"Beauty either detains, repels, or enchants. The first is purely external, linear; the second is an imitation of the first, its artistic artificial ideal, so to speak; and the third"--He is silent.

His eyes, gazing into hers, take up the cue.

Mrs. Gotfry turns from him exhausted. She looks into the water.

"See the rose-beds in the stream; see the lovely pebbles dancing around them."

"I can see everything in your eyes, which are like limpid lakes shaded with weeping-willows. I can even hear bulbuls singing in your brows.--Turn not from me your eyes. They reflect the pearls of your soul and the flowers of your body, even as those crystal waters reflect the pebbles and rose-beds beneath."

"Did you not say that love is the splendour of G.o.d?"

"Yes."

"Then, why look for it in my eyes?"

"And why look for it in the heart of the heavens, in the depths of the sea--in the infinities of everything that is beautiful and terrible--in the breath of that little flower, in the song of the bulbul, in the whispers of your silken lashes, in--"

"Shut your eyes, Khalid; be more spiritual."

"With my eyes open I see but one face; with my eyes closed I see a million faces: they are all yours. And they are loving, and sweet, and kind. But I am content with one, with the carnate symbol of them, with you, and though you be cold and cruel. The divine splendour is here, and here and here--"

"Why, your ardour is exhausting."

But on their way back to the Hotel, Khalid gives her this from Swedenborg: "'Do you love me' means 'do you see the same truth that I see?'"

There is no use. Khalid is impossible.

CHAPTER VII

A DREAM OF EMPIRE

"I'm not starving for pleasure," Khalid once said to Shakib; "nor for the light free love of an exquisite caprice. Those little flowers that bloom and wither in the blush of dawn are for the little b.u.t.terflies. The love that endures, give me that. And it must be of the deepest divine strain,--as deep and divine as maternal love. Man is of Eternity, not of Time; and love, the highest attribute of man, must be likewise. With me it must endure throughout all worlds and immensities; else I would not raise a finger for it. Pleasure, Shakib, is for the child within us; s.e.xual joy, for the animal; love, for the G.o.d. That is why I say when you set your seal to the contract, be sure it is of the kind which all the G.o.ds of all the future worlds will raise to their lips in reverence."

But Khalid's child-spirit, not to say childishness, is not, as he would have us believe, a thing of the past. Nor are the animal and the G.o.d within him always agreed as to what is and what is not a love divine and eternal. In New York, to be sure, he often brushed his wings against those flowerets that "bloom and wither in the blush of dawn." And he was not a little pleased to find that the dust which gathers on the wings adds a charm to the colouring of life. But how false and trivial it was, after all. The gold dust and the dust of the road, could they withstand a drop of rain? A love dust-deep, as it were, close to the earth; too mean and pitiful to be carried by the storm over terrible abysses to glorious heights. A love, in a word, without pain, that is to say impure. In Baalbek, on the other hand, he drank deep of the pain, but not of the joy, of love. He and his cousin Najma had just lit in the shrine of Venus the candles of the altar of the Virgin, when a villainous hand that of Jesuitry, issuing from the darkness, clapped over them the snuffer and carried his Happiness off.

Here was a love divine, the promised bliss of which was s.n.a.t.c.hed away from him.

And now in Damascus, he feels, for the first time, the exquisite pain and joy of a love which he can not yet fathom; a love, which like the storm, is carrying him over terrible abysses to unknown heights.

The bitter sting of a Nay he never felt so keenly before. The sleep-stifling torture and joy of suspense he did not fully experience until now. But if he can not sleep, he will work. He has but a few days to prepare his address. He can not be too careful of what he says, and how he says it. To speak at the great Mosque of Omaiyah is a great privilege. A word uttered there will reach the furthermost parts of the Mohammedan world. Moreover, all the ulema and all the heavy-turbaned fanatics will be there.

But he can not even work. On the table before him is a pile of newspapers from all parts of Syria and Egypt--even from India--and all simmering, as it were, with Khalid's name, and Khalidism, and Khalid scandals. He is hailed by some, a.s.sailed by others; glorified and vilified in tawdry rhyme and ponderous prose by Christians and Mohammedans alike. "Our new Muhdi," wrote an Egyptian wit (one of those pallid prosers we once met in the hasheesh dens, no doubt), "our new Muhdi has added to his hareem an American beauty with an Oriental leg."

What he meant by this only the hasheesh smokers know. "An instrument in the hands of some American speculators, who would build sky-sc.r.a.pers on the ruins of our mosques," wrote another. "A lever with which England is undermining Al-Islam," cried a voice in India. "A base one in the service of some European coalition, who, under the pretext of preaching the spiritualities, is undoing the work of the Revolution.

The gibbet is for ordinary traitors; for him the stake," etc., etc.

On the other hand, he is hailed as the expected one,--the true leader, the real emanc.i.p.ator,--"who has in him the soul of the East and the mind of the West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire." Of course, the foolish Damascene editor who wrote this had to flee the country the following day. But Khalid's eyes lingered on that line. He read it and reread it over and over again--forward and backward, too. He juggled, so to speak, with its words.

How often people put us, though unwittingly, on the path we are seeking, he thought. How often does a chance word uttered by a stranger reveal to us our deepest aims and purposes.

Before him was ink and paper. He took up the pen. But after scrawling and scribbling for ten minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and arabesques, and the one single word Dowla (Empire).

He could not think: he could only dream. The soul of the East--The mind of the West--the builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the Idea, the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great race who has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of Arabia; the reclaiming of her land; the resuscitation of her glory;--and why not? especially if backed with American millions and the love of a great woman. He is enraptured. He can neither sleep nor think: he can but dream. He puts on his jubbah, refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room.

He paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream with wreaths of smoke. But the dim lights seemed to be ogling each other and smiling, as he pa.s.sed. The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The silence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He knocks--knocks again.

The occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In fact, she, too, could not sleep. The clock in the hall outside had just struck one, and she was yet reading. After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on a kimono and opens the door. She is surprised.

"Anything the matter with you?"

"No; but I can not sleep."

"That is amusing. And do you take me for a soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch yourself on the couch and try." Saying which, she laughed and hurried back to her bed.

"I did not come to sleep."

"What then? How lovely of you to wake me up so early.--No, no; don't apologise. For truly, I too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading. Sit on the couch there and talk to me.--Of course, you may smoke.--No, I prefer to sit in bed."

Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On the table before him are some antique colour prints which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These one can only get in Damascus. And--strange coincidence!--they represented some of the heroes of Arabia--Antar, Ali, Saladin, Harun ar-Rashid--done in gorgeous colouring, and in that deliciously ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic nor Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid reads the poetry under each of them and translates it into English. Mrs. Gotfry is charmed. Khalid is lost in thought. He lays the picture of Saladin on the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon his friend, his face beaming with his dream.

"Jamilah." It was the first time he called her by her first name--an Arabic name which, as a Bahaist she had adopted. And she was neither surprised nor displeased.

"We need another Saladin to-day,--a Saladin of the Idea, who will wage a crusade, not against Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against those Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both."

"Whom do you mean?"

"I mean the Turks. They were given a last chance to rise; they tried and failed. They can not rise. They are demoralised; they have no stamina, no character; no inborn love for truth and art; no instinctive or acquired sense of right and justice. Whiskey and debauch and high-sounding inanities about fraternity and equality can not regenerate an Empire. The Turk must go: he will go. But out in those deserts is a race which is always young, a race that never withers; a strong, healthy, keen-eyed, quick-witted race; a fighting, fanatical race; a race that gave Europe a civilisation, that gave the world a religion; a race with a past as glorious as Rome's; and with a future, too, if we had an Ali or a Saladin. But He who made those heroes will make others like them, better, too. He may have made one already, and that one may be wandering now in the desert. Now think what can be done in Arabia, think what the Arabs can accomplish, if American arms and an up-to-date Koran are spread broadcast among them.

With my words and your love and influence, with our powers united, we can build an Arab Empire, we can resuscitate the Arab Empire of the past. Abd'ul-Wahhab, you know, is the Luther of Arabia; and Wahhabism is not dead. It is only slumbering in Nejd. We will wake it; arm it; infuse into it the living spirit of the Idea. We will begin by building a plant for the manufacture of arms on the sh.o.r.e of the Euphrates, and a University in Yaman. The Turk must go--at least out of Arabia. And the Turk in Europe, Europe will look after. No; the Arab will never be virtually conquered. Nominally, maybe. And I doubt if any of the European Powers can do it. Why? Chiefly because Arabia has a Prophet. She produced one and she will produce more. Cannons can destroy Empires; but only the living voice, the inspired voice can build them."

Mrs. Gotfry is silent. In Khalid's vagaries is a big idea, which she can not wholly grasp. And she is moreover devoted to another cause--the light of the world--the splendour of G.o.d--Buhaism. But why not spread it in Arabia as in America? She will talk to Ebbas Effendi about Khalid. He is young, eloquent, rising to power. And with her love, and influence superadded, what might he not do? what might he not accomplish? These ideas flashed through her mind, while Khalid was pacing up and down the room, which was already filled with smoke. She is absorbed in thought. Khalid comes near her bed, bends over her, and buries his face in her wealth of black hair.

Mrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream.

"I can not see all that you see."

"Then you do not love me."

"Why do you say that? Here, now go sit down. Oh, I am suffocating. The smoke is so thick in the room I can scarcely see you. And it is so late.--No, no. Give me time to think on the subject. Now, come."

And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window to let out Khalid and his smoke.

"Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can not sleep, try to write.

And if you can not write, read. And if you can neither read nor write nor sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a walk. Good night. There. Good night. But don't forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb to-morrow."

The astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if you do not feel like walking, take a dip in the River Barada. But in her words, to be sure, were a douche cold enough for Khalid. Now, to be just and comprehensive in our History we must record here that she, too, did not, and could not sleep that night. The thought that Khalid would make a good apostle of Buhaism and incidentally a good companion, insinuated itself between the lines on every page of the book she was trying to read.

On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us by Shakib in these words: