The Book of Khalid (8 page)

We do not know, however, whether old Jerry ever adopted Khalid’s idea. He himself is an Oriental in this sense; and the business is good enough to keep up, so long as Khalid comes. He is supremely content. Indeed, Shakib asseverates in round Arabic, that the old man of the cellar got a good portion of Khalid’s balance, while balancing Khalid’s mind. Nay, firing it with free-thought literature. Are we then to consider this cellar as Khalid’s source of spiritual illumination? And is this genial old heretic an American avatar of
the monk Bohaira? For Khalid is gradually becoming a man of ideas and crotchets. He is beginning to see a purpose in all his literary and spiritual rambles. His mental nebulosity is resolving itself into something concrete, which shall weigh upon him for a while and propel him in the direction of Atheism and Demagogy. For old Jerry once visits Khalid in his cellar, and after partaking of a dish of
mojadderah
, takes him to a political meeting to hear the popular orators of the day.

And in this is ineffable joy for Khalid. Like every young mind he is spellbound by one of those masters of spread-eagle oratory, and for some time he does not miss a single political meeting in his district. We even see him among the crowd before the corner groggery, cheering one of the political spouters of the day.

And once he accompanies Jerry to the Temple of Atheism to behold its high Priest and hear him chant halleluiah to the Nebular Hypothesis. This is wonderful. How easy it is to dereligionise the human race and banish God from the Universe! But after the High Priest had done this, after he had proven to the satisfaction of every atheist that God is a myth, old Jerry turns around and gives Khalid this warning: “Don’t believe all he says, for I know that atheist well. He is as eloquent as he is insincere.”

And so are all atheists. For at bottom, atheism is either a fad or a trade or a fatuity. And whether the one or the other, it is a sham more pernicious than the worst. To the young mind, it is a shibboleth of cheap culture; to the shrewd and calculating mind, to such orators as Khalid heard, it is a trade most remunerative; and to the scientists, or rather monists, it is the aliment with which they nourish the perversity of their preconceptions. Second-hand Jerry did not say these
things to our young philosopher; for had he done so, Khalid, now become edacious, would not have experienced those dyspeptic pangs which almost crushed the soul-fetus in him. For we are told that he is as sedulous in attending these atheistic lectures as he is in flocking with his fellow citizens to hear and cheer the idols of the stump. Once he took Shakib to the Temple of Atheism, but the Poet seems to prefer his
Al-Mutanabbi
. In relating of Khalid’s waywardness he says:

“Ever since we quarrelled about Sibawai, Khalid and I have seldom been together. And he had become so opinionated that I was glad it was so. Even on Sunday I would leave him alone with Im-Hanna, and returning in the evening, I would find him either reading or burning a pamphlet. Once I consented to accompany him to one of the lectures he was so fond of attending. And I was really surprised that one had to pay money for such masquerades of eloquence as were exhibited that night on the platform. Yes, it occurred to me that if one had not a dollar one could not become an atheist. Billah! I was scandalized. For no matter how irreverent one likes to pose, one ought to reverence at least his Maker. I am a Christian by the grace of Allah, and my ancestors are counted among the martyrs of the Church. And thanks to my parents, I have been duly baptized and confirmed. For which I respect them the more, and love them. Now, is it not absurd that I should come here and pay a hard dollar to hear this heretical speechifier insult my parents and my God? Better the ring of Al-Mutanabbi’s scimitars and spears than the clatter of these atheistical bones!”

From which we infer that Shakib was not open to reason on the subject. He would draw his friend away from the verge of the abyss at any cost. “And this,” continues he, “did not require much effort. For Khalid like myself is constitutionally
incapable of denying God. We are from the land in which God has always spoken to our ancestors.”

And the argument between the shrewd verse-maker and the foolish philosopher finally hinges on this: namely, that these atheists are not honest investigators, that in their sweeping generalisations, as in their speciosity and hypocrisy, they are commercially perverse. And Khalid is not long in deciding about the matter. He meets with an accident—and accidents have always been his touchstones of success—which saves his soul and seals the fate of atheism.

One evening, returning from a ramble in the Park, he passes by the Hall where his favourite Mountebank was to lecture on the Gospel of Soap. But not having the price of admittance that evening, and being anxious to hear the orator whom he had idolised, Khalid bravely appeals to his generosity in this quaint and touching note: “My pocket,” he wrote, “is empty and my mind is hungry. Might I come to your Table to-night as a beggar?” And the man at the stage door, who carries the note to the orator, returns in a trice, and tells Khalid to lift himself off. Khalid hesitates, misunderstands; and a heavy hand is of a sudden upon him, to say nothing of the heavy boot.

Ay, and that boot decided him. Atheism, bald, bold, niggardly, brutal, pretending withal, Khalid turns from its door never to look again in that direction, Shakib is right. “These people,” he growled, “are not free thinkers, but free stinkards. They do need soap to wash their hearts and souls.”

An idea did not come to Khalid, as it were, by instalments. In his puerperal pains of mind he was subject to such crises, shaken by such downrushes of light, as only the few among mortals experience. (We are quoting our Scribe, remember.) And in certain moments he had more faith in his instincts
than in his reason. “Our instincts,” says he, “never lie. They are honest, and though they be sometimes blind.” And here, he seems to have struck the truth. He can be practical too. Honesty in thought, in word, in deed—this he would have as the cornerstone of his truth. Moral rectitude he places above all the cardinal virtues, natural and theological. “Better keep away from the truth, O Khalid,” he writes, “better remain a stranger to it all thy life, if thou must sully it with the slimy fingers of a mercenary juggler.” Now, these brave words, we can not in conscience criticise. But we venture to observe that Khalid must have had in mind that Gospel of Soap and the incident at the stage door.

And in this, we, too, rejoice. We, too, forgetting the dignity of our position, participate of the revelry in the cellar on this occasion. For our editorialship, dear Reader, is neither American nor English. We are not bound, therefore, to maintain in any degree the algidity and indifference of our confrères’ sublime attitude. We rejoice in the spiritual safety of Khalid. We rejoice that he and Shakib are now reconciled. For the reclaimed runagate is now even permitted to draw on the poet’s balance at the banker. Ay, even Khalid can dissimulate when he needs the cash. For with the assistance of second-hand Jerry and the box-office of the atheistical jugglers, he had exhausted his little saving. He would not even go out peddling any more. And when Shakib asks him one morning to shoulder the box and come out, he replies: “I have a little business with it here.” For after having impeached the High Priests of Atheism he seems to have turned upon himself. We translate from the K. L. MS.

“When I was disenchanted with atheism, when I saw somewhat of the meanness and selfishness of its protagonists, I began to doubt in the honesty of men. If these, our
supposed teachers, are so vile, so mercenary, so false,—why, welcome Juhannam! But the more I doubted in the honesty of men, the more did I believe that honesty should be the cardinal virtue of the soul. I go so far in this, that an honest thief in my eyes is more worthy of esteem than a canting materialist or a hypocritical free thinker. Still, the voice within me asked if Shakib were honest in his dealings, if I were honest in my peddling? Have I not misrepresented my gewgaws as the atheist misrepresents the truth? ‘This is made in the Holy Land,’—‘This is from the Holy Sepulchre’—these lies, O Khalid, are upon you. And what is the difference between the jewellery you passed off for gold and the arguments of the atheist-preacher? Are they not both instruments of deception, both designed to catch the dollar? Yes, you have been, O Khalid, as mean, as mercenary, as dishonest as those canting infidels.

“And what are you going to do about it? Will you continue, while in the quagmires yourself, to point contemptuously at those standing in the gutter? Will you, in your dishonesty, dare impeach the honesty of men? Are you not going to make a resolution now, either to keep silent or to go out of the quagmires and rise to the mountain-heights? Be pure yourself first, O Khalid; then try to spread this purity around you at any cost.

“Yes; that is why, when Shakib asked me to go out peddling one day, I hesitated and finally refused. For atheism, in whose false dry light I walked a parasang or two, did not only betray itself to me as a sham, but also turned my mind and soul to the sham I had shouldered for years. From the peddling-box, therefore, I turned even as I did from atheism. Praised be Allah, who, in his providential care, seemed to kick me away from the door of its temple. The sham,
although effulgent and alluring, was as brief as a summer afternoon.”

As for the peddling-box, our Scribe will tell of its fate in the following Chapter.

IT IS VOLTAIRE, WE BELIEVE, WHO SAYS SOMETHING to the effect that one’s mind should be in accordance with one’s years. That is why an academic education nowadays often fails of its purpose. For whether one’s mind runs ahead of one’s years, or one’s years ahead of one’s mind, the result is much the same; it always goes ill with the mind. True, knowledge is power; but in order to feel at home with it, we must be constitutionally qualified. And if we are not, it is likely to give the soul such a wrenching as to deform it forever. Indeed, how many of us go through life with a fatal spiritual or intellectual twist which could have been avoided in our youth, were we a little less wise. The young
philosophes
, the products of the University Machine of to-day, who go about with a nosegay of -isms, as it were, in their lapels, and perfume their speech with the bottled logic of the College Professor,—are not most of them incapable of honestly and bravely grappling with the real problems of life? And does not a systematic education mean this, that a young man must go through life dragging behind him his heavy chains of set ideas and stock systems, political, social, or religious? (Remember, we are translating from the Khedivial Library MS.) The author continues:

“Whether one devour the knowledge of the world in four years or four nights, the process of assimilation is equally hindered, if the mind is sealed at the start with the seal of authority. Ay, we can not be too careful of dogmatic science in our youth; for dogmas often dam certain channels of the soul through which we might have reached greater treasures and ascended to purer heights. A young man, therefore, ought to be let alone. There is an infinite possibility of soul-power in every one of us, if it can be developed freely, spontaneously, without discipline or restraint. There is, too, an infinite possibility of beauty in every soul, if it can be evoked at an auspicious moment by the proper word, the proper voice, the proper touch. That is why I say, Go thy way, O my Brother. Be simple, natural, spontaneous, courageous, free. Neither anticipate your years, nor lag child-like behind them. For verily, it is as ridiculous to dye the hair white as to dye it black. Ah, be foolish while thou art young; it is never too late to be wise. Indulge thy fancy, follow the bent of thy mind; for in so doing thou canst not possibly do thyself more harm than the disciplinarians can do thee. Live thine own life; think thine own thoughts; keep developing and changing until thou arrive at the truth thyself. An ounce of it found by thee were better than a ton given to thee
gratis
by one who would enslave thee. Go thy way, O my Brother. And if my words lead thee to Juhannam, why, there will be a great surprise for thee. There thou wilt behold our Maker sitting on a flaming glacier waiting for the like of thee. And he will take thee into his arms and poke thee in the ribs, and together you will laugh and laugh, until that glacier become a garden and thou a flower therein. Go thy way, therefore; be not afraid. And no matter how many tears thou sheddest on this side, thou wilt surely be poked in the ribs on the other. Go—thy—but—let Nature be thy guide;
acquaint thyself with one or two of her laws ere thou runnest wild.”

And to what extent did this fantastic mystic son of a Phoenician acquaint himself with Nature’s laws, we do not know. But truly, he was already running wild in the great cosmopolis of New York. From his stivy cellar he issues forth into the plashing, plangent currents of city life. Before he does this, however, he rids himself of all the encumbrances of peddlery which hitherto have been his sole means of support. His little stock of crosses, rosaries, scapulars, false jewellery, mother-of-pearl gewgaws, and such like, which he has on the little shelf in the cellar, he takes down one morning—but we will let our Scribe tell the story.

“My love for Khalid,” he writes, “has been severely tried. We could no longer agree about anything. He had become such a dissenter that often would he take the wrong side of a question if only for the sake of bucking. True, he ceased to frequent the cellar of second-hand Jerry, and the lectures of the infidels he no longer attended. We were in accord about atheism, therefore, but in riotous discord about many other things, chief among which was the propriety, the necessity, of doing something to replenish his balance at the banker. For he was now impecunious, and withal importunate. Of a truth, what I had I was always ready to share with him; but for his own good I advised him to take up the peddling-box again. I reminded him of his saying once, ‘Peddling is a healthy and profitable business.’ ‘Come out,’ I insisted, ‘and though it be for the exercise. Walking is the whetstone of thought.’