to him openly, and he answered, "I am ill, May" — and the chance was lost... Most probably this is the truth of the matter...

There is a point I wish to make clear. It was never established, to any living creature nor to May's own doctors, that she actually went mad — and not every inmate of the Asfouriyeh is a madman. On the contrary: what Rihani, for example, related was confirmed — that when he visited her in the hospital, after his unintended neglect of her, she did not speak a single word to him because she bore him a grievance — and the mad do not bear grievances. Moreover, her refusal to receive friends in her last days in Cairo is no proof of the derangement of her mental powers: many of us, in times of private difficulty or private pain, have no wish to meet people...

All that appeared in May's last years, and all that was written, and all that the friends who visited her said, proves only one thing: that she was very tired. And it is no small thing that her father died in 1929, her mother in 1930, and Gibran in 1931 — no small thing for a girl who was a bundle of refined sensibility... Had the girl been other than May — with a position of her own, an independent household, and many friends — she would not have been so shattered; but May's calamity lay in her heart — and how quickly are hearts torn that are like the petals of roses...

And after all this, May had pages, as a woman and not as a writer, deserving of admiration: a passion for letters that made her spend her life among inkwells and papers instead of losing herself in amuse-ment and luxury; a greatness that made her heart know whom to choose and whom to love... a self-respect that may have cost her

the chance of a lifetime... a virtue that made Wali al-Din Yakan address his letters to her thus: To the Virtuous Lady of the East... a devotion to her parents that became proverbial... qualities to which, when intelligence is added, and a radiance I shall not attempt to number, made her a weave all her own, and taught us how much the East lost in losing her...

And finally — what is May's share of immortality? Only thirteen years have passed since her death, and already her memory would be well-nigh forgotten but for this

generous station and its like... It has been said that there is a street called May Street, but to this day I do not know where it is... The women's organizations have for-gotten her: no memorial gathering, nor anything like one, as though she were not one of the glories of woman... What I fear most is that a quarter of a century will not pass before her memory is blotted out, save in books over which the spider has spun its houses in some libraries. God rest her soul...

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