The Book of Khalid

by Ameen Fares Rihani

But the book and the name on the pine, we would 196 know more of these signs, if possible. And so, we visit the labourers of the kiln. They are yödling, the while they work, and jesting and laughing. The stokers, with flaming, swollen eyes, their tawny complexion waxing a brilliant bronze, their sweat making golden furrows therein, with their pikes and pitchforks busy, are terribly magnificent to behold. Here be men who would destroy Bastilles for you, if it were nominated in the bond. And there is the monk-foreman––the kiln is of the monastery’s estate––reading his breviary while the lime is in making. Indeed, these sodalities of the Lebanons are not what their vows and ascetic theologies would make them. No lean-jowled, hungry-looking devotees, living in exiguity and droning in exinanition their prayers,––not by any means. Their flesh-pots are not a few, and their table is a marvel of ascetism! And why not, if their fat estates––three-quarter of the lands here is held in mortmain by the clergy––can yield anything, from silk cocoons to lime-pits? They will clothe you in silk at least; they will lime-wash your homes and sepulchres, if they cannot lime-wash anything else. Thanks to them so long as they keep some reminiscence of business in their heads to keep the Devil out of it.

The monk-foreman is reading with one eye and watching with the other. “Work,” cries he, “every minute wasted is stolen from the abbey. And whoso steals, look in the pit: its fire is nothing compared with Juhannam.” And the argument serves its purpose. The labourers hurry hither and thither, bringing 197 brushwood near; the first stoker pitches to the second, the second to the third, and he feeds the flaming, smoking, coruscating volcano. “Yallah!” (Keep it up) exclaims the monk-foreman. “Burn the devil’s creed,” cries one. “Burn hell,” cries another. And thus jesting in earnest, mightily working and enduring, they burn the mountains into lime, they make the very rocks yield somewhat.––Strength and blessings, brothers.

After the usual inquiry of whence and whither, his monkship offers the snuff-box. “No? roll you, then, a cigarette,” taking out a plush pouch containing a mixture of the choicest native roots. These, we were told, are grown on the monastery’s estate. We speak of the cocoon products of the season.

“Beshrew the mulberries!” exclaims the monk. “We are turning all our estates into fruit orchards and orangeries. The cultivation of the silk-worm is in itself an abomination. And while its income to-day is not as much as it was ten years ago, the expenditure has risen twofold. America is ruining our agriculture; and soon, I suppose, we have to send to China for labourers. Why, those who do not emigrate demand twice as much to-day for half the work they used to do five years ago; and those who return from America strut about like country gentlemen deploring the barrenness of their native soil.”

And one subject leading to another, for our monk is a glib talker, we come to the cheese-makers, the goatherds. “Even these honest rustics,” says he, “are becoming sophisticated (mafsudin). Their 198 cheese is no longer what it was, nor is their faith. For Civilisation, passing by their huts in some shape or other, whispers in their ears something about cleverness and adulteration. And mistaking the one for the other, they abstract the butter from the milk and leave the verdigris in the utensils. This lust of gain is one of the diseases which come from Europe and America,––it is a plague which even the goatherd cannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the cheese-monger goes these days ptomaine poison is certain to follow.”

“And why does not the Government interfere?” we ask.

“Because the Government,” replies our monk in a dry, droll air and gesture, “does not eat cheese.”

And the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it. For this, as well as their butter, olive oil, and wine, is made on their own estates, under their own supervision.

“Yes,” he resumes, placing his breviary in his pocket and taking out the snuff-box; “not long ago one who lived in these parts––a young man from Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest yonder––bought some cheese from one of these muleteer cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw that young man, and were I not passing by I know not what would have become of him. I helped him to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, 199 and he remained with us three days. He ate of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to like both very much. And ever since, while he was here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a tray of his own make––he occupied himself in making wicker-baskets and trays––and ask in exchange some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent, this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But he was queer. The clock in him was not wound right––he was always ahead or behind time, always complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often would I bring him some of our cookery. But he never accepted anything without giving something in exchange.”

Unmistakable signs.