Title: The Broken Wings
Author: Kahlil Gibran
Language: English
Date
first posted: June 2005
Production
notes: Original file Courtesy of Kahlil Gibran Online - www.kahlil.org
THE BROKEN WINGS
by
Kahlil Gibran
CONTENTS
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.
CHAPTER ONE
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.
CHAPTER TWO
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.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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.
CHAPTER SIX
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!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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.
CHAPTER NINE
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.
CHAPTER TEN
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.
