had kept apart for three years and more. The real motive, I say, was to explore certain spots suitable for the establishment of a sana-torium to shelter tens, nay hun-dreds, of the patients for whom the sanatoria of the mountains of Beirut had grown too crowded. This friend of mine was the soul of kindness when he woke us — myself and a third friend — at five o'clock on the morning after our arrival, to reconnoiter the jurd before the August sun overtook us with its heat. He was kind, too, when he would wait for us to catch up with him — and how was I to keep pace with a moun-taineer in climbing, I, a son of the plain, unaccustomed to climbing mountains, my health, besides, being out of sorts in those days? Even so we managed to reach al-Ghars, and we found it a beau-tiful spot, distinguished by its enchanting views, its dry air, the nearness of water, and the other qualities that must be present for the project we had in hand.

My friend would not let me go home, once our task was done, without introducing me to a singular personality, one that in its quiet way of living may be obscure in these days, but will never remain so in the future. That future may stretch on for us beyond his eternal rest, but his immortal works will speak of his splendid artistic merits. Such is our affliction in the East: we give a genius no weight until fate has folded his page... Then the newspapers follow after him, his friends weep for him, and the learned and literary bodies and the rest commemorate his memory... after having disowned him in his lifetime, while offi-cialdom neglected him. Our artist renounced the life of luxury lived by his peers, the sons of the notables in the cities; he forsook Beirut, bride of our Arab East, after his soul had wearied of its clamor and of the meddling of its sons — he, the scion of a house famed in politics and in religion. He forsook it for the countryside, where there is quiet, rest, and peace of mind — or say, if you will, where there is silent work to

satisfy his passion for his art, his learning, and his letters, where no one disturbs him with prying and intrusion — for a remote village where he owns a small piece of land...

And so our aim was to trouble the artist's serenity and to invade him in his hermitage — a hermitage which I predict will become a shrine to rival the Gibran museum in Bsharri, if it does not surpass it, for reasons that will become clear to you, reader, when you have finished this piece.

I believe our artist did not choose the site of his hermitage merely for its quiet, for the villages of Lebanon are quiet one and all...

I think rather that his choice fell upon it — and he is the expert in such matters — because it lies far from the motor road, and because it commands enchanting views that kindle in his soul the fire of art and inspire him with art's revelation; and so this hermitage is itself a piece of art — nay, everything in it is a speaking witness to his genius.

The first thing, as you enter the hermitage, you are met by a girl who has laid her forefinger on

her lips, signing to you to be silent... And this girl is nothing but a mute stone built into the wall on the northern side, directly above the door, which he was able to make speak in an exquisite symbolic form.

He received us with a cheerful face wrinkled by the years... and by cares, if I may speak out about the impression his ambitious soul left upon mine. He welcomed us most warmly, and I do not exaggerate when I say that his pleasure grew and his delight swelled when my friend presented me to him: “May I present Mr. So-and-So... from Iraq.” He was most generous in answering every question I put to him. Though I cannot claim to be an artist, I say frankly that I savor art and value it, and that I encourage those with gifts and talents to press on with their work toward the lofty aims they pursue. When he sensed this in me, he began showing me his works, which I have the right to call prodigious — works he completed within a year and part of a year. He left no piece of his sculpture without telling me its story... And whatever I may forget, I shall not forget the statue of the naked girl, which he carved in yellow stone — the front face of the figure only — leaving around it a beautiful frame of rough, unpol-ished stone... How I wished to acquire it! But my tongue would not help me declare my desire, so I whispered in my friend's ear, begging him to ask him how much a statue like that would cost to make. When he drew him aside and put my question to him... he was silent a moment... then said to me: “I hope you will honor us with a visit of a whole day — I shall prepare you a simple lunch... Then I shall be able to make a statue of you... and present it as a gift to the son of Iraq.” By God, how generous the man is! To make a statue of my person! — when I wanted nothing but the one I had picked out. His generos-ity tied my tongue, so that I could not declare my true wish, but contented myself with thanking him and giving him my promise.