A DREAM OF EMPIRE
"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."
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 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.
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.
But he can not even work. On the table before him is a pile of
newspapers from all parts of Syria 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."
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.
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.
How often people put us, though unwittingly, on the path we are
seeking, he thought. How often does a chance word uttered by a
stranger reveal to us our deepest aims and purposes.
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).
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.
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.
"Anything the matter with you?"
"No; but I can not sleep."
"That is amusing. And do you take me for a 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.
"I did not come to sleep."
"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."
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.
"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.
"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."
"Whom do you mean?"
"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 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."
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.
Mrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream.
"I can not see all that you see."
"Then you do not love me."
"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."
And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window to let out Khalid and
his smoke.
"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."
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.
On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us
by Shakib in these words:
"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 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.
"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.
"On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of 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.
"Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.
"'Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,' said he to Khalid;
'that is ominous. Verily, there is danger in thy path.'
"'But he will embrace Buhaism,' put in Mrs. Gotfry.
"'That might save him. Buhaism is the old torch, relighted after many
centuries, by Allah.'
"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.
"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.
"'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.'
"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 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.
"Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks of Wahhabism.
"'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.
"'But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the most fanatical, when
their doctrines are the most pure?' asked Khalid.
"'In thy question is the answer to it. They are fanatical _because_ 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.'
"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 hive of turbans, green and otherwise. So guard thee, my child.'
"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.'
"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.
"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.'
"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 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...."
* * * * *
And we pity our Scribe if he ever goes back to Damascus after this,
and the good Sheikh chances upon him.