— 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 weep-ing 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