UNION AND PROGRESS
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 _Histoire Intime_ 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).
"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 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.
"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,[1] which baffled 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.
"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--"
And our Scribe goes on, blubbering like a good 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.
Letter I (As numbered in the Original)
My loving Brother Shakib:
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 joy and wisdom that
are now mine; and yours, too, if you consider.
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.
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 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.
Letter V
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!
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 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?
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.
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.
Letter XXII
I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say
farewell to you and mother. For 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.
Letter XXV
Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why, nothing gave me greater
pleasure ever since I have 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.
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.
"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; 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."
To-morrow she is coming to see my room, and to cook for me a
dish of _mojadderah_! Ah, the old days in the cellar!
In the thirtieth Letter, one of considerable length, dated March, is
an exceedingly titillating divagation on the _gulma_ (oustraation of
animals), 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 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.
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.
By a devilish mischance she occupied the seat opposite 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 was_ taken.... Near
her sat a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, with whom she was
conversing when we entered. That is the lady whose beauty, when she
was sitting, I described to you: but when she got up to leave the
table,--alas, and _ay me_, and all the other expressions of regret and
sorrow. 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.
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.
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.
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[1] 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?--EDITOR.