The Baha'i journal World Order excerpted this book in a two-part serial, in vol. 4:3 (Spring 1970) and vol. 4:4 (Summer 1970). Due to lack of time I've only scanned the first part, vol. 4:3 pages 28-52. Stevens' preface and dedication (in both Persian and English), pages 30 and 31, were printed against a darker background and didn't OCR properly. In summary, these two items praise Abdul Baha and apologizing for attempting to portray Him in a work of fiction. He emphasizes that he has the greatest respect for the Baha'is and that his intentions in writing a novel are "honest."
The editors wrote that they were not able to find out who E.S. Stevens was (below). Denis MacEoin identifies her as "a minor novelist, later better known (as Lady Drower) for her excellent academic studies of Mandaean religion and culture." (http://www.bahai-library.com/books/biblio/biography.autobio.html. -J.W.Introduction
IN THIS ISSUE and the next, WORLD ORDER offers its readers a special treat: excerpts from a forgotten novel by a forgotten author. The Mountain of God was published in London in 1911. It was noticed in the press and, having been greeted, it seems, with deep public indifference, quickly disappeared from sight. When the editors of WORLD ORDER came upon the book and tried to find out who the author, E. S. Stevens, was, they discovered that the name was not listed in standard reference works on English writers, and that even Yale's Sterling Library, famous for its collection of English novels, had not one of Stevens' books.
If read as a work of literature, The Mountain of God is bound to disappoint. The story is melodramatic. The crippled Englishman traveling for his health, the idealistic Turkish officer with a German name who is involved in the Young Turk movement, his trusting "Oriental" wife, these and other dramatis personae are so familiar that one has a feeling of having read about them before. The plot is slow and not particularly exciting. The situations are quite predictable, the characterizations weak, and the writing hackneyed. Why then should WORLD ORDER want to resurrect this book from long oblivion?
Some books survive as works of art, read for their own sake; others for some extraneous reason. The Mountain of God turns out to be a significant historical document. E. S. Stevens, whoever he or she was, had spent considerable time in Haifa and 'Akka before 1911, met the small group of dedicated Baha'is resident there, among them the great calligrapher Mishkin Qalam, and attained the presence of 'Abdu'l-Baha. This unforgettable experience is recorded in the pages of The Mountain of God.
The title refers to Mt. Carmel, and the story unfolds on its dry, stony slopes. Robert Underwood, the partially paralyzed young Englishman who comes to Haifa to spend a few months; Mrs. Greville, a slightly eccentric Englishwoman in love with a Turkish officer Schmidt Pasha; Schmidt himself; Gerald Whitby, an Orientalist from Oxford —they all become involved with the Baha'i exiles on Mt. Carmel. The exiles seem to possess a secret knowledge which gives them peace, happiness, and a radiance that is visible to any but the most superficial observer, or one whose mind is so totally out of tune with things of the spirit that it cannot see the brightest light even while looking at it directly. Whitby is a Baha'i; Schmidt Pasha becomes one; Underwood, in spite of all his fine sensitivity, makes no commitment, though he is deeply affected by his Persian friends. Only Mrs. Greville is unmoved.
The Persian Baha'is as drawn by E. S. Stevens are true to life. Mishkin Qalam, of course, is no fictional character. Others may also be recognized as real persons. Their conversations ring true. The atmosphere in which they move is real. Every one of them is guided, motivated, and inspired by the Master, 'Abdu'l-Baha. He appears in the novel but once, yet dominates it from beginning to end. The encounter between 'Abdu'l-Baha and the fictional Underwood is brief and inconsequential. What fascinates a Baha'i reader today is the accurate description of the Master, and the report of the effect He made on all those who came within the orbit of His personality.
The editors of WORLD ORDER do not know whether E. S. Stevens ever became a Baha'i. Internal evidence drawn from the novel itself appears inconclusive. However, the author had seen 'Abdu'l-Baha and reported the experience as accurately as the pen would allow. The report is precious to the Baha'is who read it today. It will become even more precious in the future when the last survivors of the Heroic Age of the Faith will have left this world. Here lies the value of The Mountain of God and here lies the guarantee of its survival through the centuries.
The text of the novel is reproduced exactly as it appears in the 1911 edition. We have not changed the spelling or added diacritical marks to transliterated Arabic and Persian words.
"This mountain is a holy mountain: it has always been sanctified. The prophets have always loved it. Christ has trodden on its paths; Elijah lived upon it. The wind is sweet on it, the flowers are many, the view is wonderful. When you come up the mountain many fragrances reach you; the pure air gladdens you; the beauty refreshes you. So the mind is made single, the thoughts are purified; the spirit turns to God."
(In a conversation with Abdul Baha.)
"Where are you going?" she inquired, after a moment, with cheerful naturalness.
"To Haifa."
"So am I! For long?"
"For a week or two to pick up."
She considered him gravely.
"And you?" asked Underwood, feeling that he might exchange the role of catechised for that of catechist.
"I? I don't know how long I shall stay. Perhaps a long while." Her eyes were serious. "I have business in Haifa."
"Really," he said, awkwardly, to fill in the pause which ensued.
"Yes," she continued. "It's about some property there, on Mount Carmel —you know, where Elijah sacrificed the prophets."
He masked a smile, for it was said unconsciously.
"It's still thought a holy mountain," she went on, "by every one—the Mohammedans and Jews as well as the Christians. There is something in the air, they say, which makes one able to understand hidden things— something which awakes the spiritual nature. My mother used to tell me that. But from what I know of the people who live there, I should think that that was a piece of sentimentalism, and that it really is a hotbed for cranks. However, they call it The Mountain of God."
***
As Mrs. Greville had prophesied, it was to the German hotel that Underwood had been consigned by the omnipotent Cook. There was, in fact, little choice. As he was bumped over the uneven main road of Haifa, through the unclean Syrian town, with its crowds of semi-Europeanised natives, he saw no other caravanserai, except an uninviting native locanda near the quay. A few dogs lay about the streets on rubbish heaps, where such were available, with the air of pashas, to cringe away with a yelp if a passer-by touched one inadvertently with his foot. In the public square, near the entrance to the native bazaar, though it was not more than eight o'clock, the fishmarket was busily in progress, and close by outside a native cafe, men whose yellow-embroidered kerchief bound around the fez proclaimed them Moslems in spite of their slovenly European dress, sat idly smoking argilehs. As they drew the smoke through the bubbling water they talked little, and regarded the world with indifference and dignity, the traveller included.
Underwood was tired. He had scarcely slept; he had endured one of those nights of physical and mental torture that left him exhausted afterwards, as a demoniac from whom the evil spirit has departed. He was glad when he was alone in the room which had been engaged for him, and glad that the necessity for effort was for the moment over. At Magner's insistence, he allowed himself to rest on the high white German bed, with its mosquito curtains drawn canopy-wise. The room had many windows, and though the careful Magner had pulled to the persiennes to exclude the brilliant Syrian sun, he could hear the sea breaking rhythmically against the shore below the hotel, and the spring breeze in the pine trees just outside, pulsing and purring through the green needles, and bringing into the room the resinous smell and the perfume of other growing things in the garden—citron blossom perhaps.
At half-past eleven Magner appeared with some hot water, and several letters. Underwood had almost fallen asleep, but he roused himself, washed, and opened his correspondence.
'DEAR OLD MAN"—began the first—"I hear you re going to Haifa sooner or later, and so I've asked Gerald Whitby to call on you—he lives there, I believe, or makes Haifa his headquarters. He and I were at Magdalen together; he's a good Orientalist, rather a queer little chap, but a thoroughly good sort. Please drop him a line, care of the Ottoman Bank, when you arrive, and he'll do all he can for you, I know.
***
DEAR MR. UNDERWOOD,—I shall be in the Colony to-morrow and will call on you at nine o'clock, unless you are otherwise engaged.—Yours sincerely,
With Magner beside him, he swung himself slowly up the main road which led through the German colony; the two sidewalks bordered on either side with olives, pines, carobs, pepper trees, cypresses, and hg trees; the last white and leafless as yet, though it was as warm as an English May. In front of every house, whose wide cool porches were made to combat the heat of the summer, was a garden, trim and gay; divided, but not hidden, from the passer-by by a low wooden fence. In these little gardens vegetables and flowers grew together in harmony, and as he passed along the shady walks he could see the women of the colony sturdily at work with hoe and rake, kerchiefs tied around their heads, and their skirts tucked up above their thick ankles. These uncomely but good-tempered German matrons were the mothers of large families, from big-boned, undeveloped-looking elder daughters and their brothers, to the pretty flaxen-haired little children who played at giant's stride outside the sunny schoolhouse and dropped him shy curtseys if he spoke or smiled to them. They ran about barefoot for the most part, healthy as the Bedouin children who pattered along the Jaffa road at the foot of the colony beside their father's asses
The Jaffa road, which Underwood could see from his window, was a constant source of amusement to him. Groups of Bedouins, their puce-colored keffiyehs fluttering behind them, paced past on the highway with their cattle, or rode magnificently mounted on horses of varying degrees of breed. Long strings of camels, led by an Arab on a donkey in front, and an Arab with a forked goad on another donkey behind, and laden with unknown merchandise, plodded dustily along it till they disappeared in the bend of the road between the sub-tropical gardens of the German colonists, towards the point where Mount Carmel sloped abruptly down to the sapphire sea.
Mount Carmel was the presiding genius of the place. The town lay nursed in her mighty lap, her long flanks stretched away to the sea on the north and south and west, the sun disappeared behind her long ridge a full hour before the sunset rosied the sky and set the snows of Mount Hermon, her far white sister, on fire on the other side of the bay.
The sides of the mountain were thinly clothed with green and shrubs— here and there rocky and bare, here and there interspersed with olives and low pine trees. Houses occasionally dotted its surface, and, in patches, its sides were scarred with brown where the vines, still barren in their winter sleep, gave promise of the autumn vintage.
In the wonderful clearness of the air and intensity of the light, every detail stood out with astonishing clearness. Underwood found that his eyes wandered constantly to the mountain. Mrs. Greville had called it The Mountain of God, and the name had an odd fascination for him.
He had seen or heard nothing of her since his arrival, and it was with a lonely man's gladness that he received Whitby's brief note. It was only due to his own negligence that he had not made the first advance.
At nine Whitby was shown into the upper balcony where Underwood was sitting. He proved to be a slightly made, insignificant-looking man on first sight; he wore a beard, and his thin face was very sunburnt. For the rest he had a courteous manner, a diffident, slightly detached and apologetic air—not uncommon in scholars. Underwood noticed his extremely beautiful hands.
"I am disturbing you too early," Whitby said, looking at the breakfast-tray on the table beside Underwood's chair.
"No, no; I have finished. I was expecting you."
"We are early risers here—I should have remembered that you are accustomed to European hours."
"Mayn't I offer you some breakfast?—a whisky and soda?"
"Thanks, I have sworn off alcohol, and I had my coffee at five."
"How did you know 1 was here? I have been meaning to write, but "
"I saw you. Bur as I was occupied at the time with some important business, I could not come to you as I wished. Of course Prothero told me you were coming."
"You and he were at Magdalen together."
"Yes; and we have kept up a desultory correspondence ever since. He told me about you—and your accident."
"It was kind of you to look me up."
"I hope I can be of some use to you. Unfortunately I am leaving Haifa in a few days."
"For long?"
"I don't know.... I am not my own master."
The phrase suddenly reminded Underwood of Mrs. Greville when she had said, "I am not my own mistress." But Whitby spoke with a dreamy seriousness, his eyes filled with an expression that conveyed to Underwood the impression that something of immense importance to the little scholar lay behind the words.
"The most I can do," Whitby went on, "is to introduce you to a few people here. Do you know any one yet?"
"I met a Mrs. Greville on the way out."
"Mrs. Greville?" Whitby repeated. "I seem to know the name."
"She has some property on Mount Carmel."
"Ah yes; I have heard of her. But she doesn't live here?"
"She has just come out. Then, at table d'hote and so on, I have more or less picked up acquaintance with some of the Germans here—and some Russian Jews who are apparently staying at the hotel until their house is completed."
"There is a growing Zionist colony here."
"So I hear."
"And have you met Schmidt Pasha?"
"No—at least not to my knowledge."
"He usually stays here when he is in Haifa. But he comes and goes—no one knows his movements. But he knows England well—has stayed there a long time. There was a good deal about him in the papers at the time of the Counter- Revolution. He is a powerful member of the Committee of Union and Progress."
"What nationality?"
"A hybrid. But he is not a Levantine and not a Jew. He is Turkish to all intents and purposes."
"And the 'Pasha'?"
"It's an hereditary title, I believe; or, at any rate, his father was a pasha too. The father received it for services rendered to Ismail Pasha in Egypt. He also has a considerable interest in the Hedjaz railway, so he is a rich man. He is very able, and speaks English well. But you talk German?"
"I understand it. But I prefer my mother speech. I have not the gift of tongues, like yourself. Prothero tells me you are a great Orientalist."
Whitby's fine hands moved in a gesture of disavowal, almost discomposure.
"I have studied Arabic; but I have difficulty in speaking it. Persian I know fairly well."
"The language of Omar Khayyam. I should like to read that fine old cynic in the original. And Hafiz and Sa'adi, and the rest. What a pity one can't be inoculated with a language by mechanical means. I mean, if one could only insert a tiny portion of brain matter containing the complete knowledge of a language!"
Whitby smiled. "It is a pity. But a time will come when languages will become as obsolete as dialects. And the universal language will be so flexible, so expressive, that none of the classics of the Old World will lose in translation into it— perhaps they will even gain."
"You are an Esperantist?"
"In a sense. But in living Esperanto which will have vitality because it has developed naturally through a process of evolution. Think of the immense barrier which language offers now. It is the cause of half the hostility and misunderstanding between nations. A man who can speak the language of another nation really well, must necessarily get into sympathy with the soul of that nation."
"And conversely, to speak the language of another nation well, one must first get into sympathy with that nation."
'That first."
"And you really think that that would be desirable? To my mind it has
something of the horror that the visions of Socialists call up before you. To replace defined characteristics and the picturesque mysteries and non- comprehensions, the mountains and valleys and mysterious caverns, by one flat, perfectly illuminated plane."
"You are counting without your host."
"Which is?"
"In this case Nature. Does Nature ever allow a dead level? Isn't she always the artist, careful of her lights and shades, her mixing of colours?"
"That is true," Underwood replied. "But artificiality may spoil her work. Isn't civilisation, as seen in our big towns, ugly enough?"
"It is civilisation in a state of evolution. The dirt, the sordidness, the ugliness, are what remain from barbarism. Civilisation is still in the workshop."
"But man is a bungling workman. How do we know that ugliness will not be the end as it was the beginning?"
"Because God is the master workman, and the end must be perfection."
Underwood looked at him sharply. There was an abrupt change in the other's voice, as if he were against his own will saying something intimate, something personal. Underwood suddenly realised that God to this man was in some way a reality, and not a form of speech, and a curiosity to see into Whitby's mind arose in him.
Then Whitby said, as if to change the subject—
"I should like to introduce you to a Persian friend of mine here, by the way; he will do anything for you that he can. I have asked him to be at your disposal."
"How is it that a Persian is here in Syria?"
"There are many." He spoke with a certain reserve.
"Many? But why?"
Whitby paused, and then replied: "The Bahai exiles were sent to Akka, just across the bay." He pointed to the sea visible through the pine trees.
"The Bahais," Underwood repeated. "I seem to have heard of them. Ah, I remember! Didn't some chap at Oxford write a book about them? I know they were talking about it one night at dinner, when Digby, who'd been attache at the British Legation at Teheran, was there. Some Persian or other called himself the Gate or the Door, or something, and he was shot; and there was a wholesale slaughter of his followers."
"That was the Bab," said Whitby. "Did you never read the history of him? It has been translated into English, and was written by a poor Persian prisoner.... " His eyes strayed to the mountain. "Do you see that big brown building on the hill?" he asked. "Straight before us. The sun is on it. There are cypresses beside it."
"Yes," said Underwood, following his gaze.
"He is buried in that place."
"Who? The Bab? But he was killed in Persia. How did they get the body here?"
"Don't you remember what Turner said when they asked him how he mixed his paints? He answered, 'With brains.' So to your question, how did they get the body here, I reply, 'With devotion.' "
"But they were a proscribed sect, weren't they? It must have been difficult."
"It was difficult," Whitby answered, with a smile.
Underwood was searching his memory.
"Yes," he went on; "and Digby said that one of them declared that he was another Mohammed, or another Christ, or whatever it was. These are the people, then? But he didn't call them Bahais, but some name rather like it.
"Yes," Whitby answered. "These are the people. Before the declaration of Baha 'Ullah, they were called Babis. But as they saw in Baha 'Ullah the manifestation of Divine Wisdom that the Bab had foretold, they became known as Bahais."
"And is this Baha 'Ullah living now?"
"He died in prison in Akka."
"Then they are without a leader?"
"No; they have a leader."
"Where? "
"Here. The son of Baha 'Ullah."
"So there were really three generations of prophets—the Bab, and the manifestation person, and the present leader?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean that he is here in Haifa?"
"Till last year he was a prisoner in Akka. Since the Constitution he and his family have been given freedom.''
"Then why the deuce don't they go back to Persia?"
"He—they—do not wish to leave Mount Carmel."
"The Mountain of God," supplemented Underwood involuntarily.
Whitby's eyes became again alive with the strange look of intimacy which Underwood had noticed before.
"Yes," he repeated. "The Mountain of God."
His eyes, still on the mountain, were peopled with thoughts which he did not share with the other man.
"I can't think why Carmel should be called The Mountain of God," said Underwood, following his gaze. "Hermon, across the bay, seems to me infinitely more beautiful, more mysterious. It lies distant, it is veiled by clouds, there is something of the beauty of unapproachableness about it, its eternal snows, its height, its power of appearing and disappearing according to the weather, make it far better adapted to the name. Carmel is scarcely more than a hill; it is so devoid of mystery that in this atmosphere you can see almost every blade of grass, and there are no shadows or mists upon it.'
"Why should God be expressed by a mist and indistinctness?" asked Whitby, smiling slightly. "Don't you remember the Jewish conception of Him?— 'the Father of Lights, with whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning.' "
Underwood raised himself a little painfully to another position.
"You believe in God—the Jewish God?" he asked abruptly.
"Why give Him a nationality?" Whitby asked pertinently.
"Well, then, a conscious deity—not merely an indefinite and metaphysical First Cause?"
But Magner appeared at this moment.
"Mrs. Greville to see you, sir."
"Ask her up," said Underwood.
"I have asked myself up," said Mrs. Greville, behind him. "Wasn't that rude of me? But I saw you on the balcony from below, and thought that you were alone."
Her eyes, always full of a friendliness that was almost flagrant, went from one man to the other. Underwood introduced Whitby.
"Mr. Whitby?" she echoed. "Surely I've heard—ah yes, in connection with this Persian . . . " She paused, as if she were afraid to enter upon a subject, and then in the infantile, airy way which women of the world adopt when they wish to appear ingenuous, she went on: "They tell me he is a delightful person. The French Consul yesterday talked a long time about him—and this movement of his, or religion—which would you call it?" Underwood saw her eyes quickly absorb Whitby, and guessed that she had an avidity for brushing, with butterfly lightness, the intimate side of every human being with whom she came into contact. She had divined that in this man's interest or connection with the Persians, then, lay an intensely vital part of his nature, and she plucked at the strings of this knowledge like a child. Again, he disliked her for it.
"I should call it both," Whitby replied, unperturbed. "It couldn't very well be a religion if it weren't a movement."
"How about your contemplative mystics, then?" she asked, seating herself.
"They're the drones in the hive," he answered, reddening a little, as he arranged a cushion behind her. "Personally, I think that religion was meant to be used, not locked up in a cupboard and looked at."
"Admirably said," she remarked. "And unlike most men you've arranged the cushion just in the proper latitude for my back." She sank back against it.
"What a lovely day," she continued, under her breath, as if speaking more to herself than to them. "How exquisitely clear the air is! I love Carmel on a day like this. Have you noticed yet, Mr. Underwood, how different the sunlight is here? It does not dazzle you, as our July sunshine does; on the contrary, it is something so transparent, so lucid, so intense, that you seem to be in another element. Our sunshine seems so muddy, and, well, almost fat, beside this thin magical light. It takes my breath away." She smiled lazily, at her own choice of words.
"We were just talking of Carmel, before you came," said Whitby.
"And of God," said Underwood mechanically.
"Of God? Then you are getting the infection. Every one in Haifa talks of God—as if He lived in the next street. The missionaries talk about Him, stupidly for the most part, because conventionally. Then the Templars, the Germans, talk about Him, rather impertinently, I think; because they infer that they have the monopoly of Him, so to speak. Then there is your delightful Persian prophet, Mr. Whitby; and the Carmelites on the mountain, and the nuns by the sea; and the Mohammedans who are almost indecent with their immodest habit of praying in public. And several small sects, on their wild lones."
Both men laughed, and she laughed too, an engaging natural laugh.
"Well," said Underwood, falling in with her tone, "why shouldn't one?"
"You know very well that in England you apologise if you happen to get on the subject of religion with people who are at all conventional. God is a backstairs and attic subject. But here they keep it in the dining-room—even at table d'hote."
"And you?" asked Whitby, in the tone of one who speaks to an amusing child.
"I hate talking about anything which I don't understand."
"Then you understand everything you talk about?" asked Underwood maliciously.
"How unkind of you, Mr. Underwood! You've caught me out. But tell me what you were saying—about God! I'm sure Mr. Whitby will know. He's hand and glove with the Persian prophet here. What is his idea of the Deity? "
She looked at Whitby with a bright, intelligent curiosity, like that of a bird. "It sounds like a debating society."
Whitby looked embarrassed. He was conscious of the loneliness in the one soul, the frivolity in the other.
"I don't know what to answer," he replied simply. "How can one have an idea of God? You can only be conscious of Him—as you are conscious of the sun, as you are conscious of fate."
"Is that what your Persian prophet says?" Mrs. Greville said. "That's very vague. Now, I should like to have an image to worship. Frankly. Think of the days when the temple of Baal stood up on the mountain. There he was—an awful image, grim, solid—a symbol of inexorable Fate. One didn't merely go into a church and murmur polite and fulsome prayers to him; one brought one's children, and placed them into his red-hot arms. That was something like a faith. I can imagine the abandonment of immolation, the ecstasy that a mother felt when she had burnt what she held dearest in his honour. You see, Carmel was a Mountain of God even in those days."
"But that was barbarous, horrible," Underwood said, his eyes on Carmel.
"Aren't most strong things barbarous?"
"Christianity wasn't barbarous," said Whitby; "and yet it has become one of the strongest forces in the world."
"Not until the healthy part of paganism had been engrafted on to it," she replied. "Do we turn the other cheek? Do Dreadnoughts look like that? Do we do unto others as we would that they should do unto us? Not a bit of it. Ours is the morality of common sense, not of Christianity. We walk so as not to tread on other people's toes, because we know they'll tread on ours if we don't."
Whitby looked at her with a kind of gentle horror. Mrs. Greville, vivid, talkative, specious, belonged to a world which he had scarcely known even in his studious Oxford days. She, always sensitive to criticism, turned to him with a frank smile, the instinct to please uppermost.
"You don't like to hear me talk like that, Mr. Whitby. I'm not sure that I mean it, either. And I have shocked you."
"No, no," he replied shyly. "I think you are right—we have wandered very far from the teachings of Christ, of course." He hesitated, and then went on: "It was time that the law of love should be proclaimed again—the world was never so ripe for it."
"And is that the message of your Persian prophet?" she asked pertinaciously.
"Of Baha 'Ullah?" he repeated. "Yes."
"The law of love! It sounds delightful, don't you think so, Mr. Underwood? To love your neighbour as yourself! What could sound nicer, and what be more difficult—especially when the neighbour's wife is there to be loved too, and complicate matters. No—Mr. Whitby, a thousand prophets will never preach the law efficaciously. Nature forbids it. She has built her species on pitiless wars. Competition is the mainspring of progress."
"We are not animals," Whitby said. "If we were entirely governed by the law of self-preservation—what of the men who have sacrificed their lives in fighting disease—this doctor who died from his experiments with X-rays, for example? And the Frenchman who received Mass before he started in his flying machine last week, for the last time? Those men willingly took their lives in their hands for the sake of progress. We are going to have a humanity who will do no less."
"But they were working—your cases—for a very definite aim. A man will sacrifice a great deal for a definite aim, whether it's the conquest of an invention, or the conquest of an element, or the conquest of a woman. But your law of love is an indefinite idea. Why should I love my neighbour? Is he lovable? Very rarely. I'll love him when he is, and not before."
"Yes, but you are counting without one thing," Whitby said, his eyes alight, as if in spite of himself. "The motive force."
"And that is?"
"The love of God. The love of man is only possible through that."
"Ah," she said. "Now you're talking Algebra."
"Algebra? "
"God is the Unknown Quantity, isn't He. Why love Him? It seems to me, one might just as well talk of loving electricity."
He smiled.
"Tell me, frankly, do you really love God?" she persisted, with mischievous naivete.
"And if I answered 'yes'?"
"Really, I shouldn't believe you." "Then I won't answer," he said. "Yes, you shall—but another day. I've got to go—I'm a quarter of an hour late for an appointment as it is. But it is so novel to talk theology. Can't you both come to tea with me to-morrow? It will be rather a picnic tea—the house is in great disorder as yet." She looked at them both inquiringly. "With pleasure," said Underwood. "If I am here," said Whitby. "You are going away?" "Yes."
"Back to England?" "No—to Teheran." "Take me with you!" "Why? "
"How ungracious you are! Never mind, I won't come. If you haven't gone, then—to-morrow. My house is on the monastery road—any one will show you the way."
***
She gave each her hand in turn, and went away, smiling, self- content.
It was on Sunday afternoon that Underwood saw Whitby again, for the latter had sent a message that he could not come to the appointed lunch. He was announced at about four o'clock, and was brought up on to the upper terrace where Underwood was lying. Behind him came another slighter figure—a young man with a red tarbush on his head. Underwood wondered who he was for a moment, until he remembered that this was probably the Persian friend of whom they had spoken.
Whitby introduced his companion as Mirza Noureddin.
"You speak English?" Underwood asked.
"Yes, a little."
His voice was melodious and his pronunciation careful. Underwood looked at him as he sat down on the chair which the waiter brought for him. Mirza Noureddin was clean shaven, and this added to his look of extreme and graceful youth. His eyes were unlike anything that Underwood had ever seen. They were the true Persian eyes, disproportionately large in his face—dark as pools of marsh water, fringed with long lashes which were coal-black and silky. Added to this, there was a velvety bloom over them like a curtain, which seemed to veil the inward thought which lies hard as a stone in clear water at the bottom of a European eye. Yet he lifted them ingenuously, with movements that were gentle, modest, and furtive as a young girl's.
Underwood's attention was caught by the youth's appearance, he knew not why.
"Where did you study it?" he asked. "You have a good accent."
"I studied it in Akka." His lashes swept upwards, and with a gesture he indicated the little town across the bay, white as a seagull's breast where it lay against the long coast-line.
"One can see Akka well to-day," said Whitby. "We must take you there one day soon."
"I will take him to the Rizwan," said Noureddin, in his soft voice.
"What is the Rizwan?"
"That is our garden—it was made by the believers."
"By the believers?"
He explained himself without haste.
"For the Bahai. They made it for the Blessed Perfection."
Whitby was gazing across to Akka with his dreamy scholar's eyes.
"The Rizwan will be at its best in a month or two, when the lilies are out and the mulberry trees by the river are in leaf," said he. "You should spend a whole day there."
"I shall certainly have to go," said Underwood, wondering what pleasant and secret madness enwrapped these two people. He continued—
"There's a much better view from here than on the balcony, isn't there, Whitby? One can see all the sea. By Jove! what a glorious sweep of bay! I should like to have my little red-wing here to do some yachting." He had ceased to remember for the moment that yachting was of the past, and added, with a short laugh, "Confound it! I forgot that that's knocked off too. I shall have to try to sell her."
Noureddin listened with a slightly mystified expression.
"I forget that I'm off the active list, sometimes," Underwood remarked to him, in explanation.
"Pardon," said Noureddin, with a diffident smile, "but what is a redwing? "
"It's a small yacht with scarlet sails," Underwood said.
"Ah, you see my English is bad," he returned, with sadness. "Also the English is different to the American, though in books it is the same. But I am always learning. I should like to be able to write in English as I write in Persian. And this list you spoke of?"
Underwood explained. "I've lost the use of my muscles, more or less."
Noureddin's eyes filled with pity like a woman's.
"That is bad," he said, like a child.
"I've been giving Mirza Noureddin lessons for the past year," said Whitby; "but I'm afraid the English I've taught him has not been very colloquial. We've been doing some translations together."
"Translations of what?" asked Underwood.
He hesitated slightly. "Of—some of the Bahai manuscripts."
"I almost feel inclined to take Persian lessons," said Underwood? with a smile. "Only I'm such a frightful duffer at languages, and one ought to get at them young, at the same age that we stuff Latin and Greek."
"That is true," remarked Noureddin gravely, in his musical voice. "When one is young the brain is like butter—a fly can leave a mark upon it. And when one is old it is as iron. But you are not old yet. You are quite young. I will teach you."
"Yes, why don't you study a little Persian, Underwood?" said Whitby. "You'll find that time will hang heavily here in Haifa if you haven't anything to do."
"I'll think about it," said Underwood. "At present I am enjoying a lazy peace. For instance, I came up here to write a letter this afternoon, and found myself staring at Carmel for a whole hour together, without writing a word. There's something fascinating about it, though it's scarcely more than an insignificant little hill."
"I wish you could go upon it," said Whitby simply. "The wild flowers are wonderful now, and still more wonderful later. A botanist once told me that he had picked a hundred and thirty different species of wild flowers on Carmel in one day."
Underwood looked at the mountain wistfully.
"You've made the carriage drive up to the Carmelite monastery, I suppose?" Whitby asked.
"Not yet. But I will."
"You get a good view from the plateau of Notre-Dame de Carmel. If you like, I'll give you a card to one of the fathers—an Irishman—a friend of mine. You'll like him, and he will be glad to see you."
He drew out a worn pocket-book, and extracting a card, wrote upon it: "Ask for Father Patrick."
"Thanks awfully, Whitby. You're acting sponsor for me all round."
"Not as much as I should like. But Mirza Noureddin and his people, and Father Patrick, are my best friends here, and I'm handing them on to you, or rather you to them. I'm sorry you didn't come a month earlier."
"When do you leave?"
"I don't know yet," Whitby replied.
"But surely you have an idea?"
"It is not in my hands," he answered.
Again Underwood felt excluded from some secret which Whitby held like a jewel in his soul. His friend had the look of a lover who guards in his heart a newly won happiness. He glanced at the young Persian. His face, too, was grave and serene, as with an inner knowledge.
"I see," said Underwood.
"And you must command me, if you want anything," Noureddin added, with sincerity in his dark wide eyes. "The friends of Mr. Whitby are our friends. I will come to you often, if you wish to see me. You will come to our house, like Mr. Whitby. If you wish to go to Akka, or to any other place, I am ready."
Underwood answered with a smile. He felt attracted to the youth, as he would be attracted to a graceful and beautiful wild animal with gentle manners.
"Come often, if you have time." he said. "I'm a lonely brute." He spoke almost as he would have spoken to a woman.
***
"So Mr. Whitby has gone," said Underwood.
"I have just come from the steamer," Noureddin replied. "He sent his love—his regards—to you, and told me to say many things. I shall be as your brother, he said."
It was naively uttered, and the liquid eyes of the young Persian were wells of childlike truth and affection as he gazed at Underwood. How much of it was sincere?
"That was very kind of him," said Underwood, "and very kind of you," he added.
"And he gave me a little letter for you," continued Mirza Noureddin flutily, drawing it from his pocket. His dark eyes fluttered up to Underwood's.
Underwood understood that he was to read it, and opened it.
It was written in pencil on steamship paper—
"MY DEAR UNDERWOOD,—Noureddin will bring you this. I find that I have ten minutes' grace, and employ it in writing to you. I had hoped to come in and say good-bye, but I was sent for at the last moment, and stayed so long that I was unable to get as far as your hotel. I made a thorough search for a room in the German colony, but could not find one. If it seems advisable, Noureddin will put another proposition before you, which you can accept or not, just as you like. Do not tell him that I have mentioned it in this letter; he will probably speak to you of it himself. With regard to the Persians, don't hesitate to accept any kindness they may offer you. I would like you to experience the disinterestedness and devotion of the Bahais here, as I have done. Their ideals of love and fraternity do not merely exist on paper; they are carried out in the most literal sense of the word. Don't be put off by the surface differences between Oriental and Occidental life that will strike you at first, as you see with fresh eyes, or that miserable aphorism that 'East is East, and West is West,' and so on. It was invented by the stupid and masculine West. The feminine East has more intuition. It is true she hates the West with the repulsion of a woman for a brutal conqueror, but in her heart there is the knowledge that there is the miracle of love to be accomplished, so that what is begun in lust and struggle may end in a union which shall be happiness for both. Sympathy and intuition are the keys. While we are busy reiterating that stupid 'East is East' refrain, we shall never put our hand to the keys. Just as love provides understanding between a man and a woman, love will provide understanding between the races. At present we are like the annoying pedagogues of a generation ago, who wished to prevent the education of women by reiterating that their brains weighed lighter.
"Noureddin is waiting, so I must finish this quickly. I want to say something personal to you, and I am so cursedly English still that it is almost impossible to say it as I wished. Noureddin would say it to you as easily as a child who asks for jam on the top shelf; but I'm not Noureddin, and we've both got our English hatred of ever talking to others on vital facts. But I am going to write it, all the same. I envy you. Your Kismet has brought you up to a blank wall. You said as much to me the other day. It has taken the world away from you—you have not had to leave it. I was brought up against the blank wall too, but in a different way, along the road of a good many useless mental struggles.
"I have said I envy you; because, if you only knew it, the wall isn't solid at all—and there's all the universe on the other side! God grant that you will know what I mean—you must know what I mean sooner or later—because for you there is no escape. You will probably wonder what I am blithering about.
"Well, good-bye, and good luck. Forgive me for what will seem maniacal and presumptuous ravings, and believe me, yours sincerely,
GERALD WHITBY.
Underwood looked up to find Noureddin's grave eyes fixed on him.
"I think Mr. Whitby wrote very much?" he said.
"Yes, it is a long letter, not a little letter," said Underwood.
"I came to ask," said Noureddin, "if you would come to our house to-day to drink tea. My father will like to see you. I have a carriage outside, if you will come."
"Thanks," Underwood replied, "I'd like to. I'm looking forward to meeting your people."
But he was still thinking of the odd tone of the letter, of its air of sincerity—the interest it displayed in himself. How had Whitby guessed at the psychical Sahara through which he was passing, at the Gehenna of burning dreariness which scorched his soul? He was against a blank wall, it was true. But Whitby's air of optimism, of "God's in His heaven, all's right with the world," roused in him a spirit of bitter laughter. If he thought of existence dispassionately, nakedly, as he knew it, now that the rose-coloured spectacles of health and youth had been removed from his vision, it seemed to him terrible, and God, a relentless being, more callous than any blinded Destiny ever conceived by man's imagining. What could Whitby, wrapped up in his mystical dreams, know of the bare and ugly view of facts which comes to one robbed of his illusions and the comfortable fictions of physical security?
Meanwhile, he allowed Noureddin to help him to adjust his crutches, and to assist him into the carriage. The young Persian's hands were as gentle as a woman's.
They drove up the straight road of the German colony, discoursing of various subjects—the tourist season, the new hotel in building, the German colonists. Then they turned a little to the left and drew up before a small, new-looking house, set a little back from the road. A path led up from the iron gate upon which a bell jangled as Noureddin jumped down and opened it. On either side of the path flowers were planted—rose bushes, geraniums, and frisias; while pebbled paths divided the beds. Wild flowers and vegetables grew together farther back, as if a generous Nature could afford nourishment to all her children in this rich soil. An old man was bending over a freshly planted shrub, which he was securing with a string to a stick. Its limp leaves and flaccid stems needed support. He had evidently been watering it, for a rusty petroleum can, half filled with water, stood beside him.
He wore a loose and voluminous djebbah of brown cloth which reached almost to his feet; a snowy turban was coiled about his fez. A simple white garment, buttoning close to the throat, and a sash wound about his body were apparent when he turned and straightened himself at their approach.
"This is my father," said Noureddin—"Mirza Amin 'Ullah."
The old man smiled, touched his forehead, uttered a Persian greeting, and held out his hand with a slight awkwardness that spoke of lack of habit. His hair was grey, and a short grizzled beard grew on his chin, but there was something indomitably young about his eyes, and a kindly gaiety, as it were, that contradicted his wrinkles.
"He says that he is very glad to see you," translated Noureddin, "and that he loves all the friends of Mr. Whitby."
Underwood replied that the pleasure was mutual, and a translated conversation ensued.
"He says he hopes you are well."
"I am well—as well as I can be."
The old man spoke again. The Persian sounded soft, the inflection seductive.
"He says: 'If the heart is well, then all is well.' "
Underwood smiled. "The heart cannot be well when the body is sick." Unconsciously he was adopting the simple phraseology of Noureddin to express his own sardonic thought.
"He says: 'No, no,' Noureddin said, with emphasis. "That if that were so, the king would serve his slave."
"If the slaves revolt, the king is no longer a king."
"But the king is stronger than the slave, because he is immortal," translated Noureddin. "And the soul is always strong because its strength is God's."
Mirza Amin continued to speak—
"He says that my grandfather was tortured to death in Teheran," said Noureddin—"that they fastened lighted sticks to his body—do you say torches?—and that all the time he said, 'God be praised, this is my happiest day. Never have I known a delight like this.' My father was with him and saw his words and witnessed his joy. So that if the heart is well, the body is a small thing."
Underwood experienced a slight shock. The old man's eyes were as untroubled and gay as ever. His tone was the simple, mater-of-fact tone of reasoning. Yet he had witnessed the dying agonies of his father by slow degrees, the tragedy of death by torture. Such a remembrance could be spoken of with a smile! Was it Eastern disregard of death, or something else?
Mirza Amin led the way to the house up the sunny gravel path, and then, mounting a few steps and opening the door a little, called out in Persian. Underwood realised that he was giving the women of the house time to make their disappearance. He had seen the flutter of a black garment disappearing behind the house as they opened the gate.
Then Mirza Amin threw wide the door, and Underwood, aided by Noureddin, ascended the steps with some difficulty and entered.
He found himself in an airy room. The walls were white, and there were four large windows, so that it seemed full of lightness and whiteness to Underwood after the confined and dark rooms of the German hotel. Three doors, besides the entrance door, communicated apparently with other rooms or parts of the house. The floor, tiled with black and white stones, was partly covered with fine Persian rugs. Two large divans ran down each side of the room; they were covered with white linen with a fringe of crochet. The cushions, too, were plain white. On the table stood a vase, full of wild flowers, marigolds, anemones, and campions. On a second and smaller table stood some Persian books, an English dictionary, and a japanned and painted case of Persian design. There was no ornament of any description, and through the windows came a fresh breeze from the sea.
"Sit by the window," said Noureddin, arranging the cushions deftly, so as to make a support for Underwood's big helpless body. "Mr. Whitby always sat at this end of the divan, because one can see the sea and Akka."
He himself sat carefully, in the European style, on the edge of the divan. Mirza Amin, on the contrary, who had slipped his shoes off at the door, sat on the divan opposite to them, cross-legged, in the Oriental fashion. He looked at them tranquilly, happily.
"Tell me something about your father's history, Noureddin," said Underwood. "Your grandfather was one of the Babi martyrs, then?"
"Yes. My father was little at the time, and he cried very much when he saw my grandfather killed, but he was very proud. And as soon as he was fourteen, he ran away from his aunt, who lived in Isfahan and took him into her house after my grandfather and granduncle had been killed by the Government; and he went to join Baha 'Ullah in Adrianople. Some day I will tell you of his adventures—because he had no money, and it was a difficult journey. When the Blessed Perfection came to Akka, he came too.
"Then you were born in Akka?"
"Yes. We lived there until lately. We have only inhabited this house a little while. We received permission to change a year ago."
"From the Turkish Government?"
"Their permission was already given. No, from the Master."
"The Master?" repeated Underwood vaguely.
"Yes, the Effendi—Abdul Baha (the Servant of the Radiance), the son of the Blessed Perfection. We call him the Master—did not Mr. Whitby tell you?" He spoke with simple reverence, as if of something unearthly and sacred, yet which had passed with him into the realm of ordinary and accepted fact.
Underwood remembered his conversation with Whitby. He had not paid much attention to it at the time, but it came back to him. This "Master" to whom Noureddin alluded must be the "delightful Persian prophet" of whom Mrs. Greville had spoken—the present head of the "movement." The astounding fact remained that Whitby, a young man, not by nature a crank, who was considered one of the most promising men of his year at Magdalen, should go to the other end of the earth at the bidding of an obscure political and religious refugee. Was this merely the call of the East that drew men as inevitably as a magnet? Or, again, was it something else? Was it the personality of this man mysteriously designated as the "Master"? or was it the impulsion of some secret doctrine such as that imparted by learned lamas in their fastnesses in Tibet? Such theories as the last were purely fantastic. He was inclined to regard the lamas as mythical, and the Westerners who professed to have received from them elaborate theories about the Universe as charlatans, or, at most, self- deceived neuropaths.
In the American phrase, he was "up against something" which he could not understand. It pervaded this place, there was a subtle indication of it, the air seemed full of secrets, and among these Persians, especially, he was conscious of an enchantment, like a mortal who has strayed into a garden inhabited by fairy people, who knows that he is seen by eyes which are invisible, and listens to music which his straining ears cannot hear.
"Where is he—the Master?" he asked, involuntarily expressing his curiosity.
"He has come to Carmel. He lives in the new house on the hill, just to the left, above ours," answered Noureddin.
The answer was so matter of fact and prosaic that Underwood almost smiled. But Noureddin was adding something in Persian to himself, which sounded like a blessing or a prayer.
"Where is Abdul Baha's house?" asked Underwood suddenly, as he settled his big limbs in the carriage. Noureddin pointed to the left.
"There. You can see the roof. And you see those Persians? They are going to see him—they are pilgrims from Teheran and Isfahan."
A dozen men, in Persian dress, with the black sheepskin cap on their heads which contrasted funereally with the gay scarlet tarbush of the Syrian driver, were moving up the hillside road. They walked slowly, and Underwood saw that the reason was that a very old man, bent almost double with age, was in the midst of them. Two younger men supported him on either side. Presently he paused, as if his breath failed him, and they paused too. The old man lifted his face, and Underwood saw it, though he was looking not at him, but towards the house which Noureddin had indicated. And the old man's tired face smiled. It was the same smile of eternal youth that Underwood had seen on the face of Mirza Amin. It was a very heavenly smile.
"To the hotel," said Noureddin to the driver.
***
"The charm of Carmel is growing on me," said Underwood politely. "I confess that at first it looked merely an insignificant hill."
"He says," translated Noureddin, over a mouthful of pila, "that you are English, that you are a Christian. The Christians think the mountain sacred as well as the Mohammedans and the Jews, because Christ walked on this mountain."
"Did He?" said Underwood, whose Bible history was shaky.
"He says, 'Because of that, the paths should shine,' " said Noureddin, his dark eyes gleaming in the flicker of the candlelight.
"I'm afraid I'm a bad Christian," admitted Underwood, with a rueful smile.
This seemed to arouse the old man's sense of humour when Noureddin conveyed it to him. He gave a deep chuckle within his beard. In the East to confess a difference of creed is a delicate matter enough, but to blandly confess disloyalty to one's own is a piece of honesty in which an Oriental would rarely indulge.
"Then we must convert you to be a good Christian," translated Noureddin, when Hosseyn had spoken, joining in the merriment.
"Or a Bahai," smiled Underwood.
Hosseyn's eyes grew deeper and more serious.
"He says, 'To be a Bahai you need not leave your religion.' "
"How so?" Underwood asked, with some surprise.
"Because the Kingdom—the Malekoot—is the same—for all it is the same." He spoke with a mystical fervour, as if the word "Malekoot," like that "blessed word Mesopotamia," held a spell.
"The Malekoot?" Underwood repeated, for the word pleased him too.
"He says, if you are of the Malekoot, religions become to you like the coloured glass through which the light shines in a mosque. There are many coloured pieces, Mohammed, Christ, Baha 'ullah, and others, but the light is the same. You do not give attention to the window, whether it is of red or blue or green glass, but you give attention to the light that shines through it."
"It is a convenient theory," said Underwood. "But what are we to understand by the light?"
Noureddin turned his great eyes on him with naive sincerity.
"He says, the light is knowledge of the Unity of God. And when one has that knowledge, one knows God, and when one knows God, one must love Him, and when one loves Him, one must love everybody, whether he is of Islam or a Christian, so that everybody is your brother and you love him very much."
"And do you love everybody very much?"
"Of course I do," said Noureddin, opening his eyes.
"But that's Christianity," said Underwood—he corrected himself—"as it was before it became respectable."
Noureddin looked at him in a puzzled way.
Mirza Hosseyn leant forward and pushed his plate away from him.
"He says he will tell you a story about the Bahai," translated Noureddin.
Underwood signified his attention.
The old man made a belching sound in his throat, lifted his glass to his mouth, as if he enjoyed awakening his hearers' interest, and began, Noureddin translating sentence by sentence—
"Four men—a Turk, a Persian, an Arab, and an Englishman— were walking towards a certain town. As they were travelling on the same road, they made friends, though they could only speak a few words of the others' languages. Presently the discussion fell on what they should buy in the town for supper. The Turk said: 'One thing I shall need after this thirsty journey, and that is uzum.' 'No,' said the Persian, 'we must buy angur, and no strange thing.' 'I will eat neither,' said the Arab; 'my whole soul craves for eynab.' 'You are fools,' said the Englishman; 'it is the season for grapes—why not refresh ourselves with them?' From discussion they fell into a quarrel, and from quarrelling they came to blows. Then a stranger came up and said, 'Oh, my friends! why are you disputing among yourselves?' They told him of the subject of their quarrel, and he said, 'Do not heat yourselves by fighting, but come into my garden hard by, for I have all the fruits which you mention.' So they went, and presently he brought them a large dish full of bunches of grapes. 'There,' said he, giving one to the Arab, 'is thy eynab; and there,' to the Turk, 'thy uzum; and there,' to the Persian, 'thy angur; and there,' to the Englishman, 'thy grapes.' That man is like the Bahai."
The old man drained off the rest of the water in his glass, and looked at Underwood, with an air of smiling triumph.
"He says, what do you think of his story? Does it not put the matter in the palm of one hand?" asked Noureddin.
"By Allah! It is well said," interjected Mirza Amin. "It is a story full of meaning," said Underwood.
The aged Bahai beamed on him cordially, his child's soul in his eyes.
A luxurious feeling, as if he had been transported into a fairy- tale in the Arabian Nights, was creeping over Underwood. The young Persian, his rapt eyes and girlish beauty, the old man uttering parables in his sonorous voice, the sober robes and turbans of both old men, carried him into another age. Only his own European dress, and Noureddin's, and the modern clock ticking in the corner reminded him that they were in the twentieth century. The spirit of leisure was present, the serious, discursive spirit of the wise East.
continued in World Order vol. 4:4 (Summer 1970); not yet scanned
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