“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 299 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 300 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 301 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 302 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.” 303

“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 304 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. 305

“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 306 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 307 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 308 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 309 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 310 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.