I was in my eager, ambitious school days — the days of looking forward and thirsting for knowledge — when I received a precious gift sent to me by a cousin of mine who cared for culture and letters.. an issue of the magazine al-Mar'a al-Jadida, to be followed by the issues of a full year. I rejoiced at it exceedingly, and seized the kind gift as a hungry, thirsty man seizes a cup of cold laban. And in one of its numbers I read for the first time the name of Mrs. Salma Sayegh, inscribed beneath her beautiful picture as she bent over her little daughter “Aida.”
This picture has remained drawn in my mind, and remains so to this day, for it carried many meanings to which the soul is drawn: “the tenderness of motherhood,” and “innocence,” and “the beauty of love and tenderness looking out from the mother's eyes,” and “the fresh youth of letters manifest in her features,” and “the intelligence radiating from her eyes.” These shades within the picture acquainted me with Mrs. Salma and endeared her to me. And what drew me on to read her book al-Nasamat was the masterly way in which Mrs. Julia Tu'mah Dimashqiyah, proprietress of al-Mar'a al-Jadida, announced it. Mrs. Julia possesses a mastery in the art of journalism, and a gentle tact in the courtesies of introduction between writer and reader.
I am not concerned here to speak of al-Nasamat and the subjects and sections within it which the late Mrs. Salma was the first of the women of the first renaissance to broach; al-Nasamat still comes and goes between the bookshelf and the reader, for it is the breezes of the spirit for the
spirit, and the gift of one generation to the next generation and to the generations that follow it.
And her book only deepened the acquaintance the “picture” had begun; for it was a lucid book, which opened before me in those days wide horizons of reflection and understanding, and furnished me with ideas, aims, and feelings that were planted like a seed in the soil of my mind, then ready for fertilization — and it would almost have grown into a palm with clusters hanging low, had the scorching winds of despair not overtaken it, drying its blossom before budding and bearing fruit.
Every writer and poet has in our minds a picture and a frame; and this picture may be a poem from a collection, or a verse from a poem, or a chapter from a book, or a spiritual meaning embracing the whole book between its two covers. What minds and talents produce are souls wandering among the parts and the chapters, and the sentences and the words meet our souls in a cycle of reading and understanding, and mingle with them in a flood of love and affection, until they become an inseparable part of them; they live in us and grow within our thoughts, and out of them our spiritual, moral, and literary being takes shape. As for Salma's picture, it was, in the eyes of my mind in those days, a spiritual meaning embracing a whole book whose meaning could be read though its words were veiled; and I absorbed it, and comprehended it.
Who is there that does not know you, Salma — you who stood defending the rights of the daughters of your sex with indescribable ardor in the salons, on the platforms, and in your many writings? Your voice still rings in every gathering and in every institute. You are still alive in your abundant services to your nation and your language; alive to the women's associations, which remember you whenever devotion is mentioned; alive to your friends, who remember you whenever struggle is mentioned. How many thoughts you nourished, how many minds you brought to flower, how many understandings you broadened, and what lofty principles you planted in the hearts of the rising generation! If there is happiness in fruitful work, it is yours; and if there is merit in struggle, it is worthy of you.
I once visited the Dahr al-Bashiq sanatorium with Salma, to attend a celebration of the feast commemorating the birth of Christ the Lord. We entered the patients' rooms and saw a consumptive suffering from his disease, all hope of recovery cut off; and Salma set about comforting him with her sweet words, easing his pain and making him forget his affliction. No sooner had we finished this round than I saw her weeping bitterly. Then she said to me: Is there any misery worse than this misery? She remained shaken until we entered the kitchen, where she asked the cook what these dear ones were fed. He said: such-and-such, and boiled potatoes. She said: Give me two. She peeled them and said: Take, my dear — eat, and do not fear contagion; for the diseases of society are many, and they kill soul and body together.
Sleep secure in your tomb, my beloved. Upon your grave the lily and the jasmine have sprung up, and their fragrance perfumes the city of the dead, as your memory perfumes the city of the living.
