high heels, and great hats sprinkled with colored flowers...

And I saw Rodin pause a moment before Gibran's painting; Gibran stepped toward him, held out his hand in greeting, and uttered a few phrases which I did not hear, nor did I ask him about them afterward... Rodin nodded his head to the young artist, and presently walked on, completing his round amid the flock of perfumed ladies...

Thus at last did Gibran meet the master Rodin — who by then had passed seventy and stood at the summit of his artistic glory... He had created his immortal masterpieces: "The Age of Bronze, The Burghers of Calais, The Kiss, The Thinker, Hugo, Balzac," and others, and was wrapped in a halo of fame and wealth... and pride... while Gibran was still a young man of twenty-seven, a stranger in Paris, speaking French with difficulty, cutting his artistic path through toil and want... His work and his writings in those days brought him nothing and drew no attention... Hence all that has been said of his connection with the famous sculptor and his apprenticeship to him, and what has also been said of his birth in Bombay, of his family's descent from men of eminence... of a diploma of distinction from the French academy of fine arts and honorary membership in the society of English painters — all this is nothing but sheer illusory fabrications...

The movement of artistic liberation in the Parisian air at the opening of the twentieth century was nearing ripeness, but Gibran was untouched by it and paid it no attention... His imag-ination teemed with philosophy, doctrines, and symbols...

and with vague things whose meanings he himself had not yet made clear or grasped... The

"man of letters" in him over-whelmed the "artist," and paint-ing remained bewildered between his fingers... groping its way laboriously toward the assertion of self... Thus the artistic profit of his stay in Paris was of no great consequence... And he left France, which he had loved and been enamored of — left it in late autumn, against his will, a tear in his eye... I alone accompanied him to the Gare de Lyon; I helped him settle into a comfortable seat by the window and arrange his baggage in the rack above the seat... and I sat beside him, keep-ing the place, filling the remain-ing minutes with talk and last recommendations, until, when the signal was given for the train to move, I stepped down quickly and left him to occupy both places by himself and stretch out his legs at ease... And there is nothing like travel to teach a man and open his eyes upon the world!

Gibran did not cut off his news from me; from time to time letters would reach me in which he yearned for Paris:

"Boston, January 19, 1911"

"My brother Youssef — Happy is he who has a resting-place of glory in — Paris! And blessed is he who walks along the banks of the river Seine, contemplating the stalls of old books and antique prints. I, in this city full of friends and acquaintances, am like one exiled to the farthest ends of the world, where life is cold as snow, dark as ashes, and silent as the Sphinx. My sister is at my side and those who love me are around me everywhere. People come to my house morn-ing and evening, and yet I am not pleased with my life, Youssef... My work is moving toward the mountain's summit, my thoughts are calm, and my body enjoys all the pleasure of well-being that health can give... but I am not to be envied, Youssef... My

soul is hungry and thirsty for some food and drink I know not where to find... The soul is a celestial flower that cannot live in the shade; thorns, however, live everywhere... Rihani is in a place near New York, and he is wretched in his life. Each of us complains to the other of what is in his heart, and yearns for Lebanon, and sings the praises of its charms... Such is the life of the sons of the East stricken with the disease of art. Such is the life of the sons of 'Apollo,' exiled to this strange world — frozen in its works, rigid in its course, whose laughter is its weeping... And how are you, Youssef? Are you happy among the human phan-toms you see on either side of the road? How goes your work — is it as you would have it be? And what drawings have you made in my absence? Madame Hamilton has written me kind words about you. Remain her friend, for she is gracious, and beyond that she is one of the martyrs of the god of art — unjust and merciful, dark and luminous... And how far has Dante carried you? Are you in his company in that deep 'abyss' and among those perilous crossings? And where have you come with 'the golden-haired one, the companion of Botticelli's soul'? Are you standing at her side before the face of eternity, in those theaters far from the world of measures and quantity? I have many questions ranging between the depths of Hell and the heights of Heaven, but I do not wish to consign them to ink and paper. Speak my name in the palace of the Louvre and before the goddess of Victory. Greetings to 'Mona Lisa.' Greetings to the spirits hovering about your head... Greetings to you from your brother and your loving friend — Gibran."