"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

Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris

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