And our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.—“An Official of the Government, a Bey with a third-class 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-class 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 titled 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-class Medjidi Bey; but Najma, as they enter and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof to weep. The third time the third-class 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) tonight,” murmurs the father. But here is his Excellency with his Sultan’s green button 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 mass, but she’ll return soon.”
But Najma is long gone; returns not; and the third-class Dodo will call again tomorrow. 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 accumulate, she goes with him to the dressmaker 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 byway through which we had to pass, and lo, we find it choked by the zeffah (wedding procession) of none but she and the third-class Medjidi. …”
But we’ll no more of this! Too tragic, too much like fiction it sounds, that here abruptly we must end this 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 entitled, 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
