The morning breathed — and how lovely is its breathing on feast days — and yawned forth cold, biting breezes that blew, tickling the pages of the bare shrubs, shaking hands with the gleaming ingots of snow... And the daughter of light rose from her hiding place, timid and apprehensive, looking out upon the world in bashfulness and modesty, as though she feared the massed black armies of night standing with weapons drawn — pitch-dark shadows and nights of deepest blackness... Then she sent out her golden threads, slipping through the openings and the chinks to those sunk in dreams, summoning them to rise early — for this day is a day like no other day... a day on which light and faith were born, a guidance to all the worlds... a day on which love and forgiveness found their way into human hearts... a day on which the greatest Savior was born, to stand as the eternal, undying example of tolerance and pardon, of love and faith...
And in a dark, dim room — dark save for a narrow chink where the curtains hanging over the windows parted — on a modest bed lay Suad, her eyes closed, sunk in a long slumber...
The inquisitive light crept in to her through the opening and gently tickled her cheeks, and before long it woke her from her dreams; she began to stir restlessly where she lay, passing her hand over her brow, and quickly closed her eyes again, to make herself believe she was still deep in her sleep... When she realized that she could not return to her quiet slumber, she threw the cover aside and, with a nervous movement, leapt from her bed and set about drawing back the curtains and opening the windows; then she stood on the balcony, contemplating nature dressed in her loveliest robes in celebration of the coming of the feast... From far, far away the ringing of the bells drifted to her, pealing and resounding... And in a far corner of the street her eye was caught by a cluster of children in their bright, embroidered clothes, up early to welcome the feast with rejoicing... And Suad sighed... and from her depths rose a burning sigh whose flame she felt mounting from her mouth and scorching her cheeks... Would that she had stayed an artless child like these — then she would have felt the feast, and pieced together some meaning for happiness...
God help these people — what fools! Do they impose it on all mankind to rejoice on one single day, saying to them: Today is your feast, O people, so rejoice?...
And then, what are these superstitions that have taken such hold of their minds, blinding their sight and leading them off the road, so that they have come to believe in these legends which people hand down generation after generation — holding celebrations for them, keeping evening gatherings, reviving memories?... How many, many years had this artless story
been repeated in her hearing, and how many times had she seen it acted on stages and in the corners of houses and drawing rooms: a dark grotto... a small child in a little manger... a woman in simple dress crooning over him... strange folk arriving with gifts... a shining star appearing in the heart of the sky... anthems and hymns, repeated year after year until the ear all but wearies of them and the taste recoils...
Her imagination carried her back to those bygone days, when she still believed in such superstitions — when he was still at her side...
He had left her on a day just like this one, after promising to return — and after he had breached her honor; and so people took to wagging their tongues