The Book of Khalid

am I actually your husband. By the life of this blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am inalterably resolved on this, and I shall abide by my resolution. We must leave Baalbek as soon as the religious formalities are done. And I wish your father would have them performed under his roof. That is as good as going to Church to be the central figures of the mummery of priests. But be this as You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether by your father or by gibbering Levites the ceremony is performed, we must hie us to the desert after it is done. I shall hire the camels and prepare the necessary set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No, I must not be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be able to work for you as for myself. And Allah alone, through the ministration of his great Handmaid Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you the joys of life. No, not before I am cured, can I give you my whole self, can I call myself your husband. Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis in its very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels and establish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even build you a little home like your own. And you will be to me an aura of health, which I shall breathe with the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our love shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of disease. Meanwhile, we shall buy with what money I have a little patch of ground which we shall cultivate together. And we shall own cattle and drink camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in the cool shade of the palms, and in the evening, wrapt in our cloaks, we’ll sleep on the sands under the living stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the harbinger of dawn to Khalid.⁠—Out on that little farm in the oasis of our desert, far from the world and the sanctified abominations of the world, we shall live near to Allah a life of purest joy, of true happiness. We shall never worry about the hopes of tomorrow and the gone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while labouring, dream of rest, nor shall we give a thought to our tasks while drinking of the cup of repose: each hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The trials and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun, never to rise with him again. But I am unkind to speak of this. For your glances banish care, and we shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and when I take up the lute in the evening, you’ll sing mulayiah to me, and the stars above us shall dance, and the desert breeze shall house us in its whispers of love.⁠ ⁠…”

And thus interminably, while Najma, understanding little of all this, sits beside him on a fallen column in the Temple and punctuates his words with assenting exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder. “But we are not going to live in the desert all the time, are we?” she asks.

“No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness we shall return to Baalbek, if you like.”

“Eigh, good. Now, I want to say⁠—no. I shame to speak about such matters.”

“Speak, ya Gazalty (O my Doe or Dawn or both); your words are like the scented breeze, like the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this Temple without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined Temple of thine.”

“How sweet are Your words, but really I can not understand them. They are like the sweetmeats my father brought with him once from Damascus. One eats and exclaims, ‘How delicious!’ But one never knows how they are made, and what they are made of. I wish I could speak like you, ya habibi. I would not shame to say then what I want.”

“Say what you wish. My heart is open, and your words are silvery moonbeams.”

“Do not blame me then. I am so simple, you know, so foolish. And I would like to know if you are going to Church on our wedding day in the clothes you have on now.”

“Not if you object to them, my Heart.”

“Eigh, good! And must I come in my ordinary Sunday dress? It is so plain; it has not a single ruffle to it.”

“And what are ruffles for?”

“I never saw a bride in a plain gown; they all have ruffles and flounces to them. And when I look at your lovely hair⁠—O let people say what they like! A gown without ruffles is ugly.⁠—So, you will buy me a sky-blue silk dress, ya habibi and a pink one, too, with plenty of ruffles on them? Will you not?”

“Yes, my Heart, you shall have what you desire. But in the desert you can not wear these dresses. The Arabs will laugh at you. For the women there wear only plain muslin dipped in indigo.”

“Then, I will have but one dress of sky-blue silk for the wedding.”

“Certainly, my Heart. And the ruffles shall be as many and as long as you desire them.”

And while the many-ruffled sky-blue dress is being made, Khalid, inspired by Najma’s remarks on his hair, rhapsodises on flounces and ruffles. Of this striking piece of fantasy, in which are scintillations of the great Truth, we note the following:

“What can you do without your flounces? How can you live without your ruffles? Ay, how can you, without them, think, speak, or work? How can you eat, drink, walk, sleep, pray, worship, moralise, sentimentalise, or love, without them? Are you not ruffled and flounced when you first see the light, ruffled and flounced when you last see the darkness? The cradle and the tomb, are they not the first and last ruffles of Man? And