The Broken Wings
Kahlil Gibran
Table of Contents
Foreword
Silent Sorrow
The Hand of Destiny
Entrance to the Shrine
The White Torch
The Tempest
The Lake of Fire
Before the Throne of Death
Between Christ and Ishtar
The Sacrifice
The Rescuer
FOREWORD
I was eighteen years of age when love opened
my eyes with its magic rays and touched
my spirit for the first time with its fiery
fingers, and Selma Karamy was the first woman
who awakened my spirit with her beauty and
led me into the garden of high affection,
where days pass like dreams and nights like
weddings.
Selma Karamy was the one who taught me to
worship beauty by the example of her own
beauty and revealed to me the secret of love
by her affection; se was the one who first
sang to me the poetry of real life.
Every young man remembers his first love and
tries to recapture that strange hour, the
memory of which changes his deepest feeling
and makes him so happy in spite of all the
bitterness of its mystery.
In every young man’s life there is a “Selma”
who appears to him suddenly while in the
spring of life and transforms his solitude
into happy moments and fills the silence of
his
nights with music.
I was deeply engrossed in thought and contemplation
and seeking to understand the
meaning of nature and the revelation of books
and scriptures when I heard LOVE
whispered into my ears through Selma’s lips.
My life was a coma, empty like that of
Adam’s in Paradise, when I saw Selma standing
before me like a column of light. She was
the Eve of my heart who filled it with secrets
and wonders and made me understand the
meaning of life.
The first Eve led Adam out of Paradise by
her own will, while Selma made me enter
willingly into the paradise of pure love and
virtue by her sweetness and love; but what
happened to the first man also happened to
me, and the fiery word which chased Adam out
of Paradise was like the one which frightened
me by its glittering edge and forced me
away from paradise of my love without having
disobeyed any order or tasted the fruit of
the forbidden tree.
Today, after many years have passed, I have
nothing left out of that beautiful dream except
painful memories flapping like invisible wings
around me, filling the depths of my heart
with sorrow, and bringing tears to my eyes;
and my beloved, beautiful Selma, is dead and
nothing is left to commemorate her except
my broken heart and tomb surrounded by
cypress trees. That tomb and this heart are
all that is left to bear witness of Selma.
The silence that guards the tomb does not
reveal God’s secret in the obscurity of
the
coffin, and the rustling of the branches whose
roots suck the body’s elements do not tell
the mysteries of the grave, by the agonized
sighs of my heart announce to the living the
drama which love, beauty, and death have performed.
Oh, friends of my youth who are scattered
in the city of Beirut, when you pass by the
cemetery near the pine forest, enter it silently
and walk slowly so the tramping of your feet
will not disturb the slumber of the dead,
and stop humbly by Selma’s tomb and greet
the
earth that encloses her corpse and mention
my name with deep sigh and say to yourself,
“here, all the hopes of Gibran, who is living
as prisoner of love beyond the seas, were
buried. On this spot he lost his happiness,
drained his tears, and forgot his smile.”
By that tomb grows Gibran’s sorrow together
with the cypress trees, and above the tomb
his spirit flickers every night commemorating
Selma, joining the branches of the trees in
sorrowful wailing, mourning and lamenting
the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a
beautiful tune on the lips of life and today
is a silent secret in the bosom of the earth.
Oh, comrades of my youth! I appeal to you
in the names of those virgins whom your
hearts have loved, to lay a wreath of flowers
on the forsaken tomb of my beloved, for the
flowers you lay on Selma’s tomb are like
falling drops of dew for the eyes of dawn
on the
leaves of withering rose.
SILENT SORROW
My neighbours, you remember the dawn of youth
with pleasure and regret its passing; but
I remember it like a prisoner who recalls
the bars and shackles of his jail. You speak
of
those years between infancy and youth as a
golden era free from confinement and cares,
but I call those years an era of silent sorrow
which dropped as a seed into my heart and
grew with it and could find no outlet to the
world of Knowledge and wisdom until love
came and opened the heart’s doors and lighted
its corners. Love provided me with a
tongue and tears. You people remember the
gardens and orchids and the meeting places
and street corners that witnessed your games
and heard your innocent whispering; and I
remember, too, the beautiful spot in North
Lebanon. Every time I close my eyes I see
those valleys full of magic and dignity and
those mountains covered with glory and
greatness trying to reach the sky. Every time
I shut my ears to the clamour of the city
I
hear the murmur of the rivulets and the rustling
of the branches. All those beauties which
I
speak of now and which I long to see, as a
child longs for his mother’s breast, wounded
my spirit, imprisoned in the darkness of youth,
as a falcon suffers in its cage when it sees
a
flock of birds flying freely in the spacious
sky. Those valleys and hills fired my
imagination, but bitter thoughts wove round
my heart a net of hopelessness.
Every time I went to the fields I returned
disappointed, without understanding the cause
of
my disappointment. Every time I looked at
the grey sky I felt my heart contract. Every
time I heard the singing of the birds and
babbling of the spring I suffered without
understanding the reason for my suffering.
It is said that unsophistication makes a man
empty and that emptiness makes him carefree.
It may be true among those who were born
dead and who exist like frozen corpses; but
the sensitive boy who feels much and knows
little is the most unfortunate creature under
the sun, because he is torn by two forces.
the
first force elevates him and shows him the
beauty of existence through a cloud of dreams;
the second ties him down to the earth and
fills his eyes with dust and overpowers him
with
fears and darkness.
Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong
fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache
with sorrow. Solitude is the ally of sorrow
as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation.
The boy’s soul undergoing the buffeting
of sorrow is like a white lily just unfolding.
It
trembles before the breeze and opens its heart
to day break and folds its leaves back when
the shadow of night comes. If that boy does
not have diversion or friends or companions
in his games his life will be like a narrow
prison in which he sees nothing but spider
webs
and hears nothing but the crawling of insects.
That sorrow which obsessed me during my youth
was not caused by lack of amusement,
because I could have had it; neither from
lack of friends, because I could have found
them.
That sorrow was caused by an inward ailment
which made me love solitude. It killed in
me the inclination for games and amusement.
It removed from my shoulders the wings of
youth and made me like a pong of water between
mountains which reflects in its calm
surface the shadows of ghosts and the colours
of clouds and trees, but cannot find an outlet
by which to pass singing to the sea.
Thus was my life before I attained the age
of eighteen. That year is like a mountain
peak
in my life, for it awakened knowledge in me
and made me understand the vicissitudes of
mankind. In that year I was reborn and unless
a person is born again his life will remain
like a blank sheet in the book of existence.
In that year, I saw the angels of heaven looking
at me through the eyes of a beautiful woman.
I also saw the devils of hell raging in the
heart of an evil man. He who does not see
the angels and devils in the beauty and malice
of life will be far removed from knowledge,
and his spirit will be empty of affection.
THE HAND OF DESTINY
In the spring of the that wonderful year,
I was in Beirut. The gardens were full of
Nisan
flowers and the earth was carpeted with green
grass, and like a secret of earth revealed
to
Heaven. The orange trees and apple trees,
looking like houris or brides sent by nature
to
inspire poets and excite the imagination,
were wearing white garments of perfumed
blossoms.
Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is
most beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit
that roams
round the earth but hovers over Lebanon, conversing
with kings and prophets, singing
with the rives the songs of Solomon, and repeating
with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the
memory of ancient glory. Beirut, free from
the mud of winter and the dust of summer,
is
like a bride in the spring, or like a mermaid
sitting by the side of a brook drying her
smooth skin in the rays of the sun.
One day, in the month of Nisan, I went to
visit a friend whose home was at some distance
from the glamorous city. As we were conversing,
a dignified man of about sixty–five
entered the house. As I rose to greet him,
my friend introduced him to me as Farris Effandi
Karamy and then gave him my name with flattering
words. The old man looked at me a
moment, touching his forehead with the ends
of his fingers as if he were trying to regain
his memory. Then he smilingly approached me
saying, ” You are the son of a very dear
friend of mine, and I am happy to see that
friend in your person.”
Much affected by his words, I was attracted
to him like a bird whose instinct leads him
to
his nest before the coming of the tempest.
As we sat down, he told us about his friendship
with my father, recalling the time which they
spent together. An old man likes to return
in
memory to the days of his youth like a stranger
who longs to go back to his own country.
He delights to tell stories of the past like
a poet who takes pleasure in reciting his
best
poem. He lives spiritually in the past because
the present passes swiftly, and the future
seems to him an approach to the oblivion of
the grave. An hour full of old memories
passed like the shadows of the trees over
the grass. When Farris Effandi started to
leave,
he put his left hand on my shoulder and shook
my right hand, saying, ” I have not seen
your father for twenty years. I hope you will
l take his place in frequent visits to my
house.” I promised gratefully to do my duty
toward a dear friend of my father.
Then the old man left the house, I asked my
friend to tell me more about him. He said,
“I
do not know any other man in Beirut whose
wealth has made him kind and whose
kindness has made him wealthy. He is one of
the few who come to this world and leave it
without harming any one, but people of that
kind are usually miserable and oppressed
because they are not clever enough to save
themselves from the crookedness of others.
Farris Effandi has one daughter whose character
is similar to his and whose beauty and
gracefulness are beyond description, and she
will also be miserable because her father’s
wealth is placing her already at the edge
of a horrible precipice.”
As he uttered these words, I noticed that
his face clouded. Then he continued, “Farris
Effandi is a good old man with a noble heart,
but he lacks will power. People lead him like
a blind man. His daughter obeys him in spite
of her pride and intelligence, and this is
the
secret which lurks in the life of father and
daughter. This secret was discovered by an
evil
man who is a bishop and whose wickedness hides
in the shadow of his Gospel. He makes
the people believe that he is kind and noble.
He is the head of religion in this land of
the
religions. The people obey and worship him.
he leads them like a flock of lambs to the
slaughter house. This bishop has a nephew
who is full of hatefulness and corruption.
The
day will come sooner or later when he will
place his nephew on his right and Farris
Effandi’s daughter on this left, and, holding
with his evil hand the wreath of matrimony
over their heads, will tie a pure virgin to
a filthy degenerate, placing the heart of
the day in
the bosom of the night.
That is all I can tell you about Farris Effandi
and his daughter, so do not ask me any more
questions.”
Saying this, he turned his head toward the
window as if he were trying to solve the
problems of human existence by concentrating
on the beauty of the universe.
As I left the house I told my friend that
I was going to visit Farris Effandi in a few
days for
the purpose of fulfilling my promise and for
the sake of the friendship which had joined
him and my father. He stared at me for a moment,
and I noticed a change in his expression
as if my few simple words had revealed to
him a new idea. Then he looked straight
through my eyes in a strange manner, a look
of love, mercy, and fear — the look of a
prophet who foresees what no one else can
divine. Then his lips trembled a little, but
he
said nothing when I started towards the door.
That strange look followed me, the meaning
of which I could not understand until I grew
up in the world of experience, where hearts
understand each other intuitively and where
spirits are mature with knowledge.
ENTRANCE TO THE SHRINE
In a few days, loneliness overcame me; and
I tired of the grim faces of books; I hired
a
carriage and started for the house of Farris
Effandi. As I reached the pine woods where
people went for picnics, the driver took a
private way, shaded with willow trees on each
side. Passing through , we could see the beauty
of the green grass, the grapevines, and the
many coloured flowers of Nisan just blossoming.
In a few minutes the carriage stopped before
a solitary house in the midst of a beautiful
garden. The scent of roses, gardenia, and
jasmine filled the air. As I dismounted and
entered the spacious garden, I saw Farris
Effandi coming to meet me. He ushered me into
his house with a hearty welcome and sat by
me, like a happy father when he sees his son,
showering me with questions on my life, future
and education. I answered him, my voice
full of ambition and zeal; for I heard ringing
in my ears the hymn of glory, and I was
sailing the calm sea of hopeful dreams. Just
then a beautiful young woman, dressed in a
gorgeous white silk gown, appeared from behind
the velvet curtains of the door and
walked toward me. Farris Effandi and I rose
from our seats.
This is my daughter Selma,” said the old
man. Then he introduced me to her, saying,
“Fate
has brought back to me a dear old friend of
mine in the person of his son.” Selma stared
at
me a moment as if doubting that a visitor
could have entered their house. Her hand,
when I
touched it, was like a white lily, and a strange
pang pierced my heart.
We all sat silent as if Selma had brought
into the room with her heavenly spirit worthy
of
mute respect. As she felt the silence she
smiled at me and said,” Many a times my
father
has repeated to me the stories of his youth
and of the old days he and your father spent
together. If your father spoke to you in the
same way, then this meeting is not the first
one
between us.”
The old man was delighted to hear his daughter
talking in such a manner and said, “Selma
is very sentimental. She sees everything through
the eyes of the spirit.” Then he resumed
his conversation with care and tact as if
he had found in me a magic which took him
on
the wings of memory to the days of the past.
As I considered him, dreaming of my own later
years, he looked upon me, as a lofty old
tree that has withstood storms and sunshine
throws its shadow upon a small sapling which
shakes before the breeze of dawn.
But Selma was silent. Occasionally, she looked
first at me and then at her father as if
reading the first and last chapters of life’s
drama. The day passed faster in that garden,
and
I could see through the window the ghostly
yellow kiss of sunset on the mountains of
Lebanon. Farris Effandi continued to recount
his experiences and I listened entranced and
responded with such enthusiasm that his sorrow
was changed to happiness.
Selma sat by the window, looking on with sorrowful
eyes and not speaking, although
beauty has its own heavenly language, loftier
than he voices of tongues and lips. It is
a
timeless language, common to all humanity,
a calm lake that attracts the singing rivulets
to
its depth and makes them silent.
Only our spirits can understand beauty, or
live and grow with it. It puzzles our minds;
we
are unable to describe it in words; it is
a sensation that our eyes cannot see, derived
from
both the one who observes and the one who
is looked upon. Real beauty is a ray which
emanates from the holy of holies of the spirit,
and illuminates the body, as life comes from
the depths of the earth and gives colour and
scent to a flower.
Real beauty lies in the spiritual accord that
is called love which can exist between a man
and a woman.
Did my spirit and Selma’s reach out to each
other that day when we met, and did that
yearning make me see her as the most beautiful
woman under the sun? Or was I
intoxicated with the wine of youth which made
me fancy that which never existed.?
Did my youth blind my natural eyes and make
me imagine the brightness of her eyes, the
sweetness of her mouth, and the grace of her
figure? Or was it that her brightness,
sweetness, and grace opened my eyes and showed
me the happiness and sorrow of love?
It is hard to answer these questions, but
I say truly that in that hour I felt an emotion
that I
had never felt before, a new affection resting
calmly in my heart, like the spirit hovering
over the waters at the creation of the world,
and from that affection was born my
happiness and my sorrow. Thus ended the hour
of my first meeting with Selma, and thus
the will of Heaven freed me from the bondage
of youth and solitude and let me walk in the
procession of love.
Love is the only freedom in the world because
it so elevates the spirit that the laws of
humanity and the phenomena of nature do not
alter its course.
As I rose from my seat to depart, Farris Effandi
came close to me and said soberly, “Now
my son, since you know your way to this house,
you should come often and feel that you
are coming to your father’s house. Consider
me as a father and Selma as a sister.” Saying
this, he turned to Selma as if to ask confirmation
of his statement. She nodded her head
positively and then looked at me as one who
has found an old acquaintance.
Those words uttered by Farris Effandi Karamy
placed me side by side with his daughter at
the altar of love. Those words were a heavenly
song which started with exaltation and
ended with sorrow; they raised our spirits
to the realm of light and searing flame; they
were the cup from which we drank happiness
and bitterness.
I left the house. The old man accompanied
me to the edge of the garden, while my heart
throbbed like the trembling lips of a thirsty
man.
THE WHITE TORCH
The month of Nisan had nearly passed. I continued
to visit the home of Farris Effendi and
to meet Selma in that beautiful garden, gazing
upon her beauty, marvelling at her
intelligence, and hearing the stillness of
sorrow. I felt an invisible hand drawing me
to her.
Every visit gave me a new meaning to her beauty
and a new insight into her sweet spirit,
Until she became a book whose pages I could
understand and whose praises I could sing,
but which I could never finish reading. A
woman whom Providence has provided with
beauty of spirit and body is a truth, at the
same time both open and secret, which we can
understand only by love, and touch only by
virtue; and when we attempt to describe such
a
woman she disappears like vapour.
Selma Karamy had bodily and spiritual beauty,
but how can I describe her to one who
never knew her? Can a dead man remember the
singing of a nightingale and the fragrance
of a rose and the sigh of a brook? Can a prisoner
who is heavily loaded with shackles
follow the breeze of the dawn? Is not silence
more painful than death? Does pride prevent
me from describing Selma in plain words since
I cannot draw her truthfully with luminous
colours? A hungry man in a desert will not
refuse to eat dry bread if Heaven does not
shower him with manna and quails.
In her white silk dress, Selma was slender
as a ray of moonlight coming through the
window. She walked gracefully and rhythmically.
Her voice was low and sweet; words fell
from her lips like drops of dew falling from
the petals of flowers when they are disturbed
by the wind.
But Selma’s face! No words can describe
its expression, reflecting first great internal
suffering, then heavenly exaltation.
The beauty of Selma’s face was not classic;
it was like a dream of revelation which cannot
be measured or bound or copied by the brush
of a painter or the chisel of a sculptor.
Selma’s beauty was not in her golden hair,
but in the virtue of purity which surrounded
it;
not in her large eyes, but in the light which
emanated from them; not in her red lips, but
in
the sweetness of her words; not in her ivory
neck, but in its slight bow to the front.
Nor
was it in her perfect figure, but in the nobility
of her spirit, burning like a white torch
between earth and sky. her beauty was like
a gift of poetry. But poets care unhappy people,
for, no matter how high their spirits reach,
they will still be enclosed in an envelope
of
tears.
Selma was deeply thoughtful rather than talkative,
and her silence was a kind of music
that carried one to a world of dreams and
made him listen to the throbbing of his heart,
and see the ghosts of his thoughts and feelings
standing before him, looking him in the
eyes.
She wore a cloak of deep sorrow through her
life, which increased her strange beauty and
dignity, as a tree in blossom is more lovely
when seen through the mist of dawn.
Sorrow linked her spirit and mine, as if each
saw in the other’s face what the heart was
feeling and heard the echo of a hidden voice.
God had made two bodies in one, and
separation could be nothing but agony.
The sorrowful spirit finds rest when united
with a similar one. They join affectionately,
as
a stranger is cheered when he sees another
stranger in a strange land. Hearts that are
united
through the medium of sorrow will not be separated
by the glory of happiness. Love that is
cleansed by tears will remain externally pure
and beautiful.
THE TEMPEST
One day Farris Effandi invited me to dinner
at his home. I accepted, my spirit hungry
for
the divine bread which Heaven placed in the
hands of Selma, the spiritual bread which
makes our hearts hungrier the more we eat
of it. It was this bread which Kais, the Arabian
poet, Dante, and Sappho tasted and which set
their hearts afar; the bread which the
Goddess prepares with the sweetness of kisses
and the bitterness of tears.
As I reached the home of Farris Effandi, I
saw Selma sitting on a bench in the garden
resting her head against a tree and looking
like a bride in her white silk dress, or like
a
sentinel guarding that place.
Silently and reverently I approached and sat
by her. I could not talk; so I resorted to
silence, the only language of the heart, but
I felt that Selma was listening to my wordless
call and watching the ghost of my soul in
my eyes.
In a few minutes the old man came out and
greeted me as usual. When he stretched his
hand toward me, I felt as if he were blessing
the secrets that united me and his daughter.
Then he said, “Dinner is ready, my children;
let us eat. “We rose and followed him, and
Selma’s eyes brightened; for a new sentiment
had been added to her love by her father’s
calling us his children.
We sat at the table enjoying the food and
sipping the old wine, but our souls were living
in
a world far away. We were dreaming of the
future and its hardships.
Three persons were separated in thoughts,
but united in love; three innocent people
with
much feeling but little knowledge; a drama
was being performed by an old man who loved
his daughter and cared for her happiness,
a young woman of twenty looking into the future
with anxiety, and a young man, dreaming and
worrying, who had tasted neither the wine
of life nor its vinegar, and trying to reach
the height of love and knowledge but unable
to
life himself up. We three sitting in twilight
were eating and drinking in that solitary
home,
guarded by Heaven’s eyes, but at the bottoms
of our glasses were hidden bitterness and
anguish.
As we finished eating, one of the maids announced
the presence of a man at the door who
wished to see Farris Effandi. “Who is he?”
asked the old man. “The Bishop’s messenger,”
said the maid. There was a moment of silence
during which Farris Effandi stared at his
daughter like a prophet who gazes at Heaven
to divine its secret. Then he said to the
maid,
“Let the man in.”
As the maid left, a man, dressed in oriental
uniform and with big moustache curled at the
ends, entered and greeted the old man, saying
“His Grace, the Bishop, has sent me for
you
with his private carriage; he wishes to discuss
important business with you.” The old
man’s face clouded and his smile disappeared.
After a moment of deep thought he came
close to me and said in a friendly voice,
“I hope to find you here when I come back,
for
Selma will enjoy your company in this solitary
place.”
Saying this, he turned to Selma and, smiling,
asked if she agreed. She nodded her head,
but her cheeks became red, and with a voice
sweeter than the music of the lyre she said,
“I
will do my best, Father, to make our guest
happy.”
Selma watched the carriage that had taken
her father and the Bishop’s messenger until
it
disappeared. Then she came and sat opposite
me on a divan covered with green silk. She
looked like a lily bent to the carpet of green
grass by the breeze of dawn. It was the will
of
Heaven that I should be with Selma alone,
at night, in her beautiful home surrounded
by
trees, where silence, love, beauty and virtue
dwelt together.
We were both silent, each waiting for the
other to speak, but speech is not the only
means
of understanding between two souls. It is
not the syllables that come from the lips
and
tongues that bring hearts together.
There is something greater and purer than
what the mouth utters. Silence illuminates
our
souls, whispers to our hearts, and brings
them together. Silence separates us from
ourselves, makes us sail the firmament of
spirit, and brings us closer to Heaven; it
makes
us feel that bodies are no more than prisons
and that this world is only a place of exile.
Selma looked at me and her eyes revealed the
secret of her heart. Then she quietly said,
“Let us go to the garden and sit under the
trees and watch the moon come up behind the
mountains.” Obediently I rose from my seat,
but I hesitated.
Don’t you think we had better stay here
until the moon has risen and illuminates the
garden?” And I continued, “The darkness
hides the trees and flowers. We can see
nothing.”
Then she said, “If darkness hides the trees
and flowers from our eyes, it will not hide
love
from our hearts.”
Uttering these words in a strange tone, she
turned her eyes and looked through the
window. I remained silent, pondering her words,
weighing the true meaning of each
syllable. Then she looked at me as if she
regretted what she had said and tried to take
away those words from my ears by the magic
of her eyes. But those eyes, instead of
making me forget what she had said, repeated
through the depths of my heart more clearly
and effectively the sweet words which had
already become graven in my memory for
eternity.
Every beauty and greatness in this world is
created by a single thought or emotion inside
a
man. Every thing we see today, made by past
generation, was, before its appearance, a
thought in the mind of a man or an impulse
in the heart of a woman. The revolutions that
shed so much blood and turned men’s minds
toward liberty were the idea of one man who
lived in the midst of thousands of men. The
devastating wars which destroyed empires
were a thought that existed in the mind of
an individual. The supreme teachings that
changed the course of humanity were the ideas
of a man whose genius separated him from
his environment. A single thought build the
Pyramids, founded the glory of Islam, and
caused the burning of the library at Alexandria.
One thought will come to you at night which
will elevate you to glory or lead you to
asylum. One look from a woman’s eye makes
you the happiest man in the world. One
word from a man’s lips will make you rich
or poor.
That word which Selma uttered that night arrested
me between my past and future, as a
boat which is anchored in the midst of the
ocean. That word awakened me from the
slumber of youth and solitude and set me on
the stage where life and death play their
parts.
The scent of flowers mingled with the breeze
as we came into the garden and sat silently
on a bench near a jasmine tree, listening
to the breathing of sleeping nature, while
in the
blue sky the eyes of heaven witnessed our
drama.
The moon came out from behind Mount Sunnin
and shone over the coast, hills, and
mountains; and we could see the villages fringing
the valley like apparitions which have
suddenly been conjured from nothing. We could
see the beauty of Lebanon under the
silver rays of the moon.
Poets of the West think of Lebanon as a legendary
place, forgotten since the passing of
David and Solomon and the Prophets, as the
Garden of Eden became lost after the fall
of
Adam and Eve. To those Western poets, the
word “Lebanon” is a poetical expression
associated with a mountain whose sides are
drenched with the incense of the Holy Cedars.
It reminds them of the temples of copper and
marble standing stern and impregnable and
of a herd of deer feeding in the valleys.
That night I saw Lebanon dream–like with
the
eyes of a poet.
Thus, the appearance of things changes according
to the emotions, and thus we see magic
and beauty in them, while the magic and beauty
are really in ourselves.
As the rays of the moon shone on the face,
neck, and arms of Selma, she looked like a
statue of ivory sculptured by the fingers
of some worshiper of Ishtar, goddess of beauty
and love. As she looked at me, she said, “Why
are you silent? Why do you not tell me
something about your past?” As I gazed at
her, my muteness vanished, and I opened my
lips and said, “Did you not hear what I
said when we came to this orchard? The spirit
that
hears the whispering of flowers and the singing
of silence can also hear the shrieking of
my soul and the clamour of my heart.”
She covered her face with her hands and said
in a trembling voice, “Yes, I heard you
— I
heard a voice coming from the bosom of night
and a clamour raging in the heart of the
day.”
Forgetting my past, my very existence — everything
but Selma — I answered her, saying,
“And I heard you, too, Selma. I heard exhilarating
music pulsing in the air and causing the
whole universe to tremble.”
Upon hearing these words, she closed her eyes
and her lips I saw a smile of pleasure
mingled with sadness. She whispered softly,
“Now I know that there is something higher
than heaven and deeper than the ocean and
stranger than life and death and time. I know
now what I did not know before.”
At that moment Selma became dearer than a
friend and closer than a sister and more
beloved than a sweetheart. She became a supreme
thought, a beautiful, an overpowering
emotion living in my spirit.
It is wrong to think that love comes from
long companionship and persevering courtship.
Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity
and unless that affinity is created in a moment,
it
will not be created in years or even generations.
Then Selma raised her head and gazed at the
horizon where Mount Sunnin meets the sky,
and said, “Yesterday you were like a brother
to me, with whom I lived and by whom I sat
calmly under my father’s care. Now, I feel
the presence of something stranger and sweeter
than brotherly affection, an unfamiliar commingling
of love and fear that fills my heart
with sorrow and happiness.”
I responded, “This emotion which we fear
and which shakes us when it passes through
our
hearts is the law of nature that guides the
moon around the earth and the sun around the
God.”
She put her hand on my head and wove her fingers
through my hair. Her face brightened
and tears came out of her eyes like drops
of dew on the leaves of a lily, and she said,
“Who would believe our story — who would
believe that in this hour we have surmounted
the obstacles of doubt? Who would believe
that the month of Nisan which brought us
together for the first time, is the month
that halted us in the Holy of Holies of life?”
Her hand was still on my head as she spoke,
and I would not have preferred a royal crown
or a wreath of glory to that beautiful smooth
hand whose fingers were twined in my hair.
Then I answered her: “People will not believe
our story because they do not know what
love is the only flower that grows and blossoms
without the aid of seasons, but was it
Nisan that brought us together for the first
time, and is it this hour that has arrested
us in
the Holy of Holies of life? Is it not the
hand of God that brought our souls close together
before birth and made us prisoners of each
other for all the days and nights? Man’s
life
does not commence in the womb and never ends
in the grave; and this firmament, full of
moonlight and stars, is not deserted by loving
souls and intuitive spirits.”
As she drew her hand away from my head, I
felt a kind of electrical vibration at the
roots
of my hair mingled with the night breeze.
Like a devoted worshiper who receives his
blessing by kissing the altar in a shrine,
I took Selma’s hand, placed my burning lips
on it,
and gave it a long kiss, the memory of which
melts my heart and awakens by its sweetness
all the virtue of my spirit.
An hour passed, every minute of which was
a year of love. The silence of the night,
moonlight, flowers, and trees made us forget
all reality except love, when suddenly we
heard the galloping of horses and rattling
of carriage wheels. Awakened from our pleasant
swoon and plunged from the world of dreams
into the world of perplexity and misery, we
found that the old man had returned from his
mission. We rose and walked through the
orchard to meet him.
Then the carriage reached the entrance of
the garden, Farris Effandi dismounted and
slowly walked towards us, bending forward
slightly as if he were carrying a heavy load.
He approached Selma and placed both of his
hands on her shoulders and stared at her.
Tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks and
his lips trembled with sorrowful smile. In
a
choking voice, he said, “My beloved Selma,
very soon you will be taken away from the
arms of your father to the arms of another
man. Very soon fate will carry you from this
lonely home to the world’s spacious court,
and this garden will miss the pressure of
your
footsteps, and your father will become a stranger
to you. All is done; may God bless you.”
Hearing these words, Selma’s face clouded
and her eyes froze as if she felt a premonition
of death. Then she screamed, like a bird shot
down, suffering, and trembling, and in a
choked voice said, “What do you say? What
do you mean? Where are you sending me?”
Then she looked at him searchingly, trying
to discover his secret. In a moment she said,
“I
understand. I understand everything. The Bishop
has demanded me from you and has
prepared a cage for this bird with broken
wings. Is this your will, Father?”
His answer was a deep sigh. Tenderly he led
Selma into the house while I remained
standing in the garden, waves of perplexity
beating upon me like a tempest upon autumn
leaves. Then I followed them into the living
room, and to avoid embarrassment, shook the
old man’s hand, looked at Selma, my beautiful
star, and left the house.
As I reached the end of the garden I heard
the old man calling me and turned to meet
him.
Apologetically he took my hand and said, “Forgive
me, my son. I have ruined your
evening with the shedding of tears, but please
come to see me when my house is deserted
and I am lonely and desperate. Youth, my dear
son, does not combine with senility, as
morning does not have meet the night; but
you will come to me and call to my memory
the youthful days which I spent with your
father, and you will tell me the news of life
which does not count me as among its sons
any longer. Will you not visit me when Selma
leaves and I am left here in loneliness?”
While he said these sorrowful words and I
silently shook his hand, I felt the warm tears
falling from his eyes upon my hand. Trembling
with sorrow and filial affection. I felt as
if
my heart were choked with grief. When I raised
my head and he saw the tears in my eyes,
he bent toward me and touched my forehead
with his lips. “Good–bye, son, Good–bye.”
In old man’s tear is more potent than that
of a young man because it is the residuum
of life
in his weakening body. A young man’s tear
is like a drop of dew on the leaf of a rose,
while that of an old man is like a yellow
leaf which falls with the wind at the approach
of
winter.
As I left the house of Farris Effandi Karamy,
Selma’s voice still rang in my ears, her
beauty followed me like a wraith, and her
father’s tears dried slowly on my hand.
My departure was like Adam’s exodus from
Paradise, but the Eve of my heart was not
with me to make the whole world an Eden. That
night, in which I had been born again, I
felt that I saw death’s face for the first
time.
Thus the sun enlivens and kills the fields
with its heat.
THE LAKE OF FIRE
Everything that a man does secretly in the
darkness of night will be clearly revealed
in the
daylight. Words uttered in privacy will become
unexpectedly common conversation. Deed
which we hide today in the corners of our
lodgings will be shouted on every street
tomorrow.
Thus the ghosts of darkness revealed the purpose
of Bishop Bulos Galib’s meeting with
Farris Effandi Karamy, and his conversation
was repeated all over the neighbourhood until
it reached my ears.
The discussion that took place between Bishop
Bulos Galib and Farris Effandi that night
was not over the problems of the poor or the
widows and orphans. The main purpose for
sending after Farris Effandi and bringing
him in the Bishops’ private carriage was
the
betrothal of Selma to the Bishop’s nephew,
Mansour Bey Galib.
Selma was the only child of the wealthy Farris
Effandi, and the Bishop’s choice fell on
Selma, not on account of her beauty and noble
spirit, but on account of her father’s money
which would guarantee Mansour Bey a good and
prosperous fortune and make him an
important man.
The heads of religion in the East are not
satisfied with their own munificence, but
they
must strive to make all members of their families
superiors and oppressors. The glory of a
prince goes to his eldest son by inheritance,
but the exaltation of a religious head is
contagious among his brothers and nephews.
Thus the Christian bishop and the Moslem
imam and the Brahman priest become like sea
reptiles who clutch their prey with many
tentacles and suck their blood with numerous
mouths.
Then the Bishop demanded Selma’s hand for
his nephew, the only answer that he received
from her father was a deep silence and falling
tears, for he hated to lose his only child.
Any man’s soul trembles when he is separated
from his only daughter whom he has reared
to young womanhood.
The sorrow of parents at the marriage of a
daughter is equal to their happiness at the
marriage of a son, because a son brings to
the family a new member, while a daughter,
upon her marriage, is lost to them.
Farris Effandi perforce granted the Bishop’s
request, obeying his will unwillingly, because
Farris Effandi knew the Bishop’s nephew
very well, knew that he was dangerous, full
of
hate, wickedness, and corruption.
In Lebanon, no Christian could oppose his
bishop and remain in good standing. No man
could disobey his religious head and keep
his reputation. The eye could not resist a
spear
without being pierced, and the hand could
not grasp a sword without being cut off.
Suppose that Farris Effandi had resisted the
Bishop and refused his wish; then Selma’s
reputation would have been ruined and her
name would have been blemished by the dirt
of
lips and tongues. In the opinion of the fox,
high bunches of grapes that can’t be reached
are sour.
Thus destiny seized Selma and led her like
a humiliated slave in the procession of
miserable oriental woman, and thus fell that
noble spirit into the trap after having flown
freely on the white wings of love in a sky
full of moonlight scented with the odour of
flowers.
In some countries, the parent’s wealth is
a source of misery for the children. The wide
strong box which the father and mother together
have used for the safety of their wealth
becomes a narrow, dark prison for the souls
of their heirs. The Almighty Dinar which the
people worship becomes a demon which punished
the spirit and deadens the heart. Selma
Karamy was one of those who were the victims
of their parents’ wealth and bridegrooms’
cupidity. Had it not been for her father’s
wealth, Selma would still be living happily.
A week had passed. The love of Selma was my
sole entertainer, singing songs of
happiness for me at night and waking me at
dawn to reveal the meaning of life and the
secrets of nature. It is a heavenly love that
is free from jealousy, rich and never harmful
to
the spirit. It is deep affinity that bathes
the soul in contentment; a deep hunger for
affection which, when satisfied, fills the
soul with bounty; a tenderness that creates
hope
without agitating the soul, changing earth
to paradise and life to a sweet and a beautiful
dream. In the morning, when I walked in the
fields, I saw the token of Eternity in the
awakening of nature, and when I sat by the
seashore I heard the waves singing the song
of
Eternity. And when I walked in the streets
I saw the beauty of life and the splendour
of
humanity in the appearance of passers–by
and movements of workers.
Those days passed like ghosts and disappeared
like clouds, and soon nothing was left for
me but sorrowful memories. The eye with which
I used to look at the beauty of spring and
the awakening of nature, could see nothing
but the fury of the tempest and the misery
of
winter. The ears with which I formerly heard
with delight the song of the waves, could
hear only the howling of the wind and the
wrath of the sea against the precipice. The
soul
which had observed happily the tireless vigour
of mankind and the glory of the universe,
was tortured by the knowledge of disappointment
and failure. Nothing was more beautiful
than those days of love, and nothing was more
bitter than those horrible nights of sorrow.
When I could no longer resist the impulse,
I went, on the weekend, once more to Selma’s
home — the shrine which Beauty had erected
and which Love had blessed, in which the
spirit could worship and the heart kneel humbly
and pray. When I entered the garden I felt
a power pulling me away from this world and
placing me in a sphere supernaturally free
from struggle and hardship. Like a mystic
who receives a revelation of Heaven, I saw
myself amid the trees and flowers, and as
I approached the entrance of the house I beheld
Selma sitting on the bench in the shadow of
a jasmine tree where we both had sat the week
before, on that night which Providence had
chosen for the beginning of my happiness and
sorrow.
She neither moved nor spoke as I approached
her. She seemed to have known intuitively
that I was coming, and when I sat by her she
gazed at me for a moment and sighed deeply,
then turned her head and looked at the sky.
And, after a moment full of magic silence,
she
turned back toward me and tremblingly took
my hand and said in a faint voice, “Look
at
me, my friend; study my face and I read in
it that which you want to know and which I
can
not recite. Look at me, my beloved… look
at me, my brother.”
I gazed at her intently and saw that those
eyes, which a few days ago were smiling like
lips and moving like the wings of a nightingales,
were already sunken and glazed with
sorrow and pain. Her face, that had resembled
the unfolding, sun kissed leaves of a lily,
had faded and become colourless. Her sweet
lips were like two withering roses that
autumn has left on their stems. Her neck,
that had been a column of ivory, was bent
forward as if it no longer could support the
burden of grief in her head.
All these changes I saw in Selma’s face,
but to me they were like a passing cloud that
covered the face of the moon and makes it
more beautiful. A look which reveals inward
stress adds more beauty to the face, no matter
how much tragedy and pain it bespeaks; but
the face which, in silence, does not announce
hidden mysteries is not beautiful, regardless
of the symmetry of its features. The cup does
not entice our lips unless the wine’s colour
is
seen through the transparent crystal.
Selma, on that evening, was like a cup full
of heavenly wine concocted of the bitterness
and sweetness of life. Unaware, she symbolized
the oriental woman who never leaves her
parents’ home until she puts upon her neck
the heavy yoke of her husband, who never
leaves her loving mother’s arms until she
must live as a slave, enduring the harshness
of
her husband’s mother.
I continued to look at Selma and listen to
her depressed spirit and suffer with her until
I
felt that time has ceased and the universe
had faded from existence. I could see only
her
two large eyes staring fixedly at me and could
feel only her cold, trembling hand holding
mine.
I woke from my swoon hearing Selma saying
quietly, “Come by beloved, let us discuss
the horrible future before it comes, My father
has just left the house to see the man who
is
going to be my companion until death. My father,
whom God chose for the purpose of my
existence, will meet the man whom the world
has selected to be my master for the rest
of
my life. In the heart of this city, the old
man who accompanied me during my youth will
meet the young man who will be my companion
for the coming years. Tonight the two
families will set the marriage date. What
a strange and impressive hour! Last week at
this
time, under this jasmine tree, Love embraced
my soul for the first time, okay. While
Destiny was writing the first word of my life’s
story at the Bishop’s mansion. Now, while
my father and my suitor are planning the day
of marriage, I see your spirit quivering
around me as a thirsty bird flickers above
a spring of water guarded by a hungry serpent.
Oh, how great this night is! And how deep
is its mystery!”
Learning these words, I felt that dark ghost
of complete despondency was seizing our love
to choke it in its infancy, and I answered
her, “That bird will remain flickering over
that
spring until thirst destroys him or falls
into the grasp of a serpent and becomes its
prey.”
She responded, “No, my beloved, this nightingale
should remain alive and sing until dark
comes, until spring passes, until the end
of the world, and keep on singing eternally.
His
voice should not be silenced, because he brings
life to my heart, his wings should not be
broken, because their motion removes the cloud
from my heart.
When I whispered, “Selma, my beloved, thirst
will exhaust him, and fear will kill him.”
She replied immediately with trembling lips,
“The thirst of soul is sweeter than the
wine
of material things, and the fear of spirit
is dearer than the security of the body. But
listen,
my beloved, listen carefully, I am standing
today at the door of a new life which I know
nothing about. I am like a blind man who feels
his way so that he will not fall. My father’s
wealth has placed me in the slave market,
and this man has bought me. I neither know
nor
love him, but I shall learn to love him, and
I shall obey him, serve him, and make him
happy. I shall give him all that a weak woman
can give a strong man.
But you, my beloved, are still in the prime
of life. You can walk freely upon life’s
spacious
path, carpeted with flowers. You are free
to traverse the world, making of your heart
a
torch to light your way. You can think, talk,
and act freely; you can write your name on
the
face of life because you are a man; you can
live as a master because your father’s wealth
will not place you in the slave market to
be bought and sold; you can marry the woman
of
your choice and, before she lives in your
home, you can let her reside in your heart
and
can exchange confidences without hindrances.”
Silence prevailed for a moment, and Selma
continued, “But, is it now that Life will
tear us
apart so that you may attain the glory of
a man and I the duty of a woman? Is it for
this
that the valley swallows the song of the nightingale
in its depths, and the wind scatters the
petals of the rose, and the feet tread upon
the wind cup? Were all those nights we spent
in
the moonlight by the jasmine tree, where our
souls united, in vain? Did we fly swiftly
toward the stars until our wings tired, and
are we descending now into the abyss? Or was
Love asleep when he came to us, and did he,
when he woke, become angry and decide to
punish us? Or did our spirits turn the nights’
breeze into a wind that tore us to pieces
and
blew us like dust to the depth of the valley?
We disobeyed no commandment, nor did we
taste of forbidden fruit, so what is making
us leave this paradise? We never conspired
or
practised mutiny, then why are we descending
to hell? No, no, the moments which united
us are greater than centuries, and the light
that illuminated our spirits is stronger than
the
dark; and if the tempest separates us on this
rough ocean, the waves will unite us on the
calm shore; and if this life kills us, death
will unite us. A woman’s heart will change
with
time or season; even if it dies eternally,
it will never perish. A woman’s heart is
like a field
turned into a battleground; after the trees
are uprooted and the grass is burned and the
rocks are reddened with blood and the earth
is planted with bones and skulls, it is calm
and silent as if nothing has happened; for
the spring and autumn come at their intervals
and resume their work.
And now, my beloved, what shall we do? How
shall we part and when shall we meet?
Shall we consider love a strange visitor who
came in the evening and left us in the
morning? Or shall we suppose this affection
a dream that came in our sleep and departed
when we awoke?
Shall we consider this week an hour of intoxication
to be replaced by soberness? Raise
your head and let me look at you, my beloved;
open your lips and let me hear your voice.
Speak to me! Will you remember me after this
tempest has sunk the ship of our love? Will
you hear the whispering of my wings in the
silence of the night? Will you hear my spirit
fluttering over you? Will you listen to my
sighs? Will you see my shadow approach with
the shadows of dusk and disappear with the
flush of dawn? Tell me, my beloved, what will
you be after having been magic ray to my eyes,
sweet song to my ears, and wings to my
soul? What will you be?”
Learning these words, my heart melted, and
I answered her, ” I will be as you want
me to
be, my beloved.”
Then she said, ” I want you to love me as
a poet loves his sorrowful thoughts. I want
you
to remember me as a traveller remembers a
calm pool in which his image was reflected
as
he drank its water. I want you to remember
me as a mother remember her child that died
before it saw the light, and I want you to
remember me as a merciful king remembers a
prisoner who died before his pardon reached
him. I want you to be my companion, and I
want you to visit my father and console him
in his solitude because I shall be leaving
him
soon and shall be a stranger to him.
I answered her, saying, ” I will do all
you have said and will make my soul an envelope
for your soul, and my heart a residence for
your beauty and my breast a grave for your
sorrows. I shall love you , Selma, as the
prairies love the spring, and I shall live
in you in
the life of a flower under the sun’s rays.
I shall sing your name as the valley sings
the echo
of the bells of the village churches; I shall
listen to the language of your soul as the
shore
listens to the story of the waves. I shall
remember you as a stranger remembers his
beloved country, and as a hungry man remembers
a banquet, and as a dethroned king
remembers the days of his glory, and as a
prisoner remembers the hours of ease and
freedom. I shall remember you as a sower remembers
the bundles of wheat on his
threshing flour, and as a shepherd remembers
the green prairies the sweet brooks.”
Selma listened to my words with palpitating
heart, and said “Tomorrow the truth will
become ghostly and the awakening will be like
a dream. Will a lover be satisfied
embracing a ghost, or will a thirsty man quench
his thirst from the spring or a dream?”
I answered her, “Tomorrow, destiny will
put you in the midst of a peaceful family,
but it
will send me into the world of struggle and
warfare. You will be in the home of a person
whom chance has made most fortunate through
your beauty and virtue, while I shall be
living a life of suffering and fear. You will
enter the gate of life, while I shall enter
the gate
of death. You will be received hospitably,
while I shall exist in solitude, but I shall
erect a
statue of love and worship it in the valley
of death. Love will be my sole comforter,
and I
shall drink love like wine and wear it like
garment. At dawn, Love will wake me from
slumber and take me to the distant field,
and at noon will lead me to the shadows of
trees,
where I will find shelter with the birds from
the heat of the sun. In the evening, it will
cause me to pause before sunset to hear nature’s
farewell song to the light of day and will
show me ghostly clouds sailing in the sky.
At night, Love will embrace me, and I shall
sleep, dreaming of the heavenly world where
the spirits of lovers and poets abide. In
the
Spring I shall walk side by side with love
among violets and jasmines and drink the
remaining drops of winter in the lily cups.
In Summer we shall make the bundles of hay
our pillows and the grass our bed, and the
blue sky will cover us as we gaze at the stars
and the moon.
In Autumn, Love and I will go to the vineyard
and sit by the wine press and watch the
grapevines being denuded of their golden ornaments,
and the migrating flocks of birds
will wing over us. In Winter, we shall sit
by the fireside reciting stories of long ago
and
chronicles of far countries. During my youth,
Love will be my teacher; in middle age, my
help; and in old age, my delight. Love, my
beloved Selma, will stay with me to the end
of
my life, and after death the hand of God will
unite us again.”
All these words came from the depths of my
heart like flames of fire which leap raging
from the hearth and then disappear in the
ashes. Selma was weeping as if her eyes were
lips answering me with tears.
Those whom love has not given wings cannot
fly the cloud of appearances to see the
magic world in which Selma’s spirit and
mine existed together in that sorrowfully
happy
hour. Those whom Love has not chosen as followers
do not hear when Love calls. This
story is not for them. Even if they should
comprehend these pages, they would not be
able
to grasp the shadowy meanings which are not
clothed in words and do not reside on paper,
but what human being is he who has never sipped
the wine from the cup of love, and what
spirit is it that has never stood reverently
before that lighted altar in the temple whose
pavement is the hearts of men and women and
whose ceiling is the secret canopy of
dreams? What flower is that on whose leaves
the dawn has never poured a drop of dew;
what streamlet is that which lost its course
without going to the sea?
Selma raised her face toward the sky and gazed
at the heavenly stars which studded the
firmament. She stretched out her hands; her
eyes widened, and her lips trembled. On her
pale face, I could see the signs of sorrow,
oppression, hopelessness, and pain. Then she
cried, ” Oh, Lord, what has a woman done
that hath offended Thee? What sin has she
committed to deserve such a punishment? For
what crime has she been awarded
everlasting castigation? Oh, Lord, Thou art
strong, and I am weak. Why hast Thou made
me suffer pain? Thou art great and almighty,
while I am nothing but a tiny creature
crawling before Thy throne. Why hast Thou
crushed me with Thy foot? Thou art a raging
tempest, and I am like dust; why, my Lord,
hast Thou flung me upon the cold earth? Thou
art powerful, and I am helpless; why art Thou
fighting me? Thou art considerate, and I am
prudent; why art Thou destroying me? Thou
hast created woman with love, and why, with
love, dost Thou ruin her? With Thy right hand
dost Thou lift her, and with Thy left hand
dost Thou strike her into the abyss, and she
knows not why. In her mouth Thou blowest
the breath of Life, and in her heart Thou
sowest the seeds of death. Thou dost show
her the
path of happiness, but Thou leadest her in
the road of misery; in her mouth Thou dost
place a song of happiness, but then Thou dost
close her lips with sorrow and dost fetter
her
tongue with agony. With Thy mysterious fingers
dost Thou dress her wounds, and with
Thine hands Thou drawest the dread of pain
round her pleasures. In her bed Thou hidest
pleasure and peace, but beside it Thou dost
erect obstacles and fear. Thou dost excite
her
affection through Thy will, and from her affection
does shame emanate. By Thy will Thou
showest her the beauty of creation, but her
love for beauty becomes a terrible famine.
Thou dost make her drink life in the cup of
death, and death in the cup of life. Thou
purifiest her with tears, and in tears her
life streams away. Oh, Lord, Thou hast opened
my
eyes with love, and with love Thou hast blinded
me. Thou hast kissed me with Thy lips
and struck me with Thy strong hand. Thou has
planted in my heart a white rose, but
around the rose a barrier of thorns. Thou
hast tied my present with the spirit of a
young
man whom I love, but my life with the body
of an unknown man. So help me, my Lord, to
be strong in this deadly struggle and assist
me to be truthful and virtuous until death.
Thy
will be done. Oh , Lord God.”
Silence continued. Selma looked down, pale
and frail; her arms dropped, and her head
bowed and it seemed to me as if a tempest
had broken a branch from a tree and cast it
down to dry and perish.
I took her cold hand and kissed it, but when
I attempted to console her it was I who
needed consolation more than she did. I kept
silent, thinking of our plight and listening
to
my heartbeats. Neither of us said more.
Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent,
petrified, like columns of marble buried
under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished
to listen to the other because our heart–
threads had become weak and even breathing
would have broken them.
It was midnight, and we could see the crescent
moon rising from behind Mount Sunnin,
and it looked in the midst of the stars, like
the face of a corpse, in a coffin surrounded
by
the dim lights of candles. And Lebanon looked
like an old man whose back was bent with
age and whose eyes were a haven for insomnia,
watching the dark and waiting for dawn,
like asking sitting on the ashes of his throne
in the debris of his palace.
The mountains, trees, and rivers change their
appearance with the vicissitudes of times
and
seasons, as a man changes with his experiences
and emotions. The lofty poplar that
resembles a bride in the daytime, will look
like a column of smoke in the evening; the
huge rock that stands impregnable at noon,
will appear to be a miserable pauper at night,
with earth for his bed and the sky for his
cover; and the rivulet that we see glittering
in the
morning and hear singing the hymn of Eternity,
will, in the evening, turn to a stream of
tears wailing like a mother bereft of her
child, and Lebanon, that had looked dignified
a
week before, when the moon was full and our
spirits were happy, looked sorrowful and
lonesome that night.
We stood up and bade each other farewell,
but love and despair stood between us like
two
ghosts, one stretching his wings with his
fingers over our throats, one weeping and
the
other laughing hideously.
As I took Selma’s hand and put it to my
lips, she came close to me and placed a kiss
on
my forehead, then dropped on the wooden bench.
She shut her eyes and whispered softly,
“Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and mend
my broken wings!”
As I left Selma in the garden, I felt as if
my senses were covered with a thick veil,
like a
lake whose surface is concealed by fog.
The beauty of trees, the moonlight, the deep
silence, everything about me looked ugly and
horrible. The true light that had showed me
the beauty and wonder of the universe was
converted to a great flame of fire that seared
my heart; and the Eternal music I used to
hear became a clamour, more frightening than
the roar of a lion.
I reached my room, and like a wounded bird
shot down by a hunter, I fell on my bed,
repeating the words of Selma: “Oh, Lord
God, have mercy on me and mend my broken
wings!”
BEFORE THE THRONE OF DEATH
Marriage in these days is a mockery whose
management is in the hands of young men and
parents. In most countries the young men win
while the parents lose. The woman is looked
upon as a commodity, purchased and delivered
from one house to another. In time her
beauty fades and she becomes like an old piece
of furniture left in a dark corner.
Modern civilization has made woman a little
wiser, but it has increased her suffering
because of man’s covetousness. The woman
of yesterday was a happy wife, but the
woman of today is a miserable mistress. In
the past she walked blindly in the light,
but
now she walks open–eyed in the dark. She
was beautiful in her ignorance, virtuous in
her
simplicity, and strong in her weakness. Today
she has become ugly in her ingenuity,
superficial and heartless in her knowledge.
Will the day ever come when beauty and
knowledge, ingenuity and virtue, and weakness
of body and strength of spirit will be
united in a woman?
I am one of those who believe that spiritual
progress is a rule of human life, but the
approach to perfection is slow and painful.
If a woman elevates herself in one respect
and
is retarded in another, it is because the
rough trail that leads to the mountain peak
is not
free of ambushes of thieves and lairs of wolves.
This strange generation exists between sleeping
and waking. It holds in its hands the soil
of the past and the seeds of the future. However,
we find in every city a woman who
symbolizes the future.
In the city of Beirut, Selma Karamy was the
symbol of the future Oriental woman, but,
like many who lie ahead of their time, she
became the victim of the present; and like
a
flower snatched from its stem and carried
away by the current of a river, she walked
in the
miserable procession of the defeated.
Mansour Bey Galib and Selma were married,
and lived together in a beautiful house at
Ras Beyrouth, where all the wealthy dignitaries
resided. Farris Effandi Karamy was left in
his solitary home in the midst of his garden
and orchards like a lonely shepherd amid his
flock.
The days and merry nights of the wedding passed,
but the honeymoon left memories of
times of bitter sorrow, as wars leave skulls
and dead bones on the battlefield. The dignity
of an Oriental wedding inspires the hearts
of young men and women, but its termination
may drop them like millstones to the bottom
of the sea. Their exhilaration is like footprints
on sand which remain only till they are washed
away by the waves.
Spring departed, and so did summer and autumn,
but my love for Selma increased day by
day until it became a kind of mute worship,
the feeling that an orphan has toward the
soul
of his mother in Heaven. My yearning was converted
to blind sorrow that could see
nothing but itself, and the passion that drew
tears from my eyes was replaced by
perplexity that sucked the blood from my heart,
and my sighs of affection became a
constant prayer for the happiness of Selma
and her husband and peace for her father.
My hopes and prayers were in vain, because
Selma’s misery was an internal malady that
nothing but death could cure.
Mansour Bey was a man to whom all the luxuries
of life came easily; but, in spite of that,
he was dissatisfied and rapacious. After marrying
Selma, he neglected her father in his
loneliness and prayed for his death so that
he could inherit what was left of the old
man’s
wealth.
Mansour Bey’s character was similar to his
uncle’s; the only difference between the
two
was that the Bishop got everything he wanted
secretly, under the protection of his
ecclesiastical robe and the golden cross which
he wore on his chest, while his nephew did
everything publicly. The Bishop went to church
in the morning and spent the rest of the
day pilfering from the widows, orphans, and
simple minded people. But Mansour Bey
spent his days in pursuit of sexual satisfaction.
On Sunday, Bishop Bulos Galib preached
his Gospel; but during weekdays he never practiced
what he preached, occupying himself
with political intrigues of the locality.
And, by means of his uncle’s prestige and
influence,
Mansour Bey made it his business to secure
political plums for those who could offer
a
sufficient bribe.
Bishop Bulos was a thief who hid himself under
the cover of night, while his nephew,
Mansour Bey, was a swindler who walked proudly
in daylight. However, the people of
Oriental nations place trust in such as they—wolves
and butchers who ruin their country
through covetousness and crush their neighbours
with an iron hand.
Why do I occupy these pages with words about
the betrayers of poor nations instead of
reserving all the space for the story of a
miserable woman with a broken heart? Why do
I
shed tears for oppressed peoples rather than
keep all my tears for the memory of a weak
woman whose life was snatched by the teeth
of death?
But my dear readers, don’t’ you think
that such a woman is like a nation that is
oppressed
by priests and rulers? Don’t you believe
that thwarted love which leads a woman to
the
grave is like the despair which pervades the
people of the earth? A woman is to a nation
as
light is to a lamp. Will not the light be
dim if the oil in the lamp is low?
Autumn passed, and the wind blew the yellow
leaves form the trees, making way for
winter, which came howling and crying. I was
still in the City of Beirut without a
companion save my dreams, which would lift
my spirit to the sky and then bury it deep
in
the bosom of the earth.
The sorrowful spirit finds relaxation in solitude.
It abhors people, as a wounded deer
deserts the herd and lives in a cave until
it is healed or dead.
One day I heard Farris Effandi was ill. I
left my solitary abode and walked to his home,
taking a new route, a lonely path between
olive trees, avoiding the main road with its
rattling carriage wheels.
Arriving at the old man’s house, I entered
and found Farris Effandi lying on his bed,
weak
and pale. His eyes were sunken and looked
like two deep, dark valleys haunted by the
ghosts of pain. The smile which had always
enlivened his face was choked with pain and
agony; and the bones of his gentle hands looked
like naked branches trembling before the
tempest. As I approached him and inquired
as to his health, he turned his pale face
toward
me, and on his trembling lips appeared a smile,
and he said in a weak voice, “Go — go,
my son, to the other room and comfort Selma
and bring her to sit by the side of my bed.”
I entered the adjacent room and found Selma
lying on a divan, covering her head with her
arms and burying her face in a pillow so that
her father would not hear her weeping.
Approaching slowly, I pronounced her name
in a voice that seemed more like sighing than
whispering. She moved fearfully, as if she
had been interrupted in a terrible dream,
and sat
up, looking at me with glazed eyes, doubting
whether I was a ghost or a living being.
After a deep silence which took us back on
the wings of memory to that hour when we
were intoxicated with wine of love, Selma
wiped away her tears and said, “See how
time
has changed us! See how time has changed the
course of our lives and left us in these
ruins. In this place spring united us in a
bond of love, and in this place has brought
us
together before the throne of death. How beautiful
was spring, and how terrible is this
winter!”
Speaking thus, she covered her face again
with her hands as if she were shielding her
eyes
from the spectre of the past standing before
her. I put my hand on her head and said,
“Come, Selma, come and let us be as strong
towers before the tempest. Let us stand like
brave soldiers before the enemy and face his
weapons. If we are killed, we shall die as
martyrs; and if we win, we shall live as heroes.
Braving obstacles and hardships is nobler
than retreat to tranquillity. The butterfly
that hovers around the lamp until it dies
is more
admirable than the mole that lives in a dark
tunnel. Come, Selma, let us walk this rough
path firmly, with our eyes toward the sun
so that we may not see the skulls and serpents
among the rocks and thorns. if fear should
stop us in middle of the road, we would hear
only ridicule from the voices of the night,
but if we reach the mountain peak bravely
we
shall join the heavenly spirits in songs of
triumph and joy. Cheer up, Selma, wipe away
your tears and remove the sorrow from your
face. Rise, and let us sit by the bed of your
father, because his life depends on your life,
and your smile is his only cure.”
Kindly and affectionately she looked at me
and said, “Are you asking me to have patience,
while you are in need of it yourself? Will
a hungry man give his bread to another hungry
man? Or will sick man give medicine to another
which he himself needs badly?”
She rose, her head bent slightly forward and
we walked to the old man’s room and sat
by
the side of his bed. Selma forced a smile
and pretended to be patient, and her father
tried
to make her believe that he was feeling better
and getting stronger; but both father and
daughter were aware of each other’s sorrow
and heard the unvoiced sighs. They were like
two equal forces, wearing each other away
silently. The father’s heart was melting
because
of his daughter’s plight. They were two
pure souls, one departing and the other agonized
with grief, embracing in love and death; and
I was between the two with my own troubled
heart. We were three people, gathered and
crushed by the hands of destiny; an old man
like a dwelling ruined by flood, a young woman
whose symbol was a lily beheaded by the
sharp edge of a sickle, and a young man who
was a weak sapling, bent by a snowfall; and
all of us were toys in the hands of fate.
Farris Effandi moved slowly and stretched
his weak hand toward Selma, and in a loving
and tender voice said, “Hold my hand, my
beloved.” Selma held his hand; then he said,
“I
have lived long enough, and I have enjoyed
the fruits of life’s seasons. I have experienced
all its phases with equanimity. I lost your
mother when you were three years of age, and
she left you as a precious treasure in my
lap. I watched you grow, and your face
reproduced your mother’s features as stars
reflected in a calm pool of water. Your
character, intelligence, and beauty are your
mother’s, even your manner of speaking and
gestures. You have been my only consolation
in this life because you were the image of
your mother in every deed and word. Now, I
grow old, and my only resting place is
between the soft wings of death. Be comforted,
my beloved daughter, because I have lived
long enough to see you as a woman. Be happy
because I shall live in you after my death.
My departure today would be no different from
my going tomorrow or the day after, for
our days are perishing like the leaves of
autumn. The hour of my days are perishing
like
the leaves of autumn. The hour of my death
approaches rapidly, and my soul is desirous
of
being united with your mother’s.”
As he uttered these words sweetly and lovingly,
his face was radiant. Then he put his hand
under his pillow and pulled out a small picture
in a gold frame. With his eyes on the little
photograph, he said, “Come, Selma, come
and see your mother in this picture.”
Selma wiped away her tears, and after gazing
long at the picture, she kissed it repeatedly
and cried, “Oh, my beloved mother! Oh, mother!”
Then she placed her trembling lips on
the picture as if she wished to pour her soul
into that image.
The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind
is the word “Mother,” and the most
beautiful call is the call of “My mother.”
it is a word full of hope and love, a sweet
and
kind word coming from the depths of the heart.
The mother is every thing — she is our
consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery,
and our strength in weakness. She is the source
of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness.
He who loses his mother loses a pure soul
who
blesses and guards him constantly.
Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother.
The sun is the mother of earth and gives it
its
nourishment of hear; it never leaves the universe
at night until it has put the earth to sleep
to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds
and brooks. And this earth is the mother of
trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses
them, and weans them. The trees and flowers
become kind mothers of their great fruits
and seeds. And the mother, the prototype of
all
existence, is the eternal spirit, full of
beauty and love.
Selma Karamy never knew her mother because
she had died when Selma was an infant,
but Selma wept when she saw the picture and
cried, “Oh, mother!” The word mother is
hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our
lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the
perfume comes from the heart of the rose and
mingles with clear and cloudy air.
Selma stared at her mother’s picture, kissing
it repeatedly, until she collapsed by her
father’s bed.
The old man placed both hands on her head
and said, “I have shown you, my dear child,
a
picture of your mother on paper. Now listen
to me and I shall let you hear her words.”
She lifted her head like a little bird in
the nest that hears its mother’s wing, and
looked at
him attentively.
Farris Effandi opened his mouth and said,
‘Your mother was nursing you when she lost
her father; she cried and wept at his going,
but she was wise and patient. She sat by me
in
this room as soon as the funeral was over
and held my hand and said, ‘Farris, my father
is
dead now and you are my only consolation in
this world. The heart’s affections are divided
like the branches of the cedar tree; if the
tree loses one strong branch, it will suffer
but it
does not die. It will pour all its vitality
into the next branch so that it will grow
and fill the
empty place.’ This is what your mother told
me when her father died, and you should say
the same thing when death takes my body to
its resting place and my soul to God’s care.’
Selma answered him with falling tears and
broken heart, “When Mother lost her father,
you took his place; but who is going to take
yours when you are gone? She was left in the
care of a loving and truthful husband; she
found consolation in her little daughter,
and who
will be my consolation when you pass away?
You have been my father and mother and the
companion of my youth.”
Saying these words, she turned and looked
at me, and, holding the side of my garment,
said, “This is the only friend I shall have
after you are gone, but how can he console
me
when he is suffering also? How can a broken
heart find consolation in a disappointed
soul? A sorrowful woman cannot be comforted
by her neighbour’s sorrow, nor can a bird
fly with broken wings. He is the friend of
my soul, but I have already placed a heavy
burden of sorrow upon him and dimmed his eyes
with my tears till he can see nothing but
darkness. he is a brother whom I dearly love,
but he is like all brothers who share my
sorrow and help me shed tears which increase
my bitterness and burn my heart.”
Selma’s words stabbed my heart, and I felt
that I could bear no more. The old man listened
to her with depressed spirit. The old man
listened to her with depressed spirit, trembling
like the light of a lamp before the wind.
Then he stretched out his hand and said, “Let
me
go peacefully, my child. I have broken the
bars of this cage; let me fly and do not stop
me,
for your mother is calling me. The sky is
clear and the sea is calm and the boat is
ready to
sail; do not delay its voyage. Let my body
rest with those who are resting; let my dream
end and my soul awaken with the dawn; let
your soul embrace mine and give me the kiss
of hope; let no drops of sorrow or bitterness
fall upon my body lest the flowers and grass
refuse their nourishment. Do not shed tears
of misery upon my hand, for they may grow
thorns upon my grave. Do not draw lines of
agony upon my forehead, for the wind may
pass and read them and refuse to carry the
dust of my bones to the green prairies…I
love
you, my child, while I lived, and I shall
love you when I am dead, and my soul shall
always watch over you and protect you.”
When Farris Effandi looked at me with his
eyes half closed and said, “My son, be a
real
brother to Selma as your father was to me.
Be her help and friend in need, and do not
let
her mourn, because mourning for the dead is
a mistake. Repeat to her pleasant tales and
sing for her the songs of life so that she
may forget her sorrows. Remember me to your
father; ask him to tell you the stories of
your youth and tell him that I loved him in
the
person of his son in the last hour of my life.”
Silence prevailed, and I could see the pallor
of death on the old man’s face. Then he
rolled
his eyes and looked at us and whispered, “Don’t
call the physician, for he might extend
my sentence in this prison by his medicine.
The days of slavery are gone, and my soul
seeks the freedom of the skies. And do not
call the priest to my bedside, because his
incantations would not save me if I were a
sinner, nor would it rush me to Heaven if
I
were innocent. The will of humanity cannot
change the will of God, as an astrologer
cannot change the course of the stars. But
after my death let the doctors and priest
do what
they please, for my ship will continue sailing
until it reaches its destination.”
At midnight Farris Effandi opened his tired
eyes for the last time and focused them on
Selma, who was kneeling by his bedside. He
tried to speak, but could not, for death had
already choked his voice; but he finally managed
to say, “The night has passed…Oh,
Selma…Oh…Oh, Selma…” Then he bent
his head, his face turned white, and I could
see
a smile on his lips as he breathed his last.
Selma felt her father’s hand. It was cold.
Then she raised her head and looked at his
face.
It was covered with the veil of death. Selma
was so choked that she could not shed tears,
nor sigh, nor even move. For a moment she
stared at him with fixed eyes like those of
a
statue; then she bent down until her forehead
touched the floor, and said, “Oh, Lord,
have
mercy and mend our broken wings.”
Farris Effandi Karamy died; his soul was embraced
by Eternity, and his body was returned
to the earth. Mansour Bey Galib got possession
of his wealth, and Selma became a
prisoner of life—a life of grief and misery.
I was lost in sorrow and reverie. Days and
nights preyed upon me as the eagle ravages
its
victim. Many a time I tried to forget my misfortune
by occupying myself with books and
scriptures of past generation, but it was
like extinguishing fire with oil, for I could
see
nothing in the procession of the past but
tragedy and could hear nothing but weeping
and
wailing. The Book of Job was more fascinating
to me than the Psalms and I preferred the
Elegies of Jeremiah to the Song of Solomon.
Hamlet was closer to my heart than all other
dramas of western writers. Thus despair weakens
our sight and closes our ears. We can see
nothing but spectres of doom and can hear
only the beating of our agitated hearts.
BETWEEN CHRIST AND ISHTAR
In the midst of the gardens and hills which
connect the city of Beirut with Lebanon there
is a small temple, very ancient, dug out of
white rock , surrounded by olive, almond,
and
willow trees. Although this temple is a half
mile from the main highway, at the time of
my
story very few people interested in relics
and ancient ruins had visited it. It was one
of
many interesting places hidden and forgotten
in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it had
become a haven for worshippers and a shrine
for lonely lovers.
As one enters this temple he sees on the wall
at the east side an old Phoenician picture,
carved in the rock depicting Ishtar, goddess
of love and beauty, sitting on her throne,
surrounded by seven nude virgins standing
in different posses. The first one carries
a
torch; the second, a guitar; the third, a
censer; the fourth a jug of wine; the fifth,
a branch
of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the
seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them
look
at Ishtar reverently.
In the second wall there is another picture,
more modern than the first one, symbolizing
Christ nailed to the cross, and at His side
stand His sorrowful mother and Mary
Magdalene and two other women weeping. This
Byzantine picture shows that it was
carved in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.*
In the west side wall there are two round
transits through which the sun’s rays enter
the
temple and strike the pictures and make them
look as if they were painted with gold water
colour. In the middle of the temple there
is a square marble with old paintings on its
sides,
some of which can hardly be seen under the
petrified lumps of blood which show that the
ancient people offered sacrifices on this
rock and poured perfume, wine, and oil upon
it.
There is nothing else in that little temple
except deep silence, revealing to the living
the
secrets of the goddess and speaking wordlessly
of past generations and the evolution of
religions. Such a sight carries the poet to
a world far away from the one in which he
dwells and convinces the philosopher that
men were born religious; they felt a need
for
that which they could not see and drew symbols,
the meaning of which divulged their
hidden secrets and their desires in life and
death.
In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every
month and spent the hours with her,
looking at those strange pictures, thinking
of the crucified Christ and pondering upon
the
young Phoenician men and women who lived,
loved and worshipped beauty in the person
of Ishtar by burning incense before her statue
and pouring perfume on her shrine, people
for whom nothing is left to speak except the
name, repeated by the march of time before
the face of Eternity.
It is hard to write down in words the memories
of those hours when I met Selma — those
heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness,
sorrow, hope, and misery.
We met secretly in the old temple, remembering
the old days, discussing our present,
fearing our future, and gradually bringing
out the hidden secrets in the depths of our
hearts
and complaining to each other of our misery
and suffering, trying to console ourselves
with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams.
Every now and then we would become calm
and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting
everything except Love; we embraced each
other until our hearts melted; then Selma
would print a pure kiss on my forehead and
fill
my heart with ecstasy; I would return the
kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her
cheeks
became gently red like the first ray of dawn
on the forehead of hills. We silently looked
at
the distant horizon where the clouds were
coloured with the orange ray of sunset.
Our conversation was not limited to love;
every now and then we drifted on to current
topics and exchanged ideas. During the course
of conversation Selma spoke of woman’s
place in society, the imprint that the past
generation had left on her character, the
relationship between husband and wife, and
the spiritual diseases and corruption which
threatened married life. I remember her saying:
“The poets and writers are trying to
understand the reality of woman, but up to
this day they have not understood the hidden
secrets of her heart, because they look upon
her from behind the sexual veil and see
nothing but externals; they look upon her
through the magnifying glass of hatefulness
and
find nothing except weakness and submission.
In another occasion she said, pointing to
the carved pictures on the walls of the temple,
“In
the heart of this rock there are two symbols
depicting the essence of a woman’s desires
and revealing the hidden secrets of her soul,
moving between love and sorrow — between
affection and sacrifice, between Ishtar sitting
on the throne and Mary standing by the
cross. The man buys glory and reputation,
but the woman pays the price.”
No one knew about our secret meetings except
God and the flock of birds which flew over
the temple. Selma used to come in her carriage
to a place named Pasha park and from
there she walked to the temple, where she
found me anxiously waiting for her.
We feared not the observer’s eyes, neither
did our consciences bother us; the spirit
which
is purified by fire and washed by tears is
higher than what the people call shame and
disgrace; it is free from the laws of slavery
and old customs against the affections of
the
human heart. That spirit can proudly stand
unashamed before the throne of God.
Human society has yielded for seventy centuries
to corrupted laws until it cannot
understand the meaning of the superior and
eternal laws. A man’s eyes have become
accustomed to the dim light of candles and
cannot see the sunlight. Spiritual disease
is
inherited from one generation to another until
it has become a part of people, who look
upon it, not as a disease, but as a natural
gift, showered by God upon Adam. If those
people found someone free from the germs of
this disease, they would think of him with
shame and disgrace.
Those who think evil of Selma Karamy because
she left her husband’s home and met me
in the temple are the diseased and weak–minded
kind who look upon the healthy and
sound as rebels. They are like insects crawling
in the dark for fear of being stepped upon
by the passer–by.
The oppressed prisoners, who can break away
from his jail and does not do so, is a
coward. Selma, an innocent and oppressed prisoner,
was unable to free herself from
slavery. Was she to blame because she looked
through the jail window upon the green
fields and spacious sky? Will the people count
her as being untruthful to her husband
because she came from his home to sit by me
between Christ and Ishtar? Let the people
say what they please; Selma had passed the
marshes which submerge other spirits and had
landed in a world that could not be reached
by the howling of wolves and rattling of
snakes. People may say what they want about
me, for the spirit who has seen the spectre
of death cannot be scared by the faces of
thieves; the soldier who has seen the swords
glittering over his head and streams of blood
under his feet does not care about rocks
thrown at him by the children on the streets.
THE SACRIFICE
One day in the late part of June, as the people
left the city for the mountain to avoid the
heat of summer, I went as usual to the temple
to meet Selma, carrying with me a little
book of Andalusian poems. As I reached the
temple I sat there waiting for Selma, glancing
at intervals at the pages of my book, reciting
those verses which filled my heart with
ecstasy and brought to my soul the memory
of the kings, poets, and knights who bade
farewell to Granada, and left, with tears
in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts,
their
palaces, institutions and hopes behind. In
an hour I saw Selma walking in the midst of
the
gardens and I approaching the temple, leaning
on her parasol as if she were carrying all
the worries of the world upon her shoulders.
As she entered the temple and sat by me, I
noticed some sort of change in her eyes and
I was anxious to inquire about it.
Selma felt what was going on in my mind, and
she put her hand on my head and said,
“Come close to me, come my beloved, come
and let me quench my thirst, for the hour
of
separation has come.”
I asked her, “Did your husband find out
about our meeting her?” She responded, “My
husband does not care about me, neither does
he know how I spend my time, for he is
busy with those poor girls whom poverty has
driven into the houses of ill fame; those
girls
who sell their bodies for bread, kneaded with
blood and tears.”
I inquired, “What prevents you from coming
to this temple and sitting by me reverently
before God? Is your soul requesting our separation.?”
She answered with tears in her eyes, “No,
my beloved, my spirit did not ask for
separation, for you are a part of me. My eyes
never get tired of looking at you, for you
are
their light; but if destiny ruled that I should
walk the rough path of life loaded with
shackles, would I be satisfied if your fate
should be like mine?” Then she added, “I
cannot
say everything, because the tongue is mute
with pain and cannot talk; the lips are sealed
with misery and cannot move; all I can say
to you is that I am afraid you may fall in
the
same trap I fell in.”
When I asked, “What do you mean, Selma,
and of whom are you afraid?” She covered
her
face with her hands and said, “The Bishop
has already found out that once a month I
have
been leaving the grave which he buried me
in.”
I inquired, “Did the Bishop find out about
our meetings here?” She answered, “If
he did,
you would not see me here sitting by you,
but he is getting suspicious and he informed
all
his servants and guards to watch me closely.
I am feeling that the house I live in and
the
path I walk on are all eyes watching me, and
fingers pointing at me, and ears listening
to
the whisper of my thoughts.”
She was silent for a while, and then she added,
with tears pouring down her cheeks, “I am
not afraid of the Bishop, for wetness does
not scare the drowned, but I am afraid you
might fall into the trap and become his prey;
you are still young and free as the sunlight.
I
am not frightened of fate which has shot all
its arrows in my breast, but I am afraid the
serpent might bite your feet and detain you
from climbing the mountain peak where the
future awaits you with its pleasure and glory.”
I said, “He who has not been bitten by the
serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves
of darkness will always be deceived by the
days and nights. But listen, Selma, listen
carefully; is separation the only means of
avoiding people’s evils and meanness? Has
the
path of love and freedom been closed and is
nothing left except submission to the will
of
the slaves of death?”
She responded, “Nothing is left save separation
and bidding each other farewell.”
With rebellious spirit I took her hand and
said excitedly, “We have yielded to the
people’s
will for a long time; since the time we met
until this hour we have been led by the blind
and have worshipped with them before their
idols. Since the time I met you we have been
in the hands of the Bishop like two balls
which he has thrown around as he pleased.
Are
we going to submit to his will until death
takes us away? Did God give us the breath
of
life to place it under death’s feet? Did
He give us liberty to make it a shadow of
slavery?
He who extinguishes his spirit’s fire with
his own hands is an infidel in the eyes of
Heaven, for Heaven set the fire that burns
in our spirits. He who does not rebel against
oppression is doing himself injustice. I love
you, Selma, and you love me, too; and Love
is
a precious treasure, it is God’s gift to
sensitive and great spirits. Shall we throw
this
treasure away and let the pigs scatter it
and trample on it? This world is full of wonder
and
beauty. Why are we living in this narrow tunnel
which the Bishop and his assistants have
dug out for us? Life is full of happiness
and freedom; why don’t we take this heavy
yoke
off our shoulders and break the chains tied
to our feet, and walk freely toward peace?
Get
up and let us leave this small temple for
God’s great temple. Let us leave this country
and
all its slavery and ignorance for another
country far away and unreached by the hands
of
the thieves. Let us go to the coast under
the cover of night and catch a boat that will
take
us across the oceans, where we can find a
new life full of happiness and understanding.
Do not hesitate, Selma for these minutes are
more precious to us than the crowns of kings
and more sublime than the thrones of angels.
Let us follow the column of light that leads
us from this arid desert into the green fields
where flowers and aromatic plants grow.”
She shook her head and gazed at something
invisible on the ceiling of the temple; a
sorrowful smile appeared on her lips; then
she said, “No, no my beloved. Heaven placed
in my hand a cup, full of vinegar and gall;
I forced myself to drink it in order to know
the
full bitterness at the bottom until nothing
was left save a few drops, which I shall drink
patiently. I am not worthy of a new life of
love and peace; I am not strong enough for
life’s pleasure and sweetness, because a
bird with broken wings cannot fly in the spacious
sky. The eyes that are accustomed to the dim
light of a candle are not strong enough to
stare at the sun. Do not talk to me of happiness;
its memory makes me suffer. Mention not
peace to me; its shadow frightens me; but
look at me and I will show you the holy torch
which Heaven has lighted in the ashes of my
heart — you know that I love you as a
mother loves her only child, and Love only
taught me to protect you even from myself.
It
is Love, purified with fire, that stops me
from following you to the farthest land. Love
kills my desires so that you may live freely
and virtuously. Limited love asks for
possession of the beloved, but the unlimited
asks only for itself. Love that comes between
the naiveté and awakening of youth satisfies
itself with possessing, and grows with
embraces. But Love which is born in the firmament’s
lap and has descended with the
night’s secrets is not contended with anything
but Eternity and immortality; it does not
stand reverently before anything except deity.
When I knew that the Bishop wanted to stop
me from leaving his nephew’s house and to
take my only pleasure away from me, I stood
before the window of my room and looked
toward the sea, thinking of the vast countries
beyond it and the real freedom and personal
independence which can be found there. I felt
that I was living close to you, surrounded
by
the shadow of your spirit, submerged in the
ocean of your affection. But all these thoughts
which illuminate a woman’s heart and make
her rebel against old customs and live in
the
shadow of freedom and justice, made me believe
that I am weak and that our love is
limited and feeble, unable to stand before
the sun’s face. I cried like a king whose
kingdom and treasure have been usurped, but
immediately I saw your face through my
tears and your eyes gazing at me and I remembered
what you said to me once (Come,
Selma, come and let us be strong towers before
the tempest. Let us stand like brave
soldiers before the enemy and face his weapons.
If we are killed, we shall die as martyrs;
and if we win, we shall live as heroes. Braving
obstacles and hardships is nobler than
retreat to tranquillity.) These words, my
beloved, you uttered when the wings of death
were hovering around my father’s bed; I
remembered them yesterday when the wings of
despair were hovering above my head. I strengthened
myself and felt, while in the
darkness of my prison, some sort of precious
freedom easing our difficulties and
diminishing our sorrows. I found out that
our love was as deep as the ocean and as high
as
the stars and as spacious as the sky. I came
here to see you, and in my weak spirit there
is
a new strength, and this strength is the ability
to sacrifice a great thing in order to obtain
a
greater one; it is the sacrifice of my happiness
so that you may remain virtuous and
honourable in the eyes of the people and be
far away from their treachery and persecution.
In the past, when I came to this place I felt
as if heavy chains were pulling down on me,
but today I came here with a new determination
that laughs at the shackles and shortens
the way. I used to come to this temple like
a scared phantom, but today I came like a
brave
woman who feels the urgency of sacrifice and
knows the value of suffering, a woman who
likes to protect the one she loves from the
ignorant people and from her hungry spirit.
I
used to sit by you like a trembling shadow,
but today I came here to show you my true
self
before Ishtar and Christ.
I am a tree, grown in the shade, and today
I stretched my branches to tremble for a while
in the daylight. I came here to tell you good–bye,
my beloved, and it is my hope that our
farewell will be great and awful like our
love. Let our farewell be like fire that bends
the
gold and makes it more resplendent.”
Selma did not allow me to speak or protest,
but she looked at me, her eyes glittering,
her
face retaining its dignity, seeming like an
angel worthy of silence and respect. Then
she
flung herself upon me, something which she
had never done before, and put her smooth
arms around me and printed a long, deep, fiery
kiss on my lips.
As the sun went down, withdrawing its rays
from those gardens and orchards, Selma
moved to the middle of the temple and gazed
along at its walls and corners as if she
wanted to pour the light of her eyes on its
pictures and symbols. Then she walked forward
and reverently knelt before the picture of
Christ and kissed His feet, and she whispered,
“Oh, Christ, I have chosen Thy Cross and
deserted Ishtar’s world of pleasure and
happiness; I have worn the wreath of thorns
and discarded the wreath of laurel and washed
myself with blood and tears instead of perfume
and scent; I have drunk vinegar and gall
from a cup which was meant for wine and nectar;
accept me, my Lord, among Thy
followers and lead me toward Galilee with
those who have chosen Thee, contended with
their sufferings and delighted with their
sorrows.”
When she rose and looked at me and said, “Now
I shall return happily to my dark cave,
where horrible ghosts reside, Do not sympathize
with me, my beloved, and do not feel
sorry for me, because the soul that sees the
shadow of God once will never be frightened,
thereafter, of the ghosts of devils. And the
eye that looks on heaven once will not be
closed by the pains of the world.”
Uttering these words, Selma left the place
of worship; and I remained there lost in a
deep
sea of thoughts, absorbed in the world of
revelation where God sits on the throne and
the
angels write down the acts of human beings,
and the souls recite the tragedy of life,
and
the brides of Heaven sing the hymns of love,
sorrow and immortality.
Night had already come when I awakened from
my swoon and found myself bewildered
in the midst of the gardens, repeating the
echo of every word uttered by Selma and
remembering her silence, ,her actions, her
movements, her expression and the touch of
her
hands, until I realized the meaning of farewell
and the pain of lonesomeness. I was
depressed and heart–broken. It was my first
discovery of the fact that men, even if they
are
born free, will remain slaves of strict laws
enacted by their forefathers; and that the
firmament, which we imagine as unchanging,
is the yielding of today to the will of
tomorrow and submission of yesterday to the
will of today — Many a time, since the
night, I have thought of the spiritual law
which made Selma prefer death to life, and
many
a time I have made a comparison between nobility
of sacrifice and happiness of rebellion
to find out which one is nobler and more beautiful;
but until now I have distilled only one
truth out of the whole matter, and this truth
is sincerity, which makes all our deeds
beautiful and honourable. And this sincerity
was in Selma Karamy.
THE RESCUER
Five years of Selma’s marriage passed without
bringing children to strengthen the ties of
spiritual relation between her and her husband
and bind their repugnant souls together.
A barren woman is looked upon with disdain
everywhere because of most men’s desire
to
perpetuate themselves through posterity.
The substantial man considers his childless
wife as an enemy; he detests her and deserts
her and wishes her death. Mansour Bey Galib
was that kind of man; materially, he was
like earth, and hard like steel and greedy
like a grave. His desire of having a child
to carry
on his name and reputation made him hate Selma
in spite of her beauty and sweetness.
A tree grown in a cave does not bear fruit;
and Selma, who lived in the shade of life,
did
not bear children…..
The nightingale does not make his nest in
a cage lest slavery be the lot of its chicks….
Selma was a prisoner of misery and it was
Heaven’s will that she would not have another
prisoner to share her life. The flowers of
the field are the children of sun’s affection
and
nature’s love; and the children of men are
the flowers of love and compassion…..
The spirit of love and compassion never dominated
Selma’s beautiful home at Ras
Beyrouth; nevertheless, she knelt down on
her knees every night before Heaven and asked
God for a child in whom she would find comfort
and consolation…She prayed
successively until Heaven answered her prayers….
The tree of the cave blossomed to bear fruit
at last. The nightingale in the cage
commenced making its nest with the feathers
of its wings.
Selma stretched her chained arms toward Heaven
to receive God’s precious gift and
nothing in the world could have made her happier
than becoming a potential mother.
She waited anxiously, counting the days and
looking forward to the time when Heaven’s
sweetest melody, the voice of her child, should
ring in her ears….
She commenced to see the dawn of a brighter
future through her tears.
It was the month of Nisan when Selma was stretched
on the bed of pain and labour, where
life and death were wrestling. The doctor
and the midwife were ready to deliver to the
world a new guest. Late at night Selma started
her successive cry…a cry of life’s partition
from life…a cry of continuance in the firmament
of nothingness.. a cry of a weak force
before the stillness of great forces…the
cry of poor Selma who was lying down in despair
under the feet of life and death.
At dawn Selma gave birth to a baby boy. When
she opened her eyes she saw smiling faces
all over the room, then she looked again and
saw life and death still wrestling by her
bed.
She closed her eyes and cried, saying for
the first time, “Oh, my son.” The midwife
wrapped the infant with silk swaddles and
placed him by his mother, but the doctor kept
looking at Selma and sorrowfully shaking his
head.
The voices of joy woke the neighbours, who
rushed into the house to felicitate the father
upon the birth of his heir, but the doctor
still gazed at Selma and her infant and shook
his
head….
The servants hurried to spread the good news
to Mansour Bey, but the doctor stared at
Selma and her child with a disappointed look
on his face.
As the sun came out, Selma took the infant
to her breast; he opened his eyes for the
first
time and looked at his mother; then he quivered
and close them for the last time. The
doctor took the child from Selma’s arms
and on his cheeks fell tears; then he whispered
to
himself, “He is a departing guest.”
The child passed away while the neighbours
were celebrating with the father in the big
hall at the house and drinking to the health
of their heir; and Selma looked at the doctor,
and pleaded, “Give me my child and let me
embrace him.”
Though the child was dead, the sounds of the
drinking cups increased in the hall…..
He was born at dawn and died at sunrise…
He was born like a thought and died like a
sigh and disappeared like a shadow.
He did not live to console and comfort his
mother.
His life began at the end of the night and
ended at the beginning of the day, like a
drop of
few poured by the eyes of the dark and dried
by the touch of the light.
A pearl brought by the tide to the coast and
returned by the ebb into the depth of the
sea….
A lily that has just blossomed from the bud
of life and is mashed under the feet of death.
A dear guest whose appearance illuminated
Selma’s heart and whose departure killed
her
soul.
This is the life of men, the life of nations,
the life of suns, moons and stars.
And Selma focused her eyes upon the doctor
and cried, “Give me my child and let me
embrace him; give me my child and let me nurse
him.”
Then the doctor bent his head. His voice choked
and he said, “Your child is dead,
Madame, be patient.
Upon hearing her doctor’s announcement,
Selma uttered a terrible cry. Then she was
quiet
for a moment and smiled happily. Her face
brightened as if she had discovered something,
and quietly she said, “Give me my child;
bring him close to me and let me see him dead.”
The doctor carried the dead child to Selma
and placed him between her arms. She
embraced him, then turned her face toward
the wall and addressed the dead infant saying,
“You have come to take me away my child;
you have come to show me the way that leads
to the coast. Here I am my child; lead me
and let us leave this dark cave.
And in a minute the sun’s ray penetrated
the window curtains and fell upon two calm
bodies lying on a bed, guarded by the profound
dignity of silence and shaded by the wings
of death. The doctor left the room with tears
in his eyes, and as he reached the big hall
the
celebrations was converted into a funeral,
but Mansour Bey Galib never uttered a word
or
shed a tear. He remained standing motionless
like a statue, holding a drinking cup with
his
right hand.
* * * * * * * * * *
The second day Selma was shrouded with her
white wedding dress and laid in a coffin;
the
child’s shroud was his swaddle; his coffin
was his mother’s arms; his grave was her
calm
breast. Two corpses were carried in one coffin,
and I walked reverently with the crowd
accompanying Selma and her infant to their
resting place.
Arriving at the cemetery, Bishop Galib commenced
chanting while the other priests
prayed, and on their gloomy faces appeared
a veil of ignorance and emptiness.
As the coffin went down, one of the bystanders
whispered, “This is the first time in my
life I have seen two corpses in one coffin.”
Another one said, “It seems as if the child
had
come to rescue his mother from her pitiless
husband.”
A third one said, “Look at Mansour Bey:
he is gazing at the sky as if his eyes were
made
of glass. He does not look like he has lost
his wife and child in one day.” A fourth
one
added, “His uncle, the Bishop, will marry
him again tomorrow to a wealthier and stronger
woman.
The Bishop and the priests kept on singing
and chanting until the grave digger was
through filing the ditch. Then, the people,
individually, approached the Bishop and his
nephew and offered their respects to them
with sweet words of sympathy, but I stood
lonely aside without a soul to console me,
as if Selma and her child meant nothing to
me.
The farewell–bidders left the cemetery;
the grave digger stood by the new grave holding
a
shovel with his hand.
As I approached him, I inquired, “Do you
remember where Farris Effandi Karamy was
buried?”
He looked at me for a moment, then pointed
at Selma’s grave and said, “Right here;
I
placed his daughter upon him and upon his
daughter’s breast rests her child, and upon
all I
put the earth back with this shovel.”
Then I said, “In this ditch you have also
buried my heart.”
As the grave digger disappeared behind the
poplar trees, I could not resist anymore;
I
dropped down on Selma’s grave and wept.
