On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us by Shakib in these words:
“A Muslim, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson, but by going about his business. He seldom deigns to write; and yet, his words are quoted by every writer of the day, and on every subject sacred and profane. His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives after his own mind and in his own robes; an Arab who prays after no Imam, but directly to Allah and his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust knowledge on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo and Damascus; a philosopher who would not give an orange peel for the opinion of the world; an ascetic who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage who does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric withal to amuse even a Diogenes:—this is the noted Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom Mrs. Gotfry once met at Abbas Effendi’s in Akka, and whom she was desirous of meeting again. When we first went to visit him, this charming lady and Khalid and I, we had to knock at the door until his neighbour peered from one of the windows above and told us that the Sheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we must come in the evening. I learned afterwards that he, reversing the habitual practice of mankind, works at night and sleeps during the day.
“We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with a lamp in his hand, peers through a small square opening in the door to see who is knocking. He knew neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry—‘Eigh!’ he mused. And as he beheld her face in the lamplight he exclaimed ‘Marhaba (welcome)! Marhaba!’ and hastened to unbolt the door. We are shown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small court, up to his study. Which is a three-walled room—a sort of stage—opening on the court, and innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair. While he and Mrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian, I was wondering why in Damascus, the city of seven rivers and of poetry and song, should there be a court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated fountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the Sheikh can not tolerate the noise of the water; and so, suffering from thirst and neglect, the fountain goes to ruin.
“On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of old books and pamphlets; in the corner is the usual straw mat, a cushion, and a sort of stool on which are ink and paper. This he clears, places the cushion upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits down on the mat; and we are invited to arrange for ourselves some books. Indeed, the Sheikh is right; most of these tomes are good for nothing else.
“Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.
“ ‘Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,’ said he to Khalid; ‘that is ominous. Verily, there is danger in thy path.’
“ ‘But he will embrace Bahaism,’ put in Mrs. Gotfry.
“ ‘That might save him. Bahaism is the old torch, relighted after many centuries, by Allah.’
“Meanwhile Khalid was thinking of secondhand Jerry of the secondhand bookshop of New York. The Sheikh reminded him of his old friend.
“And I was holding in my hand a book on which I chanced while arranging my seat. It was Debrett’s Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage. How did such a book find its way into the Sheikh’s rubbish, I wondered. But birds of a feather, thought I.
“ ‘That book was sent to me,’ said he, ‘by a merchant friend, who found it in the Bazaar. They send me all kinds of books, these simple of heart. They think I can read in all languages and discourse on all subjects. Allah forgive them.’
“And when I tell him, in reply to his inquiry, that the book treats of Titles, Orders, and Degrees of Precedence, he utters a sharp whew, and with a quick gesture of weariness and disgust, tells me to take it. ‘I have my head full of our own ansab (pedigrees),’ he adds, ‘and I have no more respect for a green turban (the colour of the Muslim nobility) than I have for this one,’ pointing to his, which is white.
“Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks of Wahhabism.
“ ‘It is Islam in its pristine purity; it is the Islam of the first great Caliphs. “Mohammed is dead; but Allah lives,” said Abu Bakr to the people on the death of the Prophet. And Wahhabism is a direct telegraph wire between mortal man and his God.
“ ‘But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the most fanatical, when their doctrines are the most pure?’ asked Khalid.
“ ‘In thy question is the answer to it. They are fanatical because of their purity of doctrine, and withal because they live in Nejd. If there were a Wahhabi sect in Barr’ush-Sham (Syria), it would not be thus, assure thee.’
“And expressing his liking for Khalid, he advises him to be careful of his utterances in Damascus, if he believes in self-preservation. ‘I am old,’ he continues; ‘and the ulema do not think my flesh is good for sacrifice. But thou art young, and plump—a tender yearling—ah, be careful sheikh Khalid. Then, I do not talk to the people direct. I talk to them through holy men and dervishes. The people do not believe in a philosopher; but the holy man, and though he attack the most sacred precepts of the Faith, they will believe. And Damascus is the
