THE ATHEIST
Though I had known Suleymân for nearly two years, and had had him with
me for some six months of that time, I had never seen him in his
function of a dragoman, by which he earned enough in two months of the
year to keep a wife and children in a village of the coasts of Tyre
and Sidon, of which he spoke with heart-moving affection, though he
seldom went there. It was only after much insistence that he allowed
us to conduct him thither on one memorable occasion, when I could not
but admire his perfect manners as a despot. When first I met him he
had been a gentleman at large, and it was as that, and a familiar
friend, that he repaired to me whenever he had nothing else to do.
Judging from his gifts of conversation, which we all admired, and his
unbounded knowledge of the country, I thought that, as a guide for
tourists, he would be invaluable. So, when I heard that English
friends of mine were coming out to Palestine, I wrote advising them to
ask for him, him only; and I was glad to hear soon afterwards that he
was with them. When they came north, I joined the party at Damascus
and travelled with them for their last fortnight.
It did not take me many minutes in the camp to see that Suleymân was
not himself, and that my friends were not so charmed with him as I had
thought they would be. On the first evening in their tent I heard
complaints. They told me he was most unconscionably lazy, and would
not take them to the places they desired to visit. The trouble was, as
I soon learnt, that they possessed a map and guidebook which they
studied reverently every night, finding out places said therein to be
of interest. Suleymân, on his side, had, at setting out, possessed a
plan to make their tour the most delightful one imaginable. He hoped
by visiting selected spots and people to give it sequence and
significance. In a word, he was an artist in travel, wishing to
provide them with delicious memories, while they were English and
omnivorous of facts and scenes. When he learnt from various rebuffs
that they would not confide themselves to him, he lost all pleasure in
the tour. It was a listless and disgusted upper servant, most unlike
the man I knew, whom I found in gorgeous raiment sitting by the cook's
fire in the gardens of Damascus, which were then a wilderness of
roses.
He did not explain matters to me all at once. When I reproached him
for neglecting friends of mine, he answered only: 'It is the will of
Allah, who made men of different kinds, some sweet, some loathsome.'
But my arrival mended things a little. At least, my English friends
professed to see a great improvement in the conduct of Suleymân and
all the servants. I think it was because the poor souls knew that they
had someone now to whom they could express their grievances, someone
who would condescend to talk with them; for nothing is more foreign to
the Oriental scheme of life than the distance at which English people
keep their servants. In the democratic East all men are equal, as far
as rights of conversation are concerned. It is a hardship for the
Oriental to serve Europeans, and only the much higher and more
certain wages bring him to it.
My English friends had few good words to say for any of their Arab
servants; but I found they had conceived a perfect hatred for the
cook, who had undoubtedly a villainous appearance. He was a one-eyed
man with a strong cast in his surviving eye. A skull-cap, which had
once been white, concealed his shaven poll, and his long pointed ears
stood out upon it. He wore a shirt of indigo impaired by time, over
which, when riding, he would throw an ancient Frankish coat, or, if it
chanced to rain, a piece of sacking. His legs were bare, and he wore
scarlet slippers. To see him riding on an ass hung round with cooking
tins, at the head of the procession of the beasts of burden, suggested
to the uninformed spectator that those beasts of burden and their
loads had all been stolen.
I spoke about him to Suleymân one day when in my company he had
regained his wonted spirits, telling him of the extreme dislike my
friends had taken to the man.
'They are foolish,' he replied, 'to grumble at the figure of a mill
which grinds good flour. They profit by his cooking, which is
excellent. Indeed, he is the best cook in the world, and most
particular. I took great trouble to secure him for this expedition,
knowing that the Khawâjât were friends of yours.' The tone of
grievance in his voice became acute.
I feared that he was going to cry, so answered quickly:
'It is not that. They like his cooking. But his manners----'
'What know they of his manners? Has he ever entered the saloon or
bed-tent to defile them? Has he ever spoken insult in their hearing?
Inform me of his crime, and I will beat him bloody. But well I know he
has done nothing wrong, for I have kept him in the strictest order all
these days. It is only his appearance they object to; and that is
God's affair, not theirs. The Lord repay them!'
'You say that you have kept him in strict order? Is that necessary?'
'Of course it is, for the poor man is mad. I thought his madness would
amuse them; it is very funny. But Allah knows that there is not a
laugh in all their bodies. So I have kept him from approaching them.'
The word 'majnûn,' which I have here translated 'mad,' has often, as I
knew, a complimentary value; and I gathered from Suleymân's way of
speaking that the cook was not a raving maniac, but rather what in
English country-places we should call 'a character.'
I cultivated his acquaintance after that, and was astonished by his
powers of story-telling and of mimicry; still more, perhaps, by a
curious, dry scepticism, expressed facetiously and sometimes with
profanity, which was evident in almost everything he said. This it was
which chiefly pleased the waiter and the muleteers, who were his usual
listeners, since they were together on the road. They would laugh and
curse him in religious terms for a blasphemer and a wicked atheist,
reproofs which he received as high applause. It was his custom to
salute his friends with insults, which they took kindly from him,
being what he was. They told me in low tones of awe, yet with a
chuckle, that he had even sold his father's grave in a facetious way.
But I could never get them to relate that story clearly.
I could understand then why Suleymân had kept him in strict order on
the journey; for my English friends were quite incapable of seeing any
fun in such a character. Nor did I ever tell them of the great
adventure of that journey, in which their cook was very nearly done to
death.
It happened near the village of Mejdel esh-Shems, down in the valley
underneath Mount Hermon. We remained in camp there over Sunday, and on
Sunday afternoon my friends were resting in their tent. Suleymân and I
had seized that opportunity to go off for a ramble by ourselves, which
did us good. We were returning to the camp in time for tea, when a
crowd of fellâhîn came hurrying from the direction of our tents,
waving their arms and shouting, seeming very angry. Suleymân called
out to them to learn the matter.
'Zandîq!' (an atheist) they cried. 'Zandîq! Zandîq!'
'Where?' I asked, eagerly.
'There, in yonder tent,' an old white-bearded man informed me, with
wide eyes of horror. He pointed to the canvas windscreen against
which our famous cook sat gazing at the kettle he had set to boil for
tea. 'We go to fetch the wherewithal to kill him properly.'
'Stop!' said Suleymân peremptorily. 'You are mistaken. That is our
cook--a good, religious man, but mad occasionally.'
'No, there is no mistake, O lords of honour,' cried a score of voices;
while the old man who had pointed out the cook to me, explained:
'He said--may God protect us from the blame of it!--He said: "You see
that mountain! It is I who made it. Prostrate yourselves before me for
I made the world." We had been standing round him inoffensively,
asking him questions, as the custom is, about his parentage, his
trade, and so forth. But when we heard that awful blasphemy we rent
our clothes, and ran in haste to fetch our weapons, as thou seest.
Delay us not, for he must surely die.'
'Commit not such a wickedness! The man is mad.'
'No; he is sane.'
'Quite mad, I do assure you. Return with us, and I will prove it to
your understanding,' cried Suleymân.
I added my assurance. They came back with us, but murmuring, and in
two minds. I could not but admire the simple piety which prompted them
at once to kill a man whose speech betrayed him as an atheist. But I
was very much afraid of what might happen, and of the sad impression
it would make upon my English friends. And everything depended on the
cook's behaviour.
'I tell you he is mad,' said Suleymân, advancing towards the fire. 'It
were a sin for you to slay a fellow-creature thus afflicted. Come
hither, O Mansûr,' he cried as to a dog.
The cook rose up and came towards us with a foolish air.
'Lie down before my horse. I would ride over thee.'
The cook fell prostrate, then turned over on his back. His mouth hung
open idiotically; his tongue lolled out.
'Now rise and kiss my boot.'
The cook obeyed. By that time there were murmurs of compassion from
the would-be slayers.
'Spake I not truly?' asked Suleymân.
'Aye, O sun of verity! He is quite mad, the poor one,' said the old
man who had acted spokesman. 'It were a sin for us to kill him, being
in that state. His manner at the first deceived us. Allah heal him!
How came the dreadful malady upon him?'
'It came upon him through the pangs of unrequited love.'
'Alas, the poor one! Ah, the misery of men! May Allah heal him!' cried
the women, as the group of villagers moved off, contented. Just when
the last of them passed out of sight the longest tongue I ever saw in
man emerged from the cook's mouth, and the rascal put his finger to
his nose in a derisive gesture. Those portents were succeeded by a
realistic cock-crow.
'What makes the cook like that, devoid of reverence?' I asked of
Suleymân.
'It is because he was born in Jerusalem,' was the astonishing reply.
'He is a Christian, and was born poor; and the quarrels of the
missionaries over him, each striving to obtain his patronage for some
absurd belief, have made him what he is--a kind of atheist.'
Selîm, the waiter, who was near and overheard this ending, burst out
laughing.
'An atheist!' he cried. 'Your Honour understands? It means a man who
thinks there is no God. Just like a beetle!' and he held his quaking
sides.
Both he and Suleymân appeared to think that atheism was a subject to
make angels laugh. And yet they were as staunch believers as those
fellâhîn.