burden and some of the family, until —

until it drew near the house; and there — there, and only there — another car came out of the opposite street, and in but a few seconds there was a terrible collision which smashed my friend's car. Yet no one was hurt — no one, save my wife, whom I lost from that hour.

I was all but struck dead when the news reached me. I forgot the house and the family, and forgot this child, who fell ill and was sent to the hospital, there to find in you a mother to tend his condition and take pity on the orphanhood that had become his lot. But love is a killer, Salwa — would that I had not loved my wife to such a degree.

...

Never mind, Nadim, said Salwa; you are nothing but a big child. But what is this? You have lost the way, and I see you have come back into the city a second time. — Nadim sighed, then said: A small error, soon set right; a passing aberration, easily left behind. And now, will you not tell me about yourself and how you have fared during these five years in which I have not once seen your face?

Salwa pictured her house standing beside Nadim's house; pictured Nadim's mother describing her as his sister and as dearer than a sister; pictured her innocent childhood, when the two of them would frolic in the orchards, she pelting him with green almonds while he swore he would catch every sparrow that sheltered in her little garden. Then she pictured him running about, after the preparations, to adorn his house; and pictured herself welcoming his wife after the family had resolved to break with him and with her; and finally she pictured herself going far from the house and all who were in it, turning her steps toward the hospital to work there at easing humanity's afflictions — so as to be far from surroundings where to remain was unbearable, so

bitter were the memories. Salwa pictured all this, and in a calm, beautiful voice she answered:

You ask me about my life, Nadim? My life is like the life of these trees you see before you, spread along both sides of the road, green and splendid: the storms of winter do

A Voice

Riyad al-Azhari

And a voice that holds, of the nights of spring, a beloved of evening converse,

And in it the echo of the roses' whisperings in the ear of dawn,

And a melody dewy-soft, like the clouds' confiding and the bounty of the moon,

So beautiful that the whisperings of the lute-string long to pour it forth;

For the courtship of lovers is not more beloved, nor more lasting in its trace,

Nor the refrains of prayer more majestic, nor sweeter to remember,

Nor the soft notes of the nightingales more plaintive — nor are they warmer,

Nor the trilling of maidens more delicious, nor more captivating...

...Long ago I dreamed of a mouth lavish with perfume and pearls,

And of a heart fluttering in my ribs, its longing ablaze,

That yearns toward a melody inspiring poetry, prompting thought,

And inclines toward a lip that bends with dazzling promises,

And drowses to the lullabies of sweet visions and images.

them no harm, nor does the glory of summer gladden them. They are ever green, whether the clouds gather and brood in the sky above them, or the weather clears or darkens with whatever rains and tempests it sends down upon them. They are ever green, Nadim; it makes no difference to them whether

the sun shines upon them with its warm rays or the snow weighs them down with its heavy white flakes. My life, Nadim, is like the life of these trees — but how noble the trees are! For they can smile in the face of the storm, and return the shining sun greeting for greeting; and they can bend in tenderness over every child of man who stands in need of tenderness.

...

Home!! Home!! said the child as he woke from his doze. Shall I see Mother there? And Nadim kept silent before this question for the second time, while the nurse said: No, my dear, you will not find your mother there; your mother is now in a beautiful place whose beauty surpasses the description of any place... And shall I be allowed to see her there? asked the child. — Yes, my dear, said the nurse, but that will be at night, when the sultan of sleep visits you and shows you a vision of those people you love.

The child fell silent and tried to sleep, while the car kept up its rush, folding up the streets fold upon fold. A gentle breeze blew upon two frowning faces, and upon a third face whose small owner had surrendered to sleep. Phantoms pass through the imaginations of Salwa and Nadim, and each reviews them in his own mind; memories surge up from the world of the unseen and print themselves before Nadim's face, and he remembers and remembers — remembers his cousin's tenderness, remembers her family's fury at his marriage, and remembers, above all this, the affection she had shown toward his child. And suddenly he becomes aware that he has spent five successive years in chains to a mirage, following it and taking it for water itself. But man is driven, not free to choose; let him, then, make of his tragedies lessons on which to build his future, and the future of this child whose life depends upon him and upon his conduct. And suddenly Nadim turns to Salwa and asks — Salwa, do you love me?...