionable +Hotel, can warm and sweeten with the divine flame +that is in him, the hearts of these sour-seeming, stiff-looking +tourists who are from all corners of the earth. +Is not this a miracle? My professor of psychology +will say, ‘Nay.’ But what makes the heart leap in +that grave and portly gentleman, who might be from +Finland or Iceland, for all I know, when Najib’s +hand is raised to him in salutation? What makes +that stately and sombre-looking dame open her arms, +when Najib plucks a flower and, after smelling it, +presents it to her? What makes that reticent, meditative, +hard-favoured ancient, who is I believe a psychologist, +what makes him so interested in observing Najib +when he stands near the piano pointing anxiously to +the keyboard? For the child enjoys not every kind +of music: play a march or a melody and he will keep +time, listing joyously from side to side and waving +his hand in an arch like a maestro; play something +insipid or chaotic and he will stand there impassive +as a <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">statue.”</ins></p> +<p>And “the reticent hard-favoured ancient,” who turns +out to be an American professor of some ology, explains +to Khalid why lively music moves children, +while soft and subtle tones do not. But Khalid is +not open to argument on the subject. He prefers +to believe that children, especially when so keenly +sensitive as his prodigy, understand as much, if not +more, about music as the average operagoer of to-day. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_339' name='page_339'></a>339</span> +But that is not saying much. The professor furthermore, +while admitting the extreme precocity of +Najib’s mind, tries to simplify by scientific analysis +what to Khalid and other laymen seemed wonderful, +almost miraculous. Here, too, Khalid botches the +arguments of the learned gentleman in his effort to +give us a summary of them, and tells us in the end +that never after, so long as that professor was there, +did he ever visit Al-Hayat.</p> +<p>He prefers to frolic and philosophise with his +prodigy on the sands. He goes on all four around +the tent, carrying Najib on his back; he digs a little +ditch in the sand and teaches him how to lie therein. +Following the precept of the Greek philosophers, he +would show him even so early how to die. And +Najib lies in the sand-grave, folds his hands on his +breast and closes his eyes. Rising therefrom, Khalid +would teach him how to dance like a dervish, and +Najib whirls and whirls until he falls again in that +grave.</p> +<p>When Mrs. Gotfry came that day, Khalid asked +the child to show her how to dance and die, and +Najib begins to whirl like a dervish until he falls +in the grave; thereupon he folds his arms, closes his +eyes, and smiles a pathetic smile. This by far is the +masterpiece of all his feats. And one evening, when +he was repeating this strange and weird antic, which +in Khalid’s strange mind might be made to symbolise +something stranger than both, he saw, as he lay in +the grave, a star in the sky. It was the first time he +saw a star; and he jumped out of his sand-grave exulting +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_340' name='page_340'></a>340</span> +in the discovery he had made. He runs to +his mother and points the star to her....</p> +<p>And thus did Khalid spend his halcyon months in +the desert. Here was an arcadia, perfect but brief. +For his delight in infant worship, and in the new +Love which was budding in beauty and profusion, and +in tending his sick cousin who was recovering her +health, and in the walks around the ruins in the +desert with his dearest comrade and friend,––these, +alas, were joys of too pure a nature to endure. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_341' name='page_341'></a>341</span></p> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='ALKHATIMAH' id='ALKHATIMAH'></a> +<h2>AL-KHATIMAH</h2> +</div> +<p>“But I can not see all that you see.”</p> +<p>“Then you do not love me.”</p> +<p>“Back again to Swedenborg––I told you more +than once that he is not my apostle.”</p> +<p>“Nor is he mine. But he has expressed a great +truth, Jamïlah. Now, can you love me in the light of +that truth?”</p> +<p>“You are always asking me that same question, Khalid. +You do not understand me. I do not believe in +marriage. I tried it once; I will not try it again. +I am married to Buhaism. And you Khalid––remember +my words––you will yet be an apostle––the +apostle––of Buhaism. And you will find me with +you, whether you be in Arabia, in America, or in +Egypt. I feel this––I know it––I am positive +about it. Your star and mine are one. We are +born under the same star. We are now in the same +orbit, approaching the same nadir. We are ruled by +our stars. I believe this, and you don’t. At least, +you say you don’t. But you do. You don’t know +your own mind. The trend of the current of your +life is beyond your grasp, beyond your comprehension. +I know. And you must listen to me. You must +follow my advice. If you can not come with me now +to the States, you will await me here. I am called +on a pressing business. And within three months, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_342' name='page_342'></a>342</span> +at the most, I shall return and find you waiting for +me right here, in this desert.”</p> +<p>“I can not understand you.”</p> +<p>“You will yet.”</p> +<p>“But why not try to understand me? Can you not +find in my ideas the very essence of Buhaism? Can +you not come up to my height and behold there the +star that you have taken for your guide? My Truth, +Jamïlah, can you not see that? Love and Faith, free +from all sectarianism and all earthly authority,––what +is Buhaism or Mohammedanism or Christianity +beside them? Moreover, I have a mission. And to +love me you must believe in <i>me</i>, not in the Buha. +You laugh at my dream. But one day it will be +realised. A great Arab Empire in the border-land +of the Orient and Occident, in this very heart of +the world, this Arabia, this Egypt, this Field of the +Cloth of Gold, so to speak, where the Male and +Female of the Spirit shall give birth to a unifying +faith, a unifying art, a unifying truth––”</p> +<p>“Vagaries, chimeras,” interrupted Mrs. Gotfry. +“Buhaism is established, and it needs a great apostle. +It needs you; it will have you. I will have you. +Your destiny is interwoven with mine. You can +not flee it, do what you may. We are ruled by our +stars, Khalid. And if you do not realise this now, +you will realise it to-morrow. Here, give me your +hand.”</p> +<p>“I can not.”</p> +<p>“Very well, then. Good-bye––<i>au revoir</i>. In +three months you will change your mind. In three +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_343' name='page_343'></a>343</span> +months I will return to the East and find you waiting +for me, even here in this desert. Think on it, and +take care of yourself. <i>Au revoir.</i>”</p> +<p>In this strange, mysterious manner, after pacing +for hours on the sand in the sheen of the full moon, +Mrs. Gotfry says farewell to Khalid.</p> +<p>He sits on a rock near his tent and ponders for +hours. He seeks in the stars, as it were, a clue to +the love of this woman, which he first thought to be +unfathomable. There it is, the stars seem to say. +And he looks into the sand-grave near him, where +little Najib practises how to die. Yes; a fitting +symbol of the life and love called modern, boasting +of freedom. They dance their dervish dance, these +people, even like Khalid’s little Najib, and fall into +their sand-graves, and fold their arms and smile: +“We are in love––or we are out of it.” Which is +the same. No: he’ll have none of this. A heart as +simple as this desert sand, as deep in affection as this +heaven, untainted by the uncertainties and doubts and +caprices of modern life,––only in such a heart is the +love that endures, the love divine and eternal.</p> +<p>He goes into Najma’s tent. The mother and her +child are sound asleep. He stands between the bed +and the cot contemplating the simplicity and innocence +and truth, which are more eloquent in Najib’s +brow than aught of human speech. His little hand +raised above his head seems to point to a star which +could be seen through an opening in the canvas. Was +it his star––the star that he saw in the sand-grave––the +star that is calling to him?–– +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_344' name='page_344'></a>344</span></p> +<p>But let us resume our narration.</p> +<p>A fortnight after Mrs. Gotfry’s departure Shakib +leaves the camp to live in Cairo. He is now become +poet-laureate to one of the big pashas.</p> +<p>Khalid is left alone with Najma and Najib.</p> +<p>And one day, when they are playing a game of +“donkey,”––Khalid carried Najib on his back, ran +on all four around the tent, and Najma was the donkey-driver,––the +child of a sudden utters a shriek and +falls on the sand. He is in convulsions; and after the +relaxation, lo, his right hand is palsied, his mouth +awry, and his eyes a-squint. Khalid finds a young +doctor at Al-Hayat, and his diagnosis of the case does +not disturb the mind. It is infantile paralysis, a disease +common with delicate children. And the doctor, who +is of a kind and demonstrative humour, discourses at +length on the disease, speaks of many worse cases of +its kind he cured, and assures the mother that within +a month the child will recover. For the present he +can but prescribe a purgative and a massage of the +arm and spine. On the third visit, he examines the +child’s fæces and is happy to have discovered the seat +and cause of the affection. The liver is not performing +its function; and given such weak nerves as the +child’s, a torpid liver in certain cases will produce +paralysis.</p> +<p>But Khalid is not satisfied with this. He places +the doctor’s prescription in his pocket, and goes down +to Cairo for a specialist. He comes, this one, to disturb +their peace of mind with his indecision. It is +not infantile paralysis, and he can not yet say what +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_345' name='page_345'></a>345</span> +it is. Khalid meanwhile is poring over medical books +on all the diseases that children are heir to.</p> +<p>On the fifth day the child falls again in convulsions, +and the left arm, too, is paralysed. They take him +down to Cairo; and Medicine, considering the disease +of his mother, guesses a third time––tuberculosis of +the spine, it says––and guesses wrong. Again, considering +the strabismus, the obliquity of the mouth, +the palsy in the arms, and the convulsions, we guess +closely, but ominously. Nay, Medicine is positive +this time; for a fifth and a sixth Guesser confirm the +others. Here we have a case of cerebral meningitis. +That is certain; that is fatal.</p> +<p>Najib is placed under treatment. They cut his +hair, his beautiful flow of dark hair; rub his scalp +with chloroform; keep the hot bottles around his +feet, the ice bag on his head; and give him a spoon +of physic every hour. “Make no noise around the +room, and admit no light into it,” further advises the +doctor. Thus for two weeks the child languishes in +his mother’s arms; and resting from the convulsions +and the coma, he would fix on Khalid the hollow, +icy glance of death. No; the light and intelligence +might never revisit those vacant eyes.</p> +<p>Now Shakib comes to suggest a consultation. The +great English physician of Cairo, why not call <i>him</i>? +It might not be meningitis, after all, and the child +might be helped, might be cured.</p> +<p>The great guesswork Celebrity is called. He examines +the patient and confirms the opinion of his +confrères, rather his disciples. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_346' name='page_346'></a>346</span></p> +<p>“But the whole tissue,” he continues with glib +assurance, “is not affected. The area is local, and to +the side of the ear that is sore. The strabismus being +to the right, the affection must be to the left. And +the pus accumulating behind the ear, under the bone, +and pressing on the covering of the brain, produces +the inflammation. Yes, pus is the cause of this.” And +he repeats the Arabic proverb in broken Arabic, “A +drop of pus will disable a camel.” Further, “Yes, +the child’s life can be saved by trepanning. It should +have been done already, but the time’s not passed. +Let the surgeon come and make a little opening––no; +a child can stand chloroform better than an adult. +And when the pus is out he will be well.”</p> +<p>In a private consultation the disciples beg to observe +that there was no evidence of pus behind the ear. +“It is beneath the skullbone,” the Master asserts. +And so we decide upon the operation. The Eye +and Ear specialist is called, and after weighing the +probabilities of the case and considering that the great +Celebrity had said there was pus, although there be +no evidence of it, he convinces Khalid that if the +child is not benefited by the operation he cannot suffer +from it more than he is suffering now.</p> +<p>The surgeon comes with his assistants. Little +Najib is laid on the table; the chloroform towel is +applied; the scalpels, the cotton, the basins of hot water, +and other accessories, are handed over by one doctor +to another. The Cutter begins. Shakib is there +watching with the rest; Najma is in an adjacent room +weeping; and Khalid is pacing up and down the hall, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_347' name='page_347'></a>347</span> +his brows moistened with the cold sweat of anguish +and suspense.</p> +<p>No pus between the scalp and the bone: the little +hammer and chisel are handed to the Cutter. One, +two, three,––the child utters a faint cry; the chloroform +towel is applied again;––four, five, six, and the +seventh stroke of the little hammer opens the skull. +The Cutter then penetrates with his catheter, searches +thoroughly through the brain––here––there––above––below––and +finally holds the instrument up to +his assistants to show them that there is––no pus! +“If there be any,” says he, “it is beyond the reach +of surgery.” The wound, therefore, is quickly +washed, sewn up, and dressed, while everybody is +wondering how the great Celebrity can be +wrong....</p> +<p>Little Najib remains under the influence of anæsthetics +for two days––for two days he is in a trance. +And on the third, the fever mounts to the danger line +and descends again––only after he had stretched his +little arm and breathed his last!</p> +<p>And Khalid and Najma and Shakib take him out +to the desert and bury him in the sand, near the +tent round which he used to play. There, where he +stepped his first step, lisped his first syllable, smacked +his first kiss, and saw for the first time a star in the +heaven, he is laid; he is given to the Night, to the +Eternity which Khalid does not fear. And yet, what +tears, Shakib tells us, he shed over that little grave.</p> +<p>But about the time the second calamity approaches, +when Najma begins to decline and waste away from +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_348' name='page_348'></a>348</span> +grief, when the relapse sets in and carries her in a +fortnight downward to the grave of her child, +Khalid’s eyes are as two pieces of flint stone on a +sheet of glass. His tears flow inwardly, as it were, +through his cracked heart....</p> +<p>Like the poet Saadi, Khalid once sought to fill his +lap with celestial flowers for his friends and brothers; +and he gathered some; but, alas, the fragrance of them +so intoxicated him that the skirt dropt from his +hand....</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p>We are again at the Mena House, where we first +met Shakib. And the reader will remember that the +tears rushed to his eyes when we inquired of him +about his Master and Friend. “He has disappeared +some ten days ago,” he then said, “and I know not +whither.” Therefore, ask us not, O gentle Reader, +what became of him. How can <i>we</i> know? He +might have entered a higher spiritual circle or a +lower; of a truth, he is not now on the outskirts of +the desert: deeper to this side or to that he must have +passed. And passing he continues to dream of “appearance +in the disappearance; of truth in the surrender; +of sunrises in the sunset.”</p> +<p>Now, fare <i>thee</i> well in either case, Reader. And +whether well or ill spent the time we have journeyed +together, let us not quarrel about it. For our part, +we repeat the farewell words of Sheikh Taleb of +Damascus: “Judge us not severely.” And if we did +not study to entertain thee as other Scribes do, it is +because we consider thee, dear good Reader, above +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_349' name='page_349'></a>349</span> +such entertainment as our poor resources can furnish, +<i>Wassalmu aleik</i>!</p> +<div> </div> +<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:center'>IN . FREIKE . WHICH . IS . IN . MOUNT . LEBANON<br /> +SYRIA . ON . THE . TWELFTH . DAY . OF<br /> +JANUARY . 1910 . ANNO . CHRISTI . AND . THE<br /> +FIRST . DAY . OF . MUHARRAM . 1328 . HEGIRAH<br /> +THIS . BOOK . OF . KHALID . WAS . FINISHED<br /></p> +<div class='figcenter'> +<a name='linki_7' id='linki_7'></a> +<img src='images/illus-358.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 387px; height: 215px;' /><br /> +</div> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div class="trnote"> +<p><span style='font-weight:bold'>Transcriber’s Notes</span></p> +<p>Typographical problems have been changed and these are +<ins class="trchange" title="Was 'hgihligthed'">highlighted</ins>.</p> +<p>Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.</p> +<p>Author’s punctuation style is preserved.</p> +</div> + +<!-- generated by ppg.rb version: ppg0529 --> +<!-- timestamp: Fri Jun 19 15:39:46 +0800 2009 --> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF KHALID *** + +***** This file should be named 29257-h.htm or 29257-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/2/5/29257/ + +Produced by Todd Fine, Dan Horwood and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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