sorrow, in its depth, is equal to a sea of joy in its breadth — because misery is a reality and happiness a phantom."
And after that I read her words, addressed to that unknown one: "You and I are two prisoners among the prisoners of life; and as prisoners are known by their numbers, each of us is known by his name... I shall pour out my sorrows to you — I whom you see so merry — and count over for you the burdens that have bowed my wings, I who walk hedged about with wings, crowned with garlands... I shall imagine, a thousand thousand times, to what degree you can be tender, that I may know to what degree you can love... And in the depths of my soul thanks rise up to you like incense, because you breathed into me what all the others failed to give... Do you know that — you whom I do not wish to know it??..." I read this and I say: did the woman within the writer have her own secret? And did the heart choose the road which its owner would not approve for it, so that there came the struggle of the soul, and then the breaking?
May was faithful to her sister woman, and there is no better proof of this fidelity than her books on the famous women of her age — Bahithat al-Badiya the Egyptian, and Warda al-Yaziji the Lebanese; she also published in the newspaper al-Muqattam long chapters on Aisha al-Taymuriyya which, had they been gathered, would have made a book...
May was a true Easterner. She saw the East with its faults and its ills, but it remained her great East, the East of song and of chivalry — ignorant, poor, its joints unstrung, but her hope in it was great as life and as liberty.
May understood the women's renaissance with a true understanding; neither her Western culture nor her visits to the West could do other than deepen her understanding of this renaissance. She addresses the modern woman with bitter frankness, saying: "Come back from your long outings and your numerous
visits, and come before the little one's cradle and beg his pardon. Nature formed you a woman before you were a beauty, and fitted you to be a mother before society made you a caller."
And May passed away after a life not long; the world gave her much of what it gives — standing, fame, and glory. But May's misfortune was in her heart — and how wretched are the sensitive hearts!... Her life was a story in which misery walked beside happiness, but the story ended in
a calamitous tragedy. And I seem to see her, the breath rattling in her breast, in the darkened room — her senses shattered, she who was a flame of intelligence; alone, with no one to give her a sip of water — she whom the Arabs feted wherever she alighted... I see her, and I go back to the merry girl running beside the slave in the red caftan, laughing her warbling laugh, and I cry out: O Nature, how merciful you are to us when you let down the thick curtains between us and the future!
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