The Last Horse-Carriage

The night is past its middle... The broad paved street now looks wider and larger than it did by day; a strange stillness broods over it under the faint moonlight... Not a passer-by is to be seen in it, and the long line of motorcars that divided it in two by day has vanished. Now the moon sends its blue light down on the sheets of tin above the shop, giving them long shadows of strange shape.

From one of the turnings a man appears, wanting to ride in a motorcar. He runs his eye down the length of the street, but there is no trace of motorcars at this late hour of the night; there is only a horse-car-riage that does not stir, as though its owner were asleep. The man goes to it and climbs up into the carriage; Asaad the coachman rouses himself and chides his horses, and the carriage moves off... How delicious an outing at this quiet hour of the night! Asaad breathes in the cold, refreshing air and listens to the music of the horses' hoofs as they strike the ground in measured time.

But there is something that troubles his mind a little, and the trouble grows the nearer he comes to the goal of his journey: he must deliver this passenger to where he wants to go after climbing a stiff rise, and he pictures the scene in his imagination thus: the carriage reaches the middle of the rise slowly, and there the shod hoofs of one of the horses

slip on the asphalt; the carriage rolls back a little, then stops. The passenger leans out from inside the carriage, and in a voice mingled with anxiety and strain:

— What has happened?

— Nothing, nothing — only, only this rise is hard.

Then he climbs down from his seat, goes to his horses, speaks to them gently, and tries to get them walking. Ah, what an ordeal that trial is! Asaad's thoughts go back ten years, to when driving a carriage was easy and most of the roads were without asphalt — and how plentiful the earnings were in those days! Now, with these motorcars about, he scarcely earns enough to feed the horses and care for them; and did he not love them like his own children, he would have sold his carriage and taken up another trade, as all the coachmen have done...

Here he is now, draw-ing near the ill-omened rise. What is to be done? No — he will not climb it; he will make a wide circuit and bring the passenger to his house by another road, to spare himself the humiliation, the vexation of spirit, and the horses' weariness. Asaad passes the fork of the rise and ignores it, without so much as a glance. A little later the

passenger notices what he takes to be a mistake on the coachman's part:

— What's the matter with you, coachman — still asleep? Have you forgotten the way?

— No; but I wanted to avoid that cursed rise where the horses slip ever since the municipality asphalted it — and the drive now is a fine one.

— Who told you I wanted a drive? I'm in a hurry; I have no time to waste.

Then the passenger passes from the tone of anger to the tone of pity:

— Take one piece of advice from me: sell your carriage and the horses, and buy a motorcar.

A Porter

The porter, his back a little bent under his load, his legs bare despite the cold, walks hurriedly along the sidewalk with small steps, his basket dancing on his back.

Now he stops suddenly and bends to the ground to pick up a piece of newspaper thrown away, and studies it long, with relish. He can scarcely read, but in this newspa-per are pictures of some scenes from a Tarzan film — his highest ideal of strength and heroism. This film will be shown next week, so he must find a way to save up the price of seeing it. The man who sells the tickets

at the door is a good fellow; he does not mind if the fee falls short by five or ten piasters. Then he touches the crumpled piece of newspaper with care, folds it, and puts it in the pocket of his trousers. A ray of light has gleamed in his features, and his soul is eased by these thoughts, so that he forgets that he is cold in his thin clothes and that he has eaten nothing this morning. And he continues on his way, trotting with small steps that make no sound.

Beirut Dusk in Winter

The rain has made of the asphalt road a distort-ing mirror. The electric lights are reflected in it in the shape of tall, crooked columns of light glittering in the darkness. It is now only six o'clock, but in Kanun night comes on early and the darkness falls suddenly: one thinks oneself still in daytime, and sees nothing but the lights illuminating the streets, with night already drawn near. A motorcar passes, and in the light of its lamp appear the slanting threads of the rain; and the lights are mirrored on the surface of the road as in a black lake. The chestnut vendor has taken shelter from the rain under the awning of a shop. And there a boy has drawn close to the warmth of his brazier; he watches the chestnut's shell split open upon the whiteness of its heart as it roasts on the fire with a faint hiss. The passers-by are few, and they quicken their steps before the rain grows heavier, careless whether their feet plunge into the little pools of water.