The Book of Khalid by Ameen Fares Rihani (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

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.