Letter V
No; I do not approve of your idea of associating with that young Mohammedan editor. You know what is said about the tiger and its spots. Besides, I had another offer from a Christian oldtimer; but you might as well ask me to become a Jesuit as to became a Journalist. I wrote last week a political article, in which I criticised Majesty’s Address to the Parliament, and mauled those oleaginous, palavering, mealymouthed Representatives, who would not dare point out the lies in it. They hear the Chief Clerk read of “the efforts made by the Government during the past thirty years in the interest of education,” and applaud; while at the Royal Banquet they jostle and hustle each other to kiss the edge of Majesty’s frock-coat. The abject slaves!
The article was much quoted and commented upon; I was flouted by many, defended by a few, these asked: “Was the Government of Abdul Hamid, committing all its crimes in the interest of education, were we being trained by the Censorship and the Bosphorus Terror for the Dustur?” “But the person of Majesty, the sacredness of the Caliphate,” cried the others. And a certain one, in the course of his attack, denies the existence of Khalid, who died, said he, a year ago. And what matters it if a dead man can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of its walking spectres a breath of life?
I spoke last night in one of the music halls and gave the Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The poor Christians!—they feared the Government in the old regime; they cower before the boatmen in this. For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their prestige and power. They are a sort of commune and are yet supreme. Yes, they are always riding the whirlwind and directing the storm. And who dares say a word against them? Every one of them, in his swagger and bluster, is an Abdul Hamid. Alas, everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman’s shriek can silence the Press and make the Spouters tremble.
I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the Colleges here on the “Moral Revolution.” Believe me, I would not utter a word or write a line if I were not impelled to it. And just as soon as someone comes to the front to champion in this land spiritual and moral freedom, I’ll go “way back and sit down.” For why should I then give myself the trouble? And the applause of the multitude, mind you, brings me not a single olive.
Letter XXII
I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say farewell to you and mother. For I like not Beirut, where one in winter must go about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer. I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city of mud, would have said of this? Besides, a city ruled by boatmen is not a city for gentlemen to live in. So, I made up my mind to get out of it, and quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken my coffee, someone knocked at my door. I open, and lo, a policeman in shabby uniform, makes inquiry about Khalid. What have I done, I thought, to deserve this visit? And before I had time to imagine the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to Syria of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique. I am desired in this to come at my earliest convenience to the Club to meet this gentleman. There, I am received by an Army Officer and a certain Ahmed Bey. And after the coffee and the formalities of civility are over, I am asked to accompany them on a tour to the principal cities of upper Syria—to Damascus, Homs, Hama, and Aleppo. The young Army Officer is to speechify in Turkish, I, in Arabic, and Ahmed Bey, who is as oleaginous as a Turk could be, will take up, I think, the collection. Seeing in this a chance to spread the Idea among our people, I accept, and in a fortnight we shall be in Damascus. You must come there, for I am burning to meet and embrace you.
Letter XXV
Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why, nothing gave me greater pleasure ever since I have been here than this: I was crossing the Square on my way to the Club, when someone plucking at my jubbah angrily greets me. I look back, and behold our dear old Im-Hanna, who has just returned from New York. She stood there waving her hand wildly and rating me for not returning her salaam. “You know no one any more, O Khalid,” she said plaintively; “I call to you three times and you look not, hear not. No matter, O Khalid.” Thereupon, she embraces me as fondly as my mother. “And why,” she inquired, “do you wear this black jubbah? Are you now a monk? Were it not for that long hair and that cap of yours, I would not have known you. Let me see, isn’t that the cap I bought you in New York?” And she takes it off my head to examine it. “Yes, that’s it. How good of you to keep it. Well, how are you now? Do
