The Book of Khalid, Ameen Fares Rihani [top romance novels .TXT] 📗

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 105 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.

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 Histoire Intime.

“From Khalid to Boss O’Graft.

“Right Dishonourable Boss:

“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 106 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, mashallah! 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!”

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 lèse-majesté? 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. 107 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.

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:

“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.”

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 108 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 109 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 needing, I suppose, police connivance and protection. 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.

“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 salaam. 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 110 a bad titman could lead by the nose so many good people.”

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!”

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 111 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