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 taht 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 firey 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 Gibrans' sorrow together with the
cypress trees, and above the tomb his spirit flickers every night
commemorating Selma, joining the branches of the trees in sorrowful
wailing, mourning and lamenting the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a
beautiful tune on the lips of life and today is a silent secret in the
bosom of the earth.
Oh, comrades of my youth! I appeal to you
in the names of those virgins whom your hearts have loved, to lay a
wreath of flowers on the forsaken tomb of my beloved, for the flowers
you lay on Selma's tomb are like falling drops of dew for the eyes of
dawn on the leaves of withering rose.
Silent Sorrow
My neighbors, 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.
Everytime 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.
Silitude 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 comapnions in his games his life will be like a narrow prison
in which he sees nothing but spiderwebs 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 colors of clouds and trees, but cannot find an outlet by which to
pass singing to the sea.
Thus was my life before I attained the
age of eighteen. That year is like a mountain peak in my life, for it
awakened knowledge in me and made me understand the vicissitudes of
mankind. In that year I was reborn and unless a person is born again his
life will remain like a blank sheet in the book of existence. In that
year, I saw the angels of heaven looking at me through the eyes of a
beautiful woman. I also saw the devils of hell raging in the heart of an
evil man. He who does not see the angels and devils in the beauty and
malice of life will be far removed from knowledge, and his spirit will
be empty of affection.
The Hand of
Destiny
In the spring of the that wonderful year, I
was in Beirut. The gardens were full of Nisan flowers and the earth was
carpeted with green grass, and like a secret of earth revealed to
Heaven. The orange trees and apple trees, looking like houris or brides
sent by nature to inspire poets and excite the imagination, were wearing
white garments of perfumed blossoms.
Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is
most beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit that roams round the earth but
hovers over Lebanon, conversing with kings and prophets, singing with
the rives the songs of solomon, and repeating with the Holy Cedars of
Lebanon the memory of ancient glory. Beirut, free from the mud of winter
and the dust of summer, is like a bride int he spring, or like amerjmaid
sitting by the side of a brook drying her smooth skin inteh 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
strainger who longs to go back to his own country. He delights to tell
stories of the past like a poet who takes pleasure in reciting his best
poem. He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes
swiftly, and the future seems to him an approach to the oblivion of the
grave. An hour full of old memories passed like the shadows of the trees
over the grass. When Farris Effandi started to leave, he put his left
hand on my shoulder and shook my right hand, saying, " I have not seen
your father for twenty years. I hope you will l take his place in
frequent visits to my house." I promised gratefully to do my duty toward
a dear friend of my father.
Then the old man left the house, I asked
my friend to tell me more about him. He said, "I do not know any other
man in Beirut whose wealth has made him kind and whose kindness has made
him wealthy. He is one of the few who come to this world and leave it
without harming any one, but people of that kind are usually miserable
and oppressed because they are not clever enough to save themselves from
the crookedness of others. Farris Effandi has one daughter whose
character is similar to his and whose beauty and gracefulness are beyond
description, and she will also be miserable because her father's wealth
is placing her already at the edge of a horrible precipice."
As he uttered these words, I noticed that
his face clouded. Then he continued, "Farris Effandi is a good old man
with a noble heart, but he lacks will power. People lead him like a
blind man. His daughter obeys him in spite of her pride and
intelligence, and this is the secret which lurks in the life of father
and daughter. This secret was discovered by an evil man who is a bishop
and whose wickedness hides in the shadow of his Gospel. He makes the
people believe that he is kind and noble. He is the head of religion in
this land of the religions. The people obey and worship him. he leads
them like a flock of lambs to the slaughter house. This bishop has a
nephew who is full of hatefulness and corruption. The day will come
sooner or later when he will place his nephew on his right and Farris
Effandi's daughter on this left, and, holding with his evil hand the
wreath of matrimony over their heads, will tie a pure virgin to a filthy
degenerate, placing the heart of the day in the bosom of the night.
That is all I can tell you about Farris
Effandi and his daughter, so do not ask me any more questions."
Saying this, he turned his head toward
the window as if he were trying to solve the problems of human existence
by concentrating on the beauty of the universe.
As I left the house I told my friend that
I was going to visit Farris Effandi in a few days for the purpose of
fulfilling my promise and for the sake of the friendship which had
joined him and my father. He stared at me for a moment, and I noticed a
change in his expression as if my few simple words had revealed to him a
new idea. Then he looked straight through my eyes in a strange manner, a
look of love, mercy, and fear -- the look of a prophet who foresees what
no one else can divine. Then his lips trembled a little, but he said
nothing when I started towards the door. That strange look followed me,
the meaning of which I could not understand until I grew up in the world
of experience, where hearts understand each other intuitively and where
spirits are mature with knowledge.
Entrance to the
Shrine
In a few days, loneliness overcame me; and
I tired of the grim faces of books; I hired a carriage and started for
the house of Farris Effandi. As i reached the pine woods where people
went for picnics, the driver took a private way, shaded with willow
trees on each side. Passing through , we could see the beauty of the
green grass, the grapevines, and the many colored 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 eduction. 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
converstion 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 thant 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 color 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
eaach other that day when we met, and did that yearning make me see her
as the most beautiful woman under th sun? Or was I intoxicated with the
wine of youth which made me fancy that which never existed.?
Did my youth blind my natural eyes and
make me imagine the brightness of her eyes, the sweetness of her mouth,
and the grace of her figure? Or was it that her brightness, sweetness,
and grace opened my eyes and showed me the happiness and sorrow of love?
It is hard to answer these questions, but
I say truly that in that hour I felt an emotion that I had never felt
before, a new affection resting calmly in my heart, like the spirit
hovering over the waters at the creation of the world, and from that
affection was born my happiness and my sorrow. Thus ended the hour of my
first meeting with Selma, and thus the will of Heaven freed me from the
bondage of youth and solitude and let me walk in the procession of love.
Love is the only freedom in the world
because it so elevates the spirit that the laws of humanity and the
phenomena of nature do not alter its course.
As I rose from my seat to depart, Farris
Effandi came close to me and said soberly, "Now my son, since you know
your way to this house, you should come often and feel that you are
coming to your father's house. Consider me as a father and Selma as a
sister." Saying this, he turned to Selma as if to ask confirmation of
his statement. She nodded her head positively and then looked at me as
one who has found an old acquaintance.
Those words uttered by Farris Effandi
Karamy placed me side by side with his daughter at the altar of love.
Those words were a heavenly song which started with exaltation and ended
with sorrow; they raised our spirits to the realm of light and searing
flame; they were the cup from which we drank happiness and bitterness.
I left the house. The old man accompanied
me to the edge of the garden, while my heart throbbed like the trembling
lips of a thirsty man.
The White Torch
The month of Nisan had nearly passed. I
continued to visit the home of Farris Effendi and to meet Selma in that
beautiful garden, gazing upon her beauty, marveling 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 vapor.
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 frangrance 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 descibing Selma in plain words since I
cannot draw her truthfully with luminous colors? A hungryman 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 descibe
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 revalation which cannot be measured or
bound or copied by the brush of a painter or the chisel of a sculptor.
Selma's beauty was not in her golden hair, but in the virtue of purity
which surrounded it; not in her large eyes, but in the light which
emanated from them; not in her red lips, but in the sweetness of her
words; not in her ivory neck, but in its slight bow to the front. Nor
was it in her perfect figure, but in the nobility of her spirit, burning
like a white torch between earth and sky. her beauty was like a gift of
poetry. But poets care unhappy people, for, no matter how high their
spirits reach, they will still be enclosed in an envelope of tears.
Selma was deeply thoughtful rather than
talkative, and her silence was a kind of music that carried one to a
world of dreams and made him listen to the throbbing of his heart, and
see the ghosts of his thoughts and feelings standing before him, looking
him in the eyes.
She wore a cloak of deep sorrow through
her life, which increased her strange beauty and dignity, as a tree in
blossom is more lovely when seen through the mist of dawn.
Sorrow linked her spirit and mine, as if
each saw in the other's face what the heart was feeling and heard the
echo of a hidden voice. God had made two bodies in one, and separation
could be nothing but agony.
The sorrowful spirit finds rest when
united with a similar one. They join affectionately, as a stranger is
cheered when he sees another stranger in a strange land. Hearts that are
united through the medium of sorrow will not be separated by the glory
of happiness. Love that is cleansed by tears will remain externally pure
and beautiful.
The Tempest
One day Farris Effandi invited me to dinner
at his home. I accepted, my spirit hungry for the divine bread which
Heaven placed in the hands of Selma, the spiritual bread which makes our
hearts hungrier the more we eat of it. It was this bread which Kais, the
Arabian poet, Dante, and Sappho tasted and which set their hearts afar;
the bread which the Goddess prepares with the sweetness of kisses and
the bitterness of tears.
As I reached the home of Farris Effandi,
I saw Selma sitting on a bench in the garden resting her head against a
tree and looking like a bride in her white silk dress, or like a
sentinel guarding that place.
Silently and reverently I approached and
sat by her. I could not talk; so I resorted to silence, the only
language of the heart, but I felt that Selma was listening to my
wordless call and watching the ghost of my soul in my eyes.
In a few minutes the old man came out and
greeted me as usual. When he stretched his hand toward me, I felt as if
he were blessing the secrets that united me and his daughter. Then he
said, "Dinner is ready, my children; let us eat. "We rose and followed
him, and Selma's eyes brightened; for a new sentiment had been added to
her love by her father's calling us his children.
We sat at the table enjoying the food and
sipping the old wine, but our souls were living in a world far away. We
were dreaming of the future and its hardships.
Three persons were separated in thoughts,
but united in love; three innocent people with much feeling but little
knowledge; a drama was being performed by an old man who loved his
daughter and cared for her happiness, a young woman of twenty looking
into the future with anxiety, and a young man, dreaming and worrying,
who had tasted neither the wine of life nor its vinegar, and trying to
reach the height of love and knowledge but unable to life himself up. We
three sitting in twilight were eating and drinking in that solitary
home, guarded by Heaven's eyes, but at the bottoms of our glasses were
hidden bitterness and anguish.
As we finished eating, one of the maids
announced the presence of a man at the door who wished to see Farris
Effandi. "Who is he?" asked the old man. "The Bishop's messanger," 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 mustache 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 disapperaed. 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 dewlt 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 th 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 trrembling voice, "Yes, I heard you -- I heard a voice coming
from the bosom of night and a clamor 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 throught 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 shirne, 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 siad, "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 sheding 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.
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 neighborhood until it reached
my ears.
The discussion that took place between
Bishop Buols 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 oriantal 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
odor 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 worhsip 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 heavenlylove 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 splendor 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 whith 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 vigor of mankind and the glory of the
unvierse, 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 harship. 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 nightingaleyes, were already sunken and glazed with
sorrow and pain. Her face, that had resembled the unfolding, sunkissed
leaves of a lily, had faded and become colorless. 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 beauitiful, regardless of the symmetry of its features.
The cup does not entice our lips unless the wine's color 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!"
Learing 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 tranverse 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?"
Learing 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
traveler 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 spirng, 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, hoplessness, and
pain. Then she cried, " Oh, Lord, what has a woman done that hath
offedend 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 unknow 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
thorne 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 clamor, more frightening than the roar of
a lion.
I reached my room, and like a wounded
bird shot down by a hunter, I fell on my bed, repeating the words of
Selma: "Oh, Lord God, have mercy on me and mend my broken wings!"
Before the
Throne of Death
Marriage in these days is a mockery whose
management is in the hands of young men and parents. In most countries
the young men win while the parents lose. The woman is looked upon as a
commodity, purchased and delivered from one house to another. In time
her beauty fades and she becomes like an old piece of furniture left in
a dark corner.
Modern civilization has made woman a
little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man's
convetousness. 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 perlexity that sucked the bolld 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 politcal 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 convetousness and crush their neighbors 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 specter 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
tranquility. 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
neighbor'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 specters of doom and can hear
only the beating of our agitated hearts
Between Christ
& 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
frouth 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 tht 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
pictues and make them look as if they were painted with gold water
color. In the middle of the tmeple there is a square marble with old
paintings on its sides, some of which can hardly be seen under the
pertified 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 worldlessly 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 colored 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 secual 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.
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 reponded, "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 mettings 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 whipser 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
stong 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 naivete 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 tranquility.) 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 diminshing 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 honroable 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 determiantion 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 Hevean 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 honorable. And this
sincerity was in Selma Karamy.
The Rescuer
Five years of Selma's marriage passed
without bringing children to stengthen 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 streched on the bed of pain and labor, 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
neighbors, 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 quiverd 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
neighbors 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 incresed 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
reveretnly 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 hilding 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.