The Book of Khalid Part 11

Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the Church of the Middle Ages, such as "anathema be he," or "banned be he," who speaks with, deals with, and so forth, we have a copy before us.

But our readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further s.p.a.ce and consideration be here given to its contents. Suffice it to say, however, that Khalid comes to church on that fatal day, takes the foolscap sheet down from the door, and, going with it to the town-square, burns it there before the mult.i.tudes.

And it came to pa.s.s, when the Bull is burned in the town-square of Baalbek, in the last year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, some among the mult.i.tudes shout loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones.

Then, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the friends and the enemies of him who wrought evil in the sight of the Lord;

And every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or taketh up a stone and the battle ensueth.

Now, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans come forth like the Yaman wind and stand in the town-square like rocks;

And the battle rageth still, and the troops who are come forth to part the fighting mult.i.tudes, having gorged themselves at the last meal, can not as much as speak their part:

And it came to pa.s.s, when the clubs and spades are veiled and the battle subsideth of itself, the good people return to their respective callings and trades;

But the perverse recalcitrants which remain--and Khalid the Baalbekian is among them--are taken by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City Hall and thence to the _velayet_ prison in Damascus.

And here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of the Bull.

Now, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his tongue, too, and his purse, but to no purpose. Behold, your friend the _kaimkam_ is gloomy and impa.s.sive as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his ear? The Padres have done that before you. Slip a purse into his pocket? They have done that, too, and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of every city in the Empire is an epitome of Yildiz Kiosk. And your _kaimkams_, and _valis_, and _viziers_, have all been taught in the same Text-Book, at the same Political School, and by the same Professor. Let Khalid rest, therefore and ponder these matters in silence. For in the City Hall and during the month he pa.s.ses in the prison of Damascus, we are told, he does not utter a word. His partisans in prison ask to be taught his creed, and among these are some Mohammadans: "We'll burn the priests and their church yet and follow you. By our Prophet Mohammad we will ..." Khalid makes no reply. Even Shakib, when he comes to visit him, finds him dumb as a stone, slain by adversity and disease. Nothing can be done now. The giant excommunicated, incommunicative soul, struggling in a prison of sore flesh, we must leave, alas, with his friends and partisans to pa.s.s his thirty days and nights in the second prison of stone.

Now, let us return to the Jesuits, who, having worsted Khalid, or the Devil in Khalid, as they charitably put it, will also endeavour to do somewhat in the interest of his intended bride. For the Padres, in addition to their many crafts and trades, are matrimonial brokers of honourable repute. And in their meddling and making, their baiting and mating, they are as serviceable as the Column Personal of an American newspaper. Whoso is matrimonially disposed shall whisper his mind at the Confessional or drop his advertis.e.m.e.nt in the pocket of the visiting Columns of their Bride-Dealer, and he shall prosper. She as well as he shall prosper.

Now, Father Farouche is commissioned to come all the way from Zahleh to visit the brother of Abu-Khalid their porter, and bespeak him in the interest of his daughter. All their faculties of persuasion shall be exerted in behalf of Najma. She must be saved at any cost. Hence they volunteer their services. And while Khalid is lingering in prison at Damascus, they avail themselves of the opportunity to further the suit of their pickle-herring candidate for Najma's love.

The Reverend Farouche, therefore, holds a secret conference with her father.

"No," says he, "G.o.d would never have forgiven you for giving your daughter to one utterly dest.i.tute of morality, religion, money, and health. But praise Allah! the Church has come to her rescue. She shall be saved, wrested from the hands of Iblis. Yes, Holy Church, through us, will guide her to find a G.o.d-fearing life-companion; one worthy of her charms, her virtues, her fine qualities of heart and mind. The young man we recommend is rich, respected in the community; is an official of the Government with a third-cla.s.s Medjidi decoration and the t.i.tle of Bey; and is free from all diseases. Moreover, he is a good Catholic. Consider these advantages. A relation this, which no father would reject, if he loves his daughter and is solicitous of her future well-being. Speak to her, therefore, and let us know soon your mind."

And our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.--"An Official of the Government, a Bey with a third-cla.s.s Medjidi decoration from the Sultan! As if Officialdom could not boast of a single scoundrel--as if any rogue in the Empire, with a few gold coins in his purse, were not eligible to the Hamidian decorations! And a third-cla.s.s decoration! Why, I have it on good authority that these Medjidi Orders were given to a certain Patriarch in a bushel to distribute among his minions...."

But to our subject. Abu-Najma does not look upon it in this light. A decorated and t.i.tled son-in-law were a great honour devoutly to be wished. And some days after the first conference, the Padre Farouche comes again, bringing along his Excellency the third-cla.s.s Medjidi Bey; but Najma, as they enter and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof to weep. The third time the third-cla.s.s Medjidi Dodo comes alone. And Najma, as soon as she catches a glimpse of him, takes up her earthen jar and hies her to the spring.

"O the hinny! I'll rope noose her (hang her) to-night," murmurs the father. But here is his Excellency with his Sultan's green b.u.t.ton in his lapel. Abu-Najma bows low, rubs his hands well, offers a large cushion, brings a _masnad_ (leaning pillow), and blubbers out many unnecessary apologies.

"This honour is great, your Excellency--overlook our shortcomings--our _beit_ (one room house) can not contain our shame--it is not becoming your Excellency's high rank--overlook--you have condescended to honour us, condescend too to be indulgent.--My daughter? yes, presently. She is gone to church, to ma.s.s, but she'll return soon."

But Najma is long gone; returns not; and the third-cla.s.s Dodo will call again to-morrow. Now, Abu-Najma brings out his rope, soaps it well, nooses and suspends it from the rafter in the ceiling. And when his daughter returns from the spring, he takes her by the arm, shows her the rope, and tells her laconically to choose between his Excellency and this. Poor Najma has not the courage to die, and so soon. Her cousin Khalid is in prison, is excommunicated--what can she do? Run away? The Church will follow her--punish her. There's something satanic in Khalid--the Church said so--the Church knows. Najma rolls these things in her mind, looks at her father beseechingly. Her father points to the noose. Najma falls to weeping. The noose serves well its purpose.

For hereafter, when the Dodo comes decorated, SHE has to offer him the cushion, bring him the _masnad_, make for him the coffee. And eventually, as the visits acc.u.mulate, she goes with him to the dress-maker in Beirut. The bridal gown shall be of the conventional silk this time; for his Excellency is travelled, and knows and reverences the fashion. But why prolong these painful details?

"Allah, in the mysterious working of his Providence," says Shakib, "preordained it thus: Khalid, having served his turn in prison, Najma begins her own; for a few days after he was set free, she was placed in bonds forged for her by the Jesuits. Now, when Khalid returned from Damascus, he came straightway to me and asked that we go to see Najma and try to prevail upon her, to persuade her to go with him, to run away. They would leave on the night-train to Hama this time, and thence set forth towards Palmyra. I myself did not know what had happened, and so I approved of his plan. But alas! as we were coming down the main Street to Najma's house, we heard the sound of tomtoms in the distance and the shrill ulluluing of women. We continued apace until we reached the by-way through which we had to pa.s.s, and lo, we find it choked by the _zeffah_ (wedding procession) of none but she and the third-cla.s.s Medjidi...."

But we'll no more of this! Too tragic, too much like fiction it sounds, that here abruptly we must end this Chapter.

CHAPTER VIII

THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE

Disappointed, distraught, diseased,--worsted by the Jesuits, excommunicated, crossed in love,--but with an eternal glint of sunshine in his breast to open and light up new paths before him, Khalid, after the fatal episode, makes away from Baalbek. He suddenly disappears. But where he lays his staff, where he spends his months of solitude, neither Shakib nor our old friend the sandomancer can say.

Somewhither he still is, indeed; for though he fell in a swoon as he saw Najma on her caparisoned palfrey and the decorated Excellency coming up along side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded to return home. But on the following morning, our Scribe tells us, coming up to the booth, he finds neither Khalid there, nor any of his few worldly belongings. We, however, have formed a theory of our own, based on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS., about his mysterious levitation; and we believe he is now somewhither whittling arrows for a coming combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But we must not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us reverence the privacy of man, the sacredness of his religious retreat. For no matter where he is in the flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence.

And instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter bickerings of life and the wickedness and machination of those in power, let us consecrate it to the divine peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of Chapters in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose the one ent.i.tled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in Syria, symbolising the natural succession to Khalid's Winter of destiny. In it are signal manifestations of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and adversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here is an example of faith and power and love which we reckon sublime.

"The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls," we translate, "dressed in their Sunday best, are in the doorways lounging or peeping idly through their windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these delicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday of the year. Have they not hugged the damp, dark earth long enough? Hidden from the wrath of Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the primitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And now, the rain having partly extinguished the inner, hidden flame, they come out to bask in the sun, and drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come, almost slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They come out to worship at the shrine of the sweet-souled, G.o.d-absorbed Rabia of Attar. In their bright, glowing faces what a delectable message from the under world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are red with the kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible, unseen, the dark and damp of the earth are translated into warmth and colour and shade.

Ay, these dear little children, unfolding their soft green scrolls and reading aloud such odes on Modesty and Beauty, are as inspiring as the star-crowned night. And every c.h.i.n.k in my terrace walls seems to breathe a message of sweetness and light and love.

"Know you not the anecdote about the enchanting G.o.ddess Rabia, as related by Attar in his _Biographies of Sufi Mystics and Saints_? Here it is. Rabia was asked if she hated the devil, and she replied, 'No.'

Asked again why, she said, 'Being absorbed in love, I have no time to hate.' Now, all the inhabitants of my terraces and fields seem to echo this sublime sentiment of their G.o.ddess. The air and sunshine, nay, the very rocks are imbued with it. See, how the fissures in the boulders yonder seem to sympathise with the gaps in the terrace walls: the cyclamen leaves in the one are salaaming the cyclamen flowers in the other. O, these terraces would have delighted the heart of the American naturalist Th.o.r.eau. He could not have desired stone walls with more gaps in them. But mind you, these are not dark, ugly, hollow, hopeless c.h.i.n.ks. Behind every one of them lurks a mystery. Far back in the niches I can see the busts of the poets who wrote the poems which these beautiful wild flowers are reading to me. Yes, the authors are dead, and what I behold now are the flowers of their amours. These are the offspring of their embraces, the crystallised dew of their love. Yes, this one single, simple act of love brings forth an infinite variety of flowers to celebrate the death of the finite outward shape and the eternal essence of life perennial. In complete surrender lies the divineness of things eternal. This is the key-note of the Oriental mystic poets. And I incline to the belief that they of all bards have sung best the song of love. In rambling through the fields with these beautiful children of the terraces, I know not what draws me to Al-Fared, the one erotic-mystic poet of Arabia, whose interminable rhymes have a perennial charm. Perhaps such lines as these,--

'All that is fair is fairer when she rises, All that is sweet is sweeter when she is here; And every form of beauty she surprises With one brief word she whispers in its ear:

'Thy wondrous charms, O let them not deceive thee; They are but borrowed from her for a while; Thine outward guise and loveliness would grieve thee, If in thine inmost soul she did not smile.

'All colours, forms, into each other merging, Are woven on her Loom of Unity; For she alone is One in All diverging, And she alone is absolute and free.'

"Now, I will bring you to a scene most curiously suggestive. Behold that little knot of daisies pressing around the alone anemone beneath the spreading leaves of the colocasia. Here is a rout at the Countess Casiacole's, and these are the debutantes crowding around the Celebrity of the day. But would they do so if they were sensible of their own worth, if they knew that their idol, flaunting the crimson crown of popularity, had no more, and perhaps less, of the pure essence of life than any of them? But let Celebrity stand there and enjoy her hour; to-morrow the Ploughman will come.

"The sage, with its spikes of greyish blue flowers, its fibrous, velvety leaves, its strong, pungent perfume, which is not squandered or repressed, is the stoic of my native terraces. It responds generously to the personal touch, and serves the Lebanonese, rich and poor alike, with a little luxury. Ay, who of us, wandering on foreign strands, does not remember the warm foot-bath, perfumed with sage leaves, his mother used to give him before going to bed? Our dear mothers!"--And here, Khalid goes in raptures and tears about his sorry experience in Baalbek and the anguish and sorrow of his poor mother.

"But while I stand," he continues, "let me be like the sage, a live-oak among shrubs, indifferent as the oak or pine to the winds and storms. And as the sun is setting, find you no solace in the thought, O Khalid, that some angel herb-gatherer will preserve the perfume in your leaves, to refresh therewith in other worlds your dear poor mother?

"My native terraces are rich with faith and love, luxuriant with the life divine and the wondrous symbols thereof. And the gra.s.s here is not cut and trimmed as in the artificial gardens and the cold dull lawns of city folk, whose love for Nature is either an experiment, a sport, a business, or a fad. 'A dilettantism in Nature is barren and unworthy,' says Emerson. But of all the lovers of Nature, the children are the least dilettanteish. And every day here I see a proof of this.

Behold them wading to their knees in that l.u.s.ty gra.s.s, hunting the cla.s.sic lotus with which to deck their olive branches for the high ma.s.s and ceremony of Palm Sunday. But alas, my l.u.s.ty gra.s.s and my beautiful wild flowers do not enjoy the morning of Spring. Here, the ploughman comes, carrying his long plough and goad on his shoulder, and with him his wife lugging the yoke and his boy leading the oxen.

Alas, the sun shall not set on these bright, glowing, green terraces, whose walls are very ramparts of flowers. There, the boy with his scythe is paving the way for his father's plough; the gra.s.s is mowed and given to the oxen as a bribe to do the ugly business. And all for the sake of the ugly mulberries, which are cultivated for the ugly silk-worms. Come, let us to the heath, where the hiss of the scythe and the 'ho-back' and 'oho' of the ploughman are not heard.

"But let us swing from the road. Come, the hedges of Nature are not as impa.s.sable as the hedges of man. Through these scrub oaks and wild pears, between this tangle of thickets, over the clematis and blackberry bush,--and here we are under the pines, the lofty and majestic pines. How different are these natural hedges, growing in wild disorder, from the ugly cactus fences with which my neighbours choose to shut in their homes, and even their souls. But my business now is not with them. There are my friends the children again gathering the pine-needles of last summer for lighting the fire of the silk-worm nursery. And down that narrow foot-path, meandering around the boulders and disappearing among the thickets, see what big loads of brushwood are moving towards us. Beneath them my swarthy and hardy peasants are plodding up the hill asweat and athirst. When I first descended to the wadi, one such load of brushwood emerging suddenly from behind a cliff surprised and frightened me. But soon I was reminded of the moving forest in Macbeth. The man bowed beneath the load was hidden from view, and the boy directly behind was sweating under a load as big as that of his father. '_Awafy!_' (Allah give you strength), I said, greeting them. 'And increase of health to you,'

they replied. I then asked the boy how far down do they have to go for their brushwood, and laying down his load on a stone to rest, he points below, saying, 'Here, near the river.' But this 'Here, near the river' is more than four hours' walk from the village.--Allah preserve you in your strength, my Brothers. And they pa.s.s along, plodding slowly under their overshadowing burdens. A hard-hearted Naturalist, who goes so deep into Nature as to be far from the vital core even as the dilettante, might not have any sympathy to throw away on such occasions. But of what good is the love of Nature that consists only in cla.s.sification and dissection? I carry no note-book with me when I go down the wadi or out into the fields. I am content if I bring back a few impressions of some rea.s.suring instance of faith, a few pictures, and an armful of wild flowers and odoriferous shrubs. Let the learned manual maker concern himself with the facts; he is content with jotting down in his note-book the names and lineage of every insect and every herb.

"But Man? What is he to these scientific Naturalists? If they meet a stranger on the road, they pa.s.s him by, their eyes intent on the breviary of Nature, somewhat after the fashion of my priests, who are fond of praying in the open-air at sundown. No, I do not have to prove to my Brothers that my love of Nature is but second to my love of life. I am interested in my fellow men as in my fellow trees and flowers. 'The beauty of Nature,' Emerson again, 'must always seem unreal and mocking until the landscape has human figures, that are as good as itself.' And 'tis well, if they are but half as good. To me, the discovery of a woodman in the wadi were as pleasing as the discovery of a woodchuck or a woodswallow or a woodbine. For in the soul of the woodman is a song, I muse, as sweet as the rhythmic strains of the goldfinch, if it could be evoked. But the soul plodding up the hill under its heavy overshadowing burden, what breath has it left for song? The man bowed beneath the load, the soul bowed beneath the man! Alas, I seem to behold but moving burdens in my country. And yet, my swarthy and shrunken, but firm-fibred people plod along, content, patient, meek; and when they reach the summit of the hill with their crushing burdens, they still have breath enough to troll a favourite ditty or serenade the night.

'I come to thee, O Night, I'm at thy feet; I can not see, O Night, But thy breath is sweet.'

"And so is the breath of the pines. Here, the air is surcharged with perfume. In it floats the aromatic soul of many a flower. But the perfume-soul of the pines seems to tower over all others, just as its material shape lifts its artistic head over the oak, the cercis, and the terabinth. And though tall and stately, my native pines are not forbidding. They are so pruned that the snags serve as a most convenient ladder. Such was my pleasure mounting for the green cones, the salted pinons of which are delicious. But I confess they seem to stick in the stomach as the pitch of the cones sticks on the hands.

This, however, though it remains for days, works no evil; but the pinons in the stomach, and the stomach on the nerves,--that is a different question.

"The only pines I have seen in the United States are those in front of Emerson's house in Concord; but compared with my native trees, they are scrubby and mean. These pine parasols under which I lay me, forgiving and forgetting, are fit for the G.o.ds. And although closely planted, they grow and flourish without much ado. I have seen spots not exceeding a few hundred square feet holding over thirty trees, and withal stout and l.u.s.ty and towering. Indeed, the floor of the Tent seems too narrow at times for its crowded guests; but beneath the surface there is room for every root, and over it, the sky is broad enough for all.

"Ah, the bewildering vistas through the variegated pillars, taking in a strip of sea here, a mountain peak there, have an air of enchantment from which no human formula can release a pilgrim-soul. They remind me--no; they can not remind me of anything more imposing. But when I was visiting the great Mosques of Cairo I was reminded of them. Yes, the pine forests are the great mosques of Nature. And for art-lovers, what perennial beauty of an antique art is here. These majestic pillars arched with foliage, propping a light-green ceiling, from which cones hang in pairs and in cl.u.s.ters, and through which curiously shaped clouds can be seen moving in a cerulean sky; and at night, instead of the clouds, the stars--the distant, twinkling, white and blue stars--what to these are the decorations in the ancient mosques?

There, the baroques, the arabesques, the colourings gorgeous, are dead, at least inanimate; here, they palpitate with life. The moving, swelling, flaming, flowing life is mystically interwoven in the evergreen ceiling and the stately colonnades. Ay, even the horizon yonder, with its planets and constellations rising and setting ever, is a part of the ceiling decoration.