Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris — 8

It had been our intention to end this series after Gibran's return to Boston in America, and Rozina's return to her family in Anticoli, in Italy. But in deference to our readers' insistence and their demands upon us for more of this new genre, we went back to our friend the artist, who had never before opened his heart to any living soul! — We went back to him to ask for more of these delightful memories, and he did not disappoint us — generous and obliging as he is — and we won from him a rich harvest which we shall pass on to our readers handful by handful, in a new series that we begin today...

We are still where we were... Our events take place in Paris in the year 1912... They are recounted to us now, from his residence in Awra, by the doyen of our artists, Mr. Youssef Howayek, holding fast to fact and truth — as far as memory has allowed him...
And we have made recording our task, with fidelity for our guide — as far as the pen has allowed us...

I was new to Paris, having come to it from Rome. I was still taken up with settling my affairs and arranging the ways of my livelihood, sitting now and again with Gibran, who had preceded me to this city, asking him about this matter and that, in the hope of profiting from his experience and his advice. One day, while we were taking our lunch in a small restaurant near the Luxembourg garden, I noticed that Gibran was absent-minded, his attention straying from me. When I asked him where he was, he said: What have we to do with the cares of life just now, Youssef? Turn to your left, to that beauty sitting alone, eating at her leisure and reading in a book before her... I have been watching her, and I noticed that every little while she steals a glance at you... Did you not feel the arrows of her hazel eyes?

I turned to where Gibran pointed and saw the hazel eyes fixed upon me, only to dart quickly back to the plate... and the book... I contemplated her at length. Her head was bare, showing hair inclining to blondness... and a face of the utmost purity of whiteness... as were her hands... And over her shoulders lay a gray shawl with brocaded borders...

After some thought I said to Gibran: — This girl is no Parisian, as far as I can see... From what country might she be, I wonder?
The girl raised her head toward us a second time, understood that we were occupied with her, and at once turned her gaze from us back to the book.

Gibran said: She is no ordinary girl. She bears the stamp of nobility... Perhaps a Scandinavian student?!

At this, we went back to attending to our arrangements. And it appeared that Gibran was not content with having entered the Académie Julian... where the atmosphere is a mob's, ill-suited to his temperament... and where the counsels of the master

Laurens were of no use to him — indeed the last thing that could be of use to him... besides which his name was unknown in America... He said at last:
— I am thinking seriously, Youssef, of working in my own studio, free and independent. What would you say to our sharing the cost of the model's fee?
— That suits me very well, I answered; I have no intention of binding myself to a private academy... We can work before noon at your place, where the light is better than at mine, and in the afternoon and evening frequent the free art institutes... and wherever the model pleases us, we pay the fee and work as we please...
— Splendid, splendid... That is a grand arrangement. And we must visit the Paris museums and the public and private exhibitions, so as to acquaint ourselves with the artistic movement... It seems to me there is in Paris today something like a revolution in the art of painting. A mad revolution. No! Art is not a plaything... Art, like writing, is a means of expressing feeling... I shall soon write a study on this subject, Youssef.
A chance glance took me to our fair-haired neighbor, and there she was, paying the waitress the price of her lunch and making ready to leave... She moved off with her slender figure, having gathered her gray shawl and the book to her breast... And as she passed before our table she bowed and greeted us graciously, without smiling or saying a word... and vanished into the crowds...
The experience pleased us, and Gibran commented upon it:
— Now that acquaintance has been made, even without words, it concerns us to determine for whom the greeting was meant, I wonder — for me, or for you?
— In any case, we shall not fight a duel over it!
And on the margin of this 'visual' acquaintance
Gibran fell to comparing and drawing likenesses: how the stars in the wide expanse draw near one another and then draw apart... I asked him in jest: — And if a collision should occur? Gibran smiled and said: — That is a fascinating subject for a romantic story which I have long had a mind to write, and I am now in search of my heroes... I like, for instance, the type of Balzac!
The waitress came bearing the fruit plate, and Gibran asked her: — Enlighten us, Georgette, with what you know about the lady of the gray shawl?
— She is Mademoiselle Olga. Russian, I believe. She studies at the Sorbonne. The book never leaves her hand. Poor thing... she keeps company with no one.
Gibran resumed his talk of Balzac: how he would roam the streets of old Paris by night, gathering impressions, to return to his room just before dawn: he would put on Oriental dress, let down the damask curtains over the windows and doors, and settle down to write...
and drink coffee — in this posture Rodin portrayed him; but the statue did not win full favor until half a century later, on the morrow of its being raised upon a pedestal at the meeting of the Boulevard Raspail and Montparnasse, when it became one of the most splendid monuments in Paris!
The next day we returned to the same restaurant and sat where we had sat the day before, eating, arranging our affairs, and conversing on matters of literature and art.
And Miss Olga came in, swaying along with her straight, tall figure, clasping the gray shawl and the book together to her breast, searching with her eyes for a free table to take refuge at.
It was a widespread custom in the restaurants of the Latin Quarter in those days, when they grew crowded with patrons, for people to share the tables with one another without ceremony...
— Invite her, Youssef!
— You invite her, Gibran!
And while we were deep in our hesitation, it appeared

that Miss Olga was braver than we, for she came toward us with calm deliberation and asked, with perfect courtesy: — Will you permit me, gentlemen, to sit with you? I shall not be a burden upon you.

In the twinkling of an eye we made ample room for her! And Gibran began speaking to her in English... which she knew well... but she soon turned toward me, asking whether I too was proficient in English — I answered no. It is only proper, then, she said, that we should all speak the language of the country — the French language. And she asked us about our own language — we said: — Arabic!... She said: — Would that I might manage to study it. The learning of Oriental languages lies within the circle of my specialty...

The waitress came bearing the plate of hors-d'oeuvres and inquired of Miss Olga what dishes she might wish — she looked at the plates before us and answered: — Dishes like these: roast beef... rabbit stew... and Russian salad —

And she set about explaining to her how the Russian salad should be prepared, but Georgette assured her of her ability in the matter, and before withdrawing counseled her in a whisper: Look after yourself now; do not let 'two' get the better of you — you are not a 'poor thing' yet... and two are less dangerous than one! Thus has experience schooled the daughters of Paris... You may be sure of it!

We began to widen our acquaintance as we ate at leisure: — Miss Olga: from the city of Tomsk — Siberia — a journey of fifteen days by train to Paris — come to pursue her higher studies in philology, French literature, and music, so that she might afterward direct these branches at the University of Tomsk, where her father holds the post of director.

— And Gibran: from Lebanon. He emigrated with his mother, his sisters, and his brother to the United States. Divine Providence helped him to come to Paris to perfect the art of painting and to train himself in writing... And he has things to say to people. And he finds a great delight in writing and in drawing...

He said this in English, and a question mark was traced in Miss Olga's eyes... She turned her gaze toward me...

— I too was born in a little village lost in the mountains of Lebanon, and I came to Paris by way of Rome so that I might join together... as it pleases me... the arts of painting and sculpture... the science of the stars... and life...

Miss Olga interrupted me in a serious tone:
— That is something vague, sir. It is essential that a person have a clear aim in life, which he pursues with energy... Show me your palm!

I 'swallowed' the remark and held out my palm to her obediently, and she began following its lines with close attention, without saying a word; then she turned to

Gibran's palm and did the same...

And it pleased me to claim that I, like her, was skilled at reading the palm and telling fortunes, so I took her soft hand and set to examining its veins from the outside. Long before, I had observed how the veins differ upon the hands of one person and another, and had deduced certain signs bearing on natures and characters. And how great was my astonishment! It was the first time I had found a palm resembling my own in the winding of its lines... So what was to prevent me from 'telling the fortune' of the girl, ascribing to her some of the traits of my own character??!

— It seems to you, Miss, that you understand everything — and you feel in the depths of your heart that you understand nothing clearly. And this doubt increases your desire for knowledge and understanding... Fortune serves you, but you are not skilled at seizing opportunities and turning them to account...

Miss Olga was listening attentively, but she remarked: — I do not believe in these absurdities; yet what you say is not without truth... Perhaps it is the instinct of the Oriental...

She glanced at the clock behind the manageress's desk — we had finished our meal — and said: — I have an appointment — until tomorrow... And she rose in farewell and walked lightly, charmingly, toward the door.

— A beautiful figure, Gibran... It glorifies its Creator!

— She is without doubt of noble stock. Did you not see how nobility shows in all her features and movements?

— What a 'model' she would be... if only she consented to sit before us!

And while we drank our coffee and Gibran smoked his cigarette — and how devoted he was to coffee and the cigarette — he fell to analyzing the types of women. He labored under bad impressions of the Eastern woman, and so was severe in his judgment of her...

From this inquiry he passed to an analysis of the social condition, saying: — Most people, Youssef, live in a flood of lying, treachery, and pettiness... They say: I am the enemy of laws and traditions... Nay, I am the enemy of hypocrisy and false show... I shall say all this to them, that they may be ashamed!

— And if they do not read what you write, no shame will reach them, and your labor will go for nothing... and things will remain as they are...

And I quoted a saying of Voltaire's: — Believe me, Gibran, 'most men will remain liars, hypocrites, knaves, ingrates, thieves, weaklings, feeble of mind, reckless, charlatans, greedy, drunkards, misers, fawners, shedders of blood, dissolute, fanatical, cowardly...'

After this 'unburdening' we left the restaurant and strolled through the beautiful garden, and paused a while beside the pond where the little ones sail their fleets of cardboard and paper...

Gibran said: — Would that I were one of them... Do you remember, Youssef, the paper kites in the sky of Beirut, on the heights of Ashrafieh? I once tried to fly a kite in the sky of Boston, and the police stopped me!

— And these are the statues of the queens of France... each one in her own dress... as though they were fashion mannequins...

— Or do you find that this queen resembles... Miss Olga?

— You mean, rather... that Miss Olga resembles the statue of this queen!!