Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris

— 3 —

...After the "music and dancing" party was over, I tried to pay two francs each to Rosine and Marguerite, but Rosine — the one who did the talking — refused with proud disdain,

objecting emphatically:
"You are not Rodin!"
"No, alas!" I answered her.
And she added, shaking my hand in a beaming farewell:
"I am free next week."
And she could sit for me on Monday morning...

...On the way to the Baudet restaurant Gibran looked pale and something like dejected. When I asked him the reason he said: "Do you know, Youssef — Rodin did not come to the afternoon party... And I feel a pain in my throat... perhaps because I talked so much... I have no appetite for food... And tomorrow morning I have an appointment with a film director, and I have no strength to converse with him in the state you see me in..."

When we reached the restaurant Gibran took his leave of me with apologies and walked on, helping himself along on a cane that never, ever left him.

The first thing that met me as I entered the restaurant was the face of my friend "Calmy." He was waiting for me, rose cheering at the sight of me, and burst out at once:
"Your instinct was good, Youssef. You have succeeded in selling the painting. Here are the five hundred francs. 'Cubism' is in demand. If I were you I would hurry up and make another! And I would make it 'Cubist' too!"

This Calmy was an energetic young Jewish fellow, jealous for my interests so long as they were bound up with his own! He would sell some of my artistic works for a commission. I rejoiced in the five hundred francs, despite my loathing for this sort of art, and I obeyed my friend "Calmy" and spent the whole of Sunday drawing tangled lines and strange shapes and clashing colors in a harmonious composition, until I fancied I had succeeded; and I sat down to wait for "Calmy," reading in a book on "The Origins of Christianity" by Renan...

In the depth of my absorption in reading the epistles of Saint Paul, there came to me the priest whom Gibran usually employed for some of his errands, summoning me quickly, because Gibran was ill and complaining of a pain in his throat. So I left a note for "Calmy" pinned to the door — night had already begun to settle over Paris — and hurried off to Gibran's, and there he was, thrown fully dressed on the divan, his eyes shut with the violence of the pain. I rose at once and lit the gas lamp, and Gibran, sensing movement, opened his eyes with effort, and when he saw me he murmured in a choked voice: "You have come, Youssef — I beg you, do not leave me alone. I am going to choke, I am going to die!" And with a moan that was almost weeping he added: "Mother, oh Mother!"

The concierge came hurrying at the sound of the moaning, carrying a plate of hot soup, and said to me anxiously:
"Monsieur Gibran has eaten nothing all day..."

In vain I tried to persuade Gibran that he must eat, if only a few spoonfuls of hot soup, but he insisted on turning his face away and shutting his mouth, letting out a continuous moan and mumbling an obscure delirium at which my heart contracted and the tears started from my eyes, and I stood at a loss, not knowing what to do!

At that moment I was rescued by the entrance of "Calmy," as though he had dropped from heaven! When he grasped the situation he said to me without hesitating: "I see, my friend, that you do not know how to manage in matters like these. What? You, with tears in your eyes?! The doctor! The doctor! I am going this instant to fetch the doctor..."

And he vanished at a trot, to return after ten minutes — which seemed to me an eternity — accompanied by a young man — a Jew, naturally! — who hastened to feel Gibran's pulse and examine his throat and said in a confident tone: "Acute angina!" He took some tablets from his handbag, dissolved them in water, and set to pushing them by force with a teaspoon into Gibran's mouth; then he tilted his head gently backward and worked the teaspoon inside his throat, and Gibran started and retched, and was seized by a fit of coughing in which he began to throw up clots and blood, until it seemed to me that he was somewhat relieved; and the doctor charged me that he must gargle every hour or so...

After the doctor had gone I took the mattress down from the plank bed and laid it flat on the divan, and helped Gibran out of his clothes and into his pajamas. Then I stretched out near him on the carpet, reading the story of "Père

Goriot" by Balzac; then I turned the lamp down low and gave myself up to sleep. And every time Gibran got up to gargle, as the doctor had directed, he would say to me: "I am afraid you are cold, Youssef. My overcoat is in the wardrobe." And I would answer him:
"I sleep in my youth, with 'the angels' around me, so I feel no cold!"

In the morning I lit the "spirit" stove to boil water and prepared tea and milk. Gibran was worn out with exhaustion, but he managed to drink a cup of tea with a few biscuits and some jam. He stayed in bed, but he did not sink into silence as he had the day before; he set to analyzing the mystery of life and death, and to teasing me:
"If I had died last night, what would you have done, Youssef?"
"I would have followed after you... And now, no more talk... Talking hurts your gullet!!"

"Your parents, Youssef, are still alive, and so are your brothers; as for me, my mother has died, and my sister, and my brother, and I do not know what has become of my father." His voice choked with emotion, and after a little he resumed:
"I shall die before you, Youssef, there is no doubt of it. I ask you, from this moment, to set upon my grave a lion rearing up and roaring!"
"And I ask you, Gibran, to be quiet now. Enough of death and graves and lions..."

Then we heard Rosine's knock on the door, and I went to meet her and told her of Gibran's condition, apologizing that we could not work, and trying to pay her the two and a half francs; but she refused and resisted petulantly — "I have told you again and again, you are not Rodin. Where is Monsieur Gibran?" And she came toward him and, like a tender mother, felt his forehead, then turned to me and asked anxiously:
"Who looks after him and washes his clothes?"
"The concierge!"
She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in disapproval and asked:
"Where are the pillowcase and the shirts and the socks and the handkerchiefs?"
And of her own accord she went to the wardrobe, opened it, examined the clothes and gathered up whatever seemed to her to need washing, paying no attention whatever to my attempts to stop her or to Gibran's protests from afar... And after she had changed the pillowcase, as though she alone gave the orders here, she wrapped the clothes up into a bundle, tucked it under her arm, and said as she opened the door:
"I shall come back tomorrow."

Gibran turned to me, perplexity plain upon his face, as though illness had allowed doubt to steal into those dreaming eyes:
"Do you think she will come back, Youssef? She has taken the shirts and the socks! Are you sure of her? Do you at least know her address?"
"Set your mind at rest, Gibran. I am as sure of Rosine as I am of my sister the nun, and I know her address here and in Italy..." Then I told him of my receiving the five hundred francs, the price of the painting, and that I had an appointment with Calmy to hand over the second painting! Reassurance settled over Gibran's features, and he sat up straight, saying:
"I am hungry, Youssef. Bring something back with you for me to eat from Madame Baudet's restaurant — marrows, if possible!"

Toward evening Gibran's condition improved, and he insisted on taking a stroll, on condition that he wrap his neck in a scarf; so we walked slowly along together on a stretch of the bank of the Seine, looking at the prints and books on display and commenting on whatever it pleased us to comment on.

And the next day Rosine came carrying the "bundle," and in it the shirts and the socks and the handkerchiefs and the pillowcase — all ironed and crisp, fragrant with laurel leaves!

And we sat down to finish the picture of the woman borne on the arms of the angels, Gibran, as was his habit, thinking aloud... He fell to analyzing the nature of woman and said: "I love her as a blend of Beatrice and Messalina; but the great calamity, Youssef, is when a woman is beautiful, for her very beauty becomes a cause of disquiet... And if she is not beautiful?... And if she is not

cultivated?... This simple girl before us, for instance... she is a precious treasure, but what could we talk to her about after half an hour? In what discussion could we join with her?!..."

I turned toward Gibran, and the reflection of the light on his face showed his features and his state of mind with clearness, that affliction of melancholy crowning his brow; so I left Rosine and turned toward him, and in less than three-quarters of an hour his portrait was ready. Gibran gazed at it a long while and it pleased him, and with his own brush he drew the round frame about the chest, and he expressed the wish to keep the portrait — it is still among his effects, and it has been published in many books and magazines...

And while Rosina was putting on her clothes, Gibran opened a small box and took from it a chain and three silver bracelets and said to me: "These are things I bought in Beirut and carried with me to America and from there to Paris... And now I have found the one who is worthy of them. Give her this present, Youssef, as though it were from you!"

I said to him: "For shame — do you want to teach me to lie?!" And I said to Rosine in her own language: "Accept this present from Gibran, and thank him..."

Rosine's eyes flashed with the joy of a child surprised by a present she loves, and she made no attempt to hide her pleasure; she went quickly to the string hanging from her neck to replace it with the new chain, and nervously slipped the bracelets onto her wrist; then she took hold of Gibran's hand and made as if to kiss it: