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

the hidden seed of things, which in time must develop or die. A garter dropt in the ballroom of Royalty gives birth to an Order of Knighthood; a movement to reform the spelling of the English language, initiated by one of the presidents of a great Republic, becomes eventually an object of ridicule. Only two instances to illustrate our point, which is applicable also to time-honoured truths and moralities. But no matter how important or trivial these, he who would give utterance to them must do so in cap and bells, if he would be heard nowadays. Indeed, the play is always the thing; the frivolous is the most essential, if only as a disguise.––For look you, are we not too prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous preachment? And when you bring it to us in book form, do you expect us to take it into our homes and take you into our hearts to boot?––Which argument is convincing even to the man in the barn.

But the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript can make his Genius dance the dance of the 6 seven veils, if you but knew. It is to be regretted, however, that he has not mastered the most subtle of arts, the art of writing about one’s self. He seldom brushes his wings against the dust or lingers among the humble flowers close to the dust: he does not follow the masters in their entertaining trivialities and fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts the turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography that he really could, and often did, enjoy a game of cards in the evening. And Rousseau, in a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions that he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens’ bed when he was alone in her room. And Spencer devotes whole pages in his dull and ponderous history of himself to narrate the all-important narration of his constant indisposition,––to assure us that his ill health more than once threatened the mighty task he had in hand. These, to be sure, are most important revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue. Inspiration does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion.

He would have done well, indeed, had he studied the method of the professional writers of Memoirs, especially those of France. For might he not then have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my Stick Pin, The Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal of my Red Flannel, The Conquest of my Silk Socks, The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like? But Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the outward self. He wrote of other Romances and other Tragedies. And when his Genius is not dancing the dance of the seven veils, she is either flirting with the 7 monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to something in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory to the present Editor, who, unlike the Author of the Khedivial Library MS., must keep the reader in mind. ’Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a few of the mysteries of one’s palingenesis, but why conceal from us his origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion at least, that one writing his own history should first expatiate on the humble origin of his ancestors and the distant obscure source of his genius? And having done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved in his boyhood; whether or not he made anklets of his mother’s dough for his little sister; whether he did not kindle the fire with his father’s Korân; whether he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach the end of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not write verse when he was but five years of age. About these essentialities Khalid is silent. We only know from him that he is a descendant of the brave sea-daring Phœnicians––a title which might be claimed with justice even by the aborigines of Yucatan––and that he was born in the city of Baalbek, in the shadow of the great Heliopolis, a little way from the mountain-road to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction is obscure.

And the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow for thirteen days and nights, was beginning to worry us. After all, might it not be a literary hoax, we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth. And yet, he does not seem to have sought any material or worldly good from the writing of his Book. 8 Why, then, should he resort to deception? Still, we doubted. And one evening we were detained by the sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of the mosque. “I know your mind,” said he, before we had made up our mind to consult him. And mumbling his “abracadabra” over the sand spread on a cloth before him, he took up his bamboo-stick and wrote therein––Khalid! This was amazing. “And I know more,” said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his head regretfully and wrote in the sand the name of one of the hasheesh-dens of Cairo. “Go thither; and come to see me again to-morrow evening.” Saying which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his fee, and walked away.

In that hasheesh-den,––the reekiest, dingiest of the row in the Red Quarter,––where the etiolated intellectualities of Cairo flock after midnight, the name of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm, and laughter.

“You mean the new Muhdi,” said one, offering us his chobok of hasheesh; “smoke to his health and prosperity. Ha, ha, ha.”

And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel of a hasheesh jag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon had something to say on the subject. The contagion could not be checked. And Khalid was called “the dervish of science” by one; “the rope-dancer of nature” by another.

“Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness of New York for five years,” remarked a third. 9

“And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a bicycle instead.”

“The Young Turks can not catch him now.”

“Ah, but wait till England gets after our new Muhdi.”

“Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies.”

“Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all the virgins of Egypt we can not find a consumptive for him?”

“And when he pulls down the pyramids to build American Skyscrapers with their stones, where shall we bury then our Muhdi?”

All of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing, was none the less reassuring. For Khalid, it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even see him, we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak.

“Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and disciple, will bring you into the sacred presence.”

“You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of our new Muhdi, ha, ha, ha!”

And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. But their humour, like the odor and smoke of gunjah, (hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we lay our chobok down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, we struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the open air.

In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the poet Shakib, who was then drawing his inspiration from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he was drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! has mysteriously disappeared. 10

“I have not seen him for ten days,” said the Poet; “and I know not where he is.––If I did? Ah, my friend, you would not then see me here. Indeed, I should be with him, and though he be in the trap of the Young Turks.” And some real tears flowed down the cheeks of the Poet, as he spoke.

The Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation at the gate of the desert, stands, like man himself, in the shadow of two terrible immensities, the Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End. And in the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda, we presume to solve in few words the eternal mystery. But that is not what we came for. And to avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led, we suggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet waxed more eloquent, and shed more tears.

“This is our favourite haunt,” said he; “here is where we ramble, here is where we loaf. And Khalid once said to me, ‘In loafing here, I work as hard as did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these pyramids.’ And I believe him. For is not a book greater than a pyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace better than a tomb? An object is great in proportion to its power of resistance to time and the elements. That is why we think the pyramids are great. But see, the desert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea is greater than the desert, and the heavens are greater than the sea. And yet, there is not in all these that immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating soul, which you find in a great book. A man who conceives and writes a great book, my friend, has done 11 more work than all the helots that laboured on these pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no exaggeration in Khalid’s words. For when he loafs, he does so in good earnest. Not like the camel-driver there or the camel, but after the manner of the great thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and Jelal’ud-Deen Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid loafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness by merely working? Are you going to waste your time and power in useless unproductive labour, carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle, which is the English equivalent), that you might not be called an idler, a loafer?”

“Indeed not,” we reply; “for the Poet taking in the sea, or the woods, or the starry-night, the poet who might be just sharing the sunshine with the salamander, is as much a labourer as the stoker or the bricklayer.”

And with a few more such remarks, we showed our friend that, not being of india-rubber, we could not but expand under the heat of his grandiosity.

We then make our purpose known, and Shakib is overjoyed. He offers to kiss us for the noble thought.

“Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and only through you and me can this be done. For you can not properly understand him, unless you read the Histoire Intime, which I have just finished. That will give you les dessous de cartes of his character.”

“Les dessons”––and the Poet who intersperses his Arabic with fancy French, explains.––“The lining, the ligaments.”––“Ah, that is exactly what we want.” 12

And he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript, if we link his name with that of his illustrious Master in this Book. To which we cheerfully agree. For after all, what’s in a name?

On the following day, lugging an enormous bundle under each arm, the Poet came. We were stunned as he stood in the door; we felt as if he had struck us in the head with them.

“This is the Histoire Intime,” said he, laying it gently on the table.

And we laid our hand upon it, fetching a deep sigh. Our misgivings, however, were lighted with a happy idea. We will hire a few boys to read it, we thought, and mark out the passages which please them most. That will be just what an editor wants.

“And this,” continued the Poet, laying down the other bundle, “is the original manuscript of my forthcoming Book of Poems.––”

Sweet of him, we thought, to present it to us.

“It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.––”

Fortunate City!

“And if you will get to work on it at once,––”

Mercy!

“You can get