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 suchlike? 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 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 Koran; whether he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach the end of it on the hilltop; 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 Phoenicians—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. 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 hashish-dens of Cairo. “Go thither; and come to see me again tomorrow evening.” Saying which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his fee, and walked away.
In that hashish-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 Mahdi,” said one, offering us his chikbouk of hashish; “smoke to his health and prosperity. Ha, ha, ha.”
And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel of a hashish jag, was tremendous. Everyone 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 ropedancer of nature” by another.
“Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness of New York for five years,” remarked a third.
“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 Mahdi.”
“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 Mahdi?”
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 Mahdi, ha, ha, ha!”
And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. But their humour, like the odor and smoke of ganja, (hashish) was become stifling. So, we lay our chikbouk down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, we struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the open air.
In the grillroom 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.
“I have not seen him for ten
