Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris — Rosina's Departure

... Around one o'clock after midnight I was in bed, as was my habit, reading and drawing, when there came a knock at the door... nay, three knocks, followed by three knocks more... That is Miss Rosina's knock, I said to myself; can it possibly be she, coming at this hour?! I sprang from my bed, stumbling blindly, went down the stairs to the door, and opened it — and there I was, face to face with Rosina! Yellow as a statue of wax, and trembling to the soles of her feet with emotion and cold... She came forward — a mass of grief and exhaustion — threw herself upon the divan, covered her face with both hands, and burst into a fit of violent weeping...

I left her to weep and cool her burning heart, and went off to light the gas to make a cup of coffee, the best sedative for her troubled nerves... After a few moments, as she sipped her coffee slowly and stared before her with wandering mind, I asked her: "Come, tell me the story now from its beginning to its end..." She answered in a choked voice, still trembling and biting her lip to hold back her tears: "They threw me out! They beat me! They threatened to kill me!... And were it not for my hope in you, sir, and my trust that I should find with you a safe refuge, I would be at the bottom of the Seine this moment... Ah, would that I had never come to Paris!"

And she went back to weeping and wiping away tears, and I went back to soothing her spirits... She told me that her brothers, who at first used to forbid her to go out at night, had taken to drinking wine and to demanding of her a thing — death is lighter than its shame — demanding that she sell herself like the daughters of the night! And she implored me, saying:

"Mercy, sir. Take pity on me and help me return to my country. I have no one but you... God reward you." And she bent over my hand, but I drew it away before she could kiss it, and chided her, trying the while to hide a tear that forced its way to my eye... in grief over the state of this poor girl...

I calmed her agitation, saying: "Set your mind at rest, my dear; in forty-eight hours you shall be among your people in Anticoli!"

— "Is what you say true, sir?" she said, laughing and crying at once! "I was not wrong to turn with all my hopes to you and to no one else!"

— "What you need now is a little rest," I said, "so that tomorrow you will be strong for the journey. I shall hand you the blanket; wrap yourself up in it and sleep your fill. And if you are hungry, there is the box of biscuits and the jam... over there on the table."

I climbed up to the loft where my bedding was, and threw down to Rosina the blanket — the only cover I owned — and she wrapped herself in it up over her head, for in truth she was half dead with cold and exhaustion... As for me, I took all the clothes and woolen things I possessed and strewed them over myself... I tried to read as I ordinarily do, but understood not one word. Then I put out the light, and there hovered in my head sweet memories of a debate that had so often flared up between me and Gibran on the relation of man to woman, and the nature of that relation...

On these memories I dozed off... and woke with the first glimmer of dawn. I came down slowly and lit the gas apparatus to make the coffee... and turned toward Rosina and found her sleeping the sleep of a child... A lock of her golden hair — the hair Gibran loved — had strayed up above the cover, as though to say: "Yes, I am she, Rosina, the companion of Botticelli's spirit!..."

At last she stirred and drew the cover from her head, and, seeing me busy with the coffee, she greeted the morning with a radiant smile and set about smoothing with her fingers her beautiful, flowing hair... I came to her with the cup of coffee, passed my hand over her head, and kissed her brow, hoping she had rested from yesterday; she returned the kiss in all innocence and answered:

— "I have rested, to be sure... When do we leave, sir? I saw in my dream the mountains of Tivoli and Anticoli."

I said to her: "The Rome train goes at ten o'clock, and you have three hours before you. Do you need anything?" She closed her eyes and touched her forehead like one thinking... then quietly drew from her wrist the three silver bracelets and asked: "Could they be sold? I need warm clothing and shoes... These shoes of mine are worn through, the water gets in... and my dress is thin. I fear the bite of the cold as we cross the Alps... And besides all that, I am ashamed to arrive home in this patched dress and these worn-out shoes!"

— Put the bracelets back on your wrist, I beg you, Rosina, and do not forget that they are a gift — a kind memento from our friend Gibran — and set your mind at ease. We shall buy everything you need on our way to the station... And I am going now to fetch something for breakfast...

She asked me shyly, before I went out, to give her a needle and thread...

I went to a nearby restaurant and found its owner, my friend "Bouchni," in his apron, arranging the glasses of laban in the window. He beamed when he saw me and said: "Every time I set the milk to curdle I think of you, Monsieur Joseph, for the customers find Bouchni's laban tastier than the laban of the Bulgarians (the monopolists of laban in those days)... and the credit is all yours, for it was you who taught me to make laban... And now, how may I serve you?"

— I need something for breakfast, and some provisions for a journey, and two hundred francs; I shall return them this evening if I can. If not, then next week."

And the good-hearted man answered:

— "Monsieur Joseph. Everything in the shop, and the shop's owner himself, are at your command!"

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Rosina spent some time putting her clothes to rights: the green dress... the white sleeveless chemise, and the red shawl — this was all the poor girl owned in the way of clothes, to cover the most beautiful body a woman ever had!

I sat in the same spot where I used to sit with Gibran, listening to the music and watching the dancing, and I drifted off into fancy: Miss Olga is now in "Tomsk": "When I think of Paris, it appears to my mind like a dream — far, far away." And Gibran in Boston: "I am not pleased with my life, Youssef..." And as though Rosina's thoughts were keeping company with mine, she asked me:

— Have you any news of Monsieur Gibran?

— Yes. And he always asks me about you.

— Please, when you write to him, give him my greetings and tell him...

— What shall I tell him?

— That Rosina, every time she looks at the silver bracelets, remembers you with gratitude... and that she very nearly sold them to buy shoes!!

And she gave me an impish look, from which I understood that she had been sure I would never let her do it!...

I asked her suddenly: Rosina. Tell me the truth. What do you think of our friend Gibran? I know that during my absence you used to sit for him, and that he sometimes invited you to eat...

— Gibran, sir, is a prince, gentle and well-mannered. Never once did there escape him toward me any unseemly gesture or word... I did not always understand everything he said, but I felt, by my instinct, that his talk was above the level of ordinary talk, and that it was delightful and absorbing.

And she added, after a little thought: I nearly quarreled once with Marguerite, because she told me that Gibran is like all men, and that he invited her one day to eat and told her that he loved two women, Beatrice and Messalina...

Here I could not keep from laughing, and I said to her: Gibran did not express himself well in French... and this Beatrice and this Messalina are nothing but two symbols...

— Yes! I kept telling Marguerite that they are not like us, creatures who eat and drink; but she would lay her finger on the tip of her nose and say: "I don't understand symbols... I smell the smell!!"

— But I believe Marguerite's nose was not a good one!... and that Gibran was in truth a prince — honorable, gentle, and well-mannered...

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... And the hour came. Rosina wrapped herself in her shawl and carried the provisions for the journey under her arm, and I accompanied her to the Gare de Lyon; on the way I bought her the shoes, the dress, and the coat... And I grieved that I could get her a ticket for the journey only in the third class...

And I put into her pocket — over her protest — all that remained in my own... and helped her find a comfortable place where "Smoking Forbidden," beside an old lady in mourning clothes who spoke Italian and was returning from the north of France to Rome... I commended Rosina to her care, and she said: "Commend her to take care of me, my son," and pressed her to her breast with affection. I bade her farewell and stepped down to the platform... A minute, and the train moved... and Rosina leaned out of the window, waving farewell with one hand and wiping away her tears with the other...

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"Brother Gibran... this is as far as the golden-haired one, the companion of Botticelli's spirit, has carried me."