Al-Sayyid Ahmad looked back and forth between Kamal and the wardrobe, as though appealing to an invisible person for confirmation of the absurdity of the idea he had just heard. Then he said indignantly, "Really? Have I lived long enough to hear drivel like this? You imply there's a difference between prestige and learning! There's no true knowledge without prestige and wealth. And why are you talking about learning as though it's one thing? Didn't I say that you're young and inexperienced? There are many different types of learning, not just one. Some kinds of knowledge are appropriate for tramps and others belong to the pashas of the world. You need to comprehend this, you ignoramus, before you regret it."
Kamal was convinced that his father had a high regard for religion and consequently for those who made it their profession. Thus he craftily said, "The students who do their advanced training at al-Azhar Mosque don't pay tuition. They become teachers, and no one can despise their fields of learning."
His father gestured scornfully toward him with his chin and said, "Peligion's one thing and men who make a career of it are somethmg else."
Deriving strength from his despair for this debate with the man whom lie had always been accustomed to obey, he replied, "But, Papa, you revere the religious scholars and love them."
In a voice that was a bit sharp, his father said, "Don't mix things up. I revere Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad and love him. But I would far rather see you a respected civil servant than a man like him, even if you were to spread blessedness among the people, protecting them from evil with amulets and charms…. Every era has its men, but you refuse to understand."
He examined his son to gauge the effect of these words. Kamal looked down and bit his lower lip. He began to blink, while the left corner of his mouth twitched nervously.
"How amazing!" al-Sayyid Ahmad thought. Why did people insist on things that were clearly bad for them? He came close to exploding with anger but remembered that he was dealing with an issue outside the realm of his absolute sovereignty. He suppressed his rage and asked, "But why are you so enamored of the Teachers College, as though it had a monopoly on all learning? What do you dislike about Law School, for example? Isn't it the institution that graduates important people and government ministers? Isn't it the institution where Sa'd Zaghlul Pasha and men like him studied?"
Then with a despondent look in his eyes, he continued in a subdued voice: "And it was the school that Fahmy, may God be compassionate to him, chose after serious thought and reflection. If his time had not come so early, he would be a public prosecutor or a judge today. Isn't that so?" Kamal replied emotionally, "Everything you say is true, Papa. But I don't want to study law."
The man struck his hands together and said, "He doesn't want to! Of what relevance to learning and institutions are likes and dislikes? Tell me what attracts you to the Teachers College. I want to know which of its alluring beauties has caused you to fall for it. Or are you a person who loves worthless things? Speak. I'm all ears."
Kamal squirmed, as though summoning all his forces to help him clarify the point his father found so obscure. He realized he had a difficult task before him. He was convinced that his efforts would only earn him more of the sarcastic commentshe had already experienced during their argument. Moreover, he did not see himself as having a clearly defined goal he could explain to his father. What could he say? If he thought a little, he would know what he did not want. He was not interested in legal studies, economics, geography, history, or English, although he appreciated the importance of the last two subjects for his pursuits. If he did not want these, what did he desire? The yearnings of his soul would require careful scrutiny before his goals could be ascertained. Perhapshe was not convinced that he could achieve them at the Teachers College but thought this institution the shortest route to them. These yearnings had been aroused by thingshe had read that could not be classified under a single heading. There had been literary and social essays, religious ones, the folk epic about Antar that heroic black poet of ancient Arabia, The Thousand and One Nights, a medieval anthology of Arabic poetry called al-Hamasa, the writings of al-Manfaluti, and the principles of philosophy. His aspirations were probably connected in some way as well to the realm of fantasy Yasin had disclosed to him long ago and even to the legends his mother had poured into his spirit before that. He was pleased to apply the name "thought" to this mysterious world and the title "thinker" to himself. He believed that the life of thought was man's loftiest goal, rising with its luminous character high above the material world. It was superior to prestige, titles, and all other counterfeit forms of greatness. The life of thought was certainly along those lines even if its features were not clearly delineated. He might find it in the Teachers College or his training there might merely be a means of advancing toward it, but he would never turn away from this goal.
It was only fair to acknowledge the strong link connecting the Teachers College to his heart or more precisely to his love. Why was that? There was no link between his beloved and the law or economics, but there were many ties, no matter how slender and concealed, between her and religion, spirituality, morality, philosophy, and other comparable branches of learning that tempted him to drink from their springs. She had similar secret affinities to singing and music. He could hope to gain insight into them through the transport of a musical performance or an outburst of ecstasy. He was aware of all this within him and totally convinced of its truth, but what could he say to his father? Once again he attempted to outfox his father, saying, "The Teachers College trains people in noble sciences like mankind's history, which is full of lessons, and the English language."
As he spoke, his father scrutinized him. Suddenly al-Sayyid Ahmad's feelings of disdain and anger vanished. As though seeing the lad for the first time, he pondered his son's slender build, huge head, large nose, and long neck. He decided that Kamal looked as strange and eccentric as his ideas sounded. The father's mocking spirit was almost amused by this realization, but his affection and love for the boy restrained his sense of humor. He asked himself, 'If his slenderness is a temporary condition and his nose inherited from me, where did he get this amazing head? Isn't it likely that he'll fall prey to someone like me who searches for defects to make the butt of his jokes?"
This upsetting thought increased his affection for his son. When he spoke, his voice sounded calmer, as if he were patiently giving advice: "Knowledge by itself is nothing. The results are what count. The law prepares you for a legal career. All you get from tiistory and its lessons is a miserable job as a teacher. Take time to consider the consequences long and hard". As the tone of his voice became a little sharper, he continued: "All power and might are God's. Lessons, history, and soot like that! Why don't you talk sense?"
Kamal blushed with embarrassment and pain when he heard his father's opinion of the learning and lofty valueshe cherished. His father had brought them down to the level of soot, comparing them to it. His consolation lay in remembering what he had read in defense of thought and its sanctity and the references to people who disdain learning and prefer to search for profit and status.
Oh!.. those authors must have been debating with men just like his father. But not so fast… his father was not one of those stupid people. He was of a grand, distinguished type. He was simply the victim of his time, place, and companions. Would it do any good to argue? Should he try his luck once more, relying on a new stratagem?