Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris

... After Rihani's visit to Paris ended, Gibran accompanied him to London, where they stayed a full month and wrote me from there a "comical" letter that testified to an excellent, merry state of mind... for they were both still at the beginning of the road, and had not yet bowed under the burden of philosophy, shortness of temper, and chronic "sulking"!!

The letter ran to no more than ten lines: Gibran began the first line, Amin wrote the second, then Gibran the third and Amin the fourth... and so on... all of it gentle banter that lifts care from the heart.

Rihani continued on his way to New York and Gibran returned to Paris, and we went back to our former life: painting, debating the affairs and sorrows of art, strolling along the banks of the Seine; and when invitations came our way, we would hurry to the Châtelet theater to watch the famous American dancer Isadora Duncan... And from time to time we would arrange, at my place, a musical dancing party, at which Olga would play and Marguerite and Zina would dance by the light of drowsy candles, while Gibran and I watched and sipped tea... and dreamed!!

In those days Gibran was giving himself more and more to writing, and sometimes he would read me what he wrote. As for me, I was under the influence of reading seven huge volumes on the history of the origins of the Christian religion by Renan, who had wrung out his brain over them and succeeded in presenting the subject with a surpassing skill that stirred my admiration for this genius of a historian. So I turned to Gibran and said:

"How good it would be, my brother, to specialize in one single kind of literature or art or science... This tone of the prophets (I meant his tone) does not please me; I take no pleasure in swimming through fog, and the reforming of the universe concerns me neither much nor little... I would give my eyes only to understand something clear about the obscure secrets of the universe that surround us..."

And Gibran would answer me with something like mockery, sipping his coffee and puffing out cigarette smoke: "Tell me, Yusuf, in which of the arts or sciences will you specialize? And do you suppose you are capable of understanding anything clear of the secrets of this obscure, wondrous universe?"

I asked his opinion of a statue of a dancer I was working on. He gazed a long while, taking in the statue with the eyes of an expert, probing artist, then answered me: "I congratulate you, Yusuf; your dancer is without doubt inspired by Isadora. You are certainly a better sculptor than you are a painter... To sculpture, then... specialize in sculpture!"

He talked while working the clay with his finger, smoothing certain lines of the body, and I teased him in my own particular way: "You'll dirty your finger... and that handsome ring on your finger!"

Then he asked to see the first drawing — the original from which the statue had been copied. I said: "Miss Marguerite liked it and expressed a wish to keep it, so I made her a present of it." Gibran flared up and said: "That is you all over... always scattering your drawings, never knowing how to keep them. You need an inspiration!" I answered him with my usual coolness: "Patience, my brother; it seems that Isadora saw the drawing with her pupil Marguerite, admired it, and asked about the artist who made it... perhaps she will come to visit me!"

Gibran shrugged his shoulder dismissively and said: "Delusions and dreams, Yusuf. She does not condescend to visit the richest of her countrymen... the millionaires... Did you not see with your own eyes how the crowd goes mad when she sweeps by, or turns about the stage with her graceful, harmonious movements? And how bouquets of flowers are strewn around her?" And after thinking a little Gibran added: "And who knows — perhaps she truly savors art and values it at its worth... In any case she is rich, and she may well despise her rich countrymen because they are ignorant...

In American society it is said of her that she is haughty... you see at her feet the men of letters and the poets, small and abject..."

— Nothing about her concerns me except that her marvelous rhythmic dancing has opened before my eyes new, wide horizons in art, literature, and life. Before I saw her dance and noticed how she expresses with her movements and her tremors the feelings of the heart and the soul — I used to imagine that dancing was "writhing about, waist-swaying, and jaw-clacking!"

Gibran interrupted me in the tone of the prophets: "...It is not the exquisite dancing that opened the horizons before your eyes... it is the air of Paris... where the fingers of the gods play! Ah, how happy we are here! How far we are from the world of buying and selling... and the scowling world of theology... and the depraved world of politics... There is no doubt, Yusuf, that the gods have granted us precious treasures which we must guard against the thieves of the dark..."

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On the morning of the following day this letter reached me: "Dear sir: If you will allow me, I shall visit you for a few minutes in the company of a friend of mine, next Thursday morning at eleven o'clock, so that we may make your acquaintance and see your works of art. With thanks in advance, be so kind, dear master, as to accept my esteem and my greetings... Isadora Duncan."

At the appointed time the famous dancer came in the company of her friend, and I received her in my work clothes... She asked me: "The master?..." — "Yes, madam!" Her eyes went wide with astonishment, and she came forward gracefully, extending toward me her soft hand... "I am Isadora," she said, "and this is my friend Miss Johannes."

The dancer let her gaze wander about the place, speaking to herself: "Exactly as I imagined it... simplicity, drawings, books... and flowers." Then she looked at me and spoke to her companion in a language I did not understand... and continued in French, addressing her words to me: "Before anything else, tell me: where is Lebanon? Have you a map?" I at once spread before her a small map of the Asian continent and pointed with a pencil to the east of the Mediterranean Sea. She fixed her spectacles and began reading aloud: "Damascus, Jerusalem... and Lebanon? Where is Lebanon? D'Annunzio told me that Lebanon is the home of Adonis, and that it is shaded by cedar forests..."

I said to her: "So, madam, were the mountains of Lebanon in olden times, in the days of Adonis. But now, of the shady cedar forests, only one small 'sacred' grove remains in the heights of the mountains..."

Miss Johannes commented, laughing, in a naive, childlike tone: "And silly me — I always pictured Lebanon as one towering mountain with a cedar on its summit!!" And she gazed at me with two eyes of the sky's own blue... a long gaze holding some sweet, obscure meaning.

And the gracious visitor asked me, as she contemplated the statue of the dancer — while I contemplated a few white hairs that had invaded her temples, and a violet halo ringing her eyes —

She asked me: "Tell me, have you seen Isadora dance more than once?"
— Several times...

She went on, contemplating herself in the statue without looking at me: — "And would you know her in this everyday dress... and do you always love her?"

Without waiting for the answer she continued: — "Please show me what drawings you have. With one of my pupils I saw a drawing of yours that pleased me greatly, and there was born in me the desire to see others of your drawings...

and to see you yourself!"

She set about turning over the collection I had placed in her hands until she chose from it two drawings, while Miss Johannes chose one drawing.

And Isadora said:

— "Can you spare these drawings? Your signature, if you please!" And each of them took from her handbag a checkbook and a fountain pen and wrote out some figures, and at last Isadora said:

— "And allow us to offer you a small gift. This is not a price. Art has no price — O master!" And gently she laid the two checks on the table, saying in a humble voice like the whisper of a prayer: "A small gift and a keepsake from Isadora — a token of appreciation and affection!" She gave me her hand in farewell, smiling kindly; I kissed it with all respect and accompanied the two of them outside, where the car was waiting for them...

And as the car was about to start off, Isadora raised her fingertips to her lips, bidding me farewell with a smile and a kiss from afar — and Miss Johannes did the same!

... I returned to the room dejected, feeling the emptiness... but it was not long before I remembered the two checks! And behold, each one was for a hundred dollars. And the dollar in those days was worth five francs and twenty centimes... I remember that well, because Gibran and I spent some time doing sums: subtracting, multiplying, and dividing!..