Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris

"My beloved brother Youssef. Every evening my soul returns to Paris and hovers among its houses. And every morning I wake thinking of those days we spent among the temples of art and the meadows of dreams..."

Gibran
Boston, November 28, 1910

Howayek spoke to me of his friend Gibran. He said:

I came in upon him in our studio in Paris in the spring of 1910 and found him seated as usual, before him on the table the cup of coffee and the ever-burning cigarette, its smoke rising upward in lazy curls until it vanished into the air of the room... and between his fingers the pen — writing and erasing, then writing... and erasing... He turned to me with dreaming eyes, as though relieved at my coming, and began to chant: "O Gibran, what is this silence, and what has come over you, that you have neglected inkwells and books?" And Gibran added, with a smile of contentment mixed with unease on his lips: "That is what an Egyptian poet I have never met wrote... People, Youssef, are always demanding of me, pressing me to let them hear something new... And if you only knew what precious treasures I have... If only words would bend to my will... Look!"

He handed me a sheet covered from top to bottom with writing over which the eraser had passed in quick, nervous strokes, leaving intact here and there a few truncated phrases: "When I came of age... at the age of twenty... when I opened my eyes to the light..."

My eyes took him in... an artist, a poet, far-reaching in ambition, short of means, weary of his condition, wrathful at his world...

"Take it easy, Gibran, and ease yourself of some of these cares. Who told you that reform cannot come except through writing? Who told you that art is not a stronger agent than words? And how much safer it would be, Gibran, if we held only one watermelon in our hand!!

Come along. I have a pleasant surprise... In a few minutes one of Botticelli's goddesses will be here — a simple Italian girl I met yesterday evening in one of the academies of Montparnasse. She is magnificent, Gibran. She is sure to please you. Where are the paints?"

In the midst of our preparations to receive the new guest a light tap was heard at the door, and the "Madonna" entered, wearing a warm green dress and on her head a shawl of springtime green, carrying in her hand my slip of paper with Gibran's address on it...

"This is Mr. Gibran... and this is Miss...?"
"Rosetta..."

Rosetta lifted the shawl from her head, and a cascade of loose hair shone out, the color of burnt gold... Gibran's eyes gasped and he whispered in Arabic, transfixed:
"My eyes have never yet seen anything more beautiful than this hair." I answered him:
"And your eyes will now see the most beautiful of women's bodies." And I spoke to the girl in Italian: "Rosetta, take off your clothes." With perfect simplicity and assurance Rosetta removed her clothes and turned to us with the one question she knew well:
"What pose would you like me to take?"

Gibran thought long before answering:
"As though you were floating in space, Miss... borne on the arms of angels... toward heaven!" And he pointed to a table over which a rug and a few cushions had been spread. Rosetta lay down on her back, raising her left side and her right arm a little, and Gibran began propping her up with the cushions, murmuring in Arabic:

"These are the angels... Ah, would that I were one of them." And in French: "Are you comfortable like this, Miss?"
"Thank you!"...

She asked me in Italian: "What language does your friend speak?" I answered her: "Lebanese." She understood "Japanese," and so she asked: "Are you Japanese, then?" — "Yes!!"

Here the stage of acquaintance and preliminaries ended, and Gibran and I became absorbed in drawing the beautiful young woman's body borne on the arms of angels, Gibran now thinking aloud, now humming: "O Gibran, what is this silence..." — while Rosetta looked now at my face and now at Gibran's, until drowsiness crept into her eyelids; she bowed her head a little and the locks of her hair hung down over her shoulders in a picture than which nothing could be more beautiful or more wonderful!

An atmosphere of awesome silence settled over us before this pure, virginal beauty, and like a flash of lightning the three-quarters of an hour appointed for the work came to an end and the time for rest arrived. Gibran asked Rosetta whether she wished to rest, and she answered lazily, without opening her eyes:

"Is there any rest greater than this rest? Go on with your work..."

And the two brushes strayed once more into the transparency and brilliance of the colors, drawing their inspiration from naked beauty amid pure, divine promptings. And Gibran, deep in thought, asked me, without turning his gaze from the gentle, reposing body:

"Ah! If my fingers obeyed my brain and my feelings, Gibran would work wonders!... What do you know, Youssef, about this girl?"
"I met her yesterday at the academy, and her body pleased me. At the end of the session some of the artists came up to ask her whether she was free the next day, and she kept shaking her head no. I had learned that she was Italian, so I came forward in my turn, placed a franc in her hand, and asked her in her own language whether she was free. Her eyes flashed and she answered: 'One day only' — perhaps she wanted to try it out — so I wrote your address for her..."

A little later Gibran said in his deep voice: "Who knows — perhaps this girl needs our help and our protection. Paris is full of dangers, especially for the lambs..."

Gibran at that stage of his life was under the influence of a certain state of mind that I used to call "Franciscan": his whole concern was the reform of the universe, the protection of the weak, and the expression of absolute humanity, chivalry, and gallantry...

The session ended, and Gibran paid Rosetta two and a half francs... for we had made it our custom to pay the fee by turns, and that day it was his turn!!

(In the next issue: the story of Rosetta and Rodin)