Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris (9)

When we came out onto the rue d'Assas, my attention was caught, at the bend, by teeming beehives; I stopped Gibran a moment, and we fell to watching the busy bees going and coming, laden with the raw stuff of wax and honey, while the drones dawdled sluggishly at the entrance, hindering them from their work...

Gibran said jokingly: Do you see, Youssef, what heavy-blooded creatures these males are? No blame on the females if they desert them!

— That is a fine subject for a story, Gibran; treat it... and do not forget to explain how even the insects obey their instinct... how much more, then, man!...

Gibran remarked, laughing: — That too is from Voltaire! I see you quote his opinions constantly. Is there some kinship between you?

— A distant one, in any case... I like his light wit and the spirit of humor in his writings... and that "whetted" tongue from whose mischief no one was safe... as though he were possessed by devils!!... And the most important thing, Gibran, is that he shook the nerves of his countrymen and contemporaries, blew his trumpet among them and woke them to their bitter reality, pointing to the seats of the disease... Ah, how faded and barren appear in the mind the figures of the Eastern personalities contemporary with Voltaire... and even those who came after him!?: — Rows of empty talk... panegyric and versifying... and love poetry!?

A moment passed before Gibran spoke. He was sunk in his meditations, taking in what he had heard from me. At last he said: —

— The land of the East is untilled and barren... and the air is heavy and stagnant... not to say "corrupt"... As for me, Youssef, my purpose is to shake the nerves of the Americans and to blow my trumpet in their midst... their country is fertile and the dollars are a sea, though their rich — like all the rich — are blind and selfish... God curse money, how it lies in ambush between a man and his desires...

With this last phrase Gibran would often end his talk with me, grumbling at his condition and his narrow horizon, longing to soar, to break free, and to pour out what battled in his breast and his mind... while on his wings there was as yet only the soft down that cannot carry the heavy body to the heights..

xxxx

We turned into the rue Vavin, and there, between the Luxembourg garden and the Boulevard Montparnasse, stand some of the free art academies for painting and sculpture. In their midst in those days there was a small art bookshop, in whose window there was always a pleasant assortment of books and magazines and a few paintings of the "Cubist" kind. Before this window Gibran and I stood contemplating the display, without any intention of entering — especially as the books were dear! And while we were absorbed in gazing, behold,

the head of a dark girl peered out at us from behind the glass, welcoming us with a radiant smile and two black eyes that "spun flirtation" — (as Gibran put it) — and she opened the door for us, saying: — Come in, gentlemen; inside there are many books and magazines, and you may look at them closely and read, without being obliged to buy... and we also give reductions of ten percent...

We went in, of course! And with the dark one there was a girl younger than she, tending to fairness, with a captivating air and hair falling loose upon her shoulders in an artless feminine grace... The fair one came toward us inquisitively and asked in a childlike tone: — "Are you Spaniards or Italians?" — Gibran answered in the same tone, pointing with his hand into the distance: — "We are from over there... from Lebanon. Near Jerusalem... and near Heaven!"

The two girls cried out together on hearing Gibran's answer, and the face of the younger lit up as she said: "Ah, Jerusalem! We are Jewesses from Romania... our grandfather is in Jerusalem; he emigrated there years ago, so as to be buried, after his death, in the Holy Land, and to ascend with ease into the bosom of Abraham!" And in her laugh there rang an open mockery that endeared her to me. So I said to her, joining in her laughter: — After a long life... longer than Methuselah's!

Acquaintance was made... The elder, Suzanne, over twenty-five — of our own age — and the younger, Léa, about fifteen... When Suzanne learned that we were interested in the art of painting, she asked us: — What kind?

— We still lean toward the classical kind... She said at once:

— There is no longer any demand for it.

And she set about pointing to paintings here and there, some of them "Cubist" and others whose name I did not know — in which the body of woman appears twisted and deformed, as though seen in a concave or a convex mirror with intent to mock —

I pointed my finger at one that was much contorted, and asked Léa, in whom I had sensed a spirit of fun: — Is this your drawing, Mademoiselle? And are these the shapes of your body under your clothes?!

We all laughed except Gibran, whose face flushed with blood — the blood of anger — and he took up the talk himself,

and in another vein, pointing with his stick at the drawings: — Have these mad artists forgotten their mothers and their sisters and their sweethearts? Or have they lost all feeling? And all measure? That they should so degrade the body of woman... the sacred, the divine?

He spoke in earnest, and Léa was dumbfounded, not knowing what to say... Suzanne interrupted him, trying to soften his wrath and explain to him the economic side of it: "This kind is in demand"... And Gibran went on with his sermon, as though unconvinced by this explanation, and as though Suzanne stood for all the people of art!:

— From the Stone Age to this day the artist has sung the body of woman — has sung beauty — beauty of whatever kind. Is this, then, the last song? Art is not for trade, Mademoiselle.

At this moment a tall young man of handsome appearance came in, whom Suzanne introduced as the owner of the bookshop, a kinsman of hers. The man held out his hand in greeting and introduced himself:

— Calmi.

— Gibran..

And little Léa completed it, imitating Gibran's gesture with her hand: "From over there... near Jerusalem." We wasted no time. We entered at once into talk of pictures and painting. And when it appeared to Calmi that we still leaned toward the classical kind, he repeated Suzanne's sentence: "There is no longer any demand for it!"

Gibran turned away from us to look over the books in silent contemplation, and Calmi drew me aside to ask whether it might be possible to see our artistic work... I told him that my place was five minutes away on foot, and that we had ample time before us.

The art academy did not open before three o'clock.

Gibran said in Arabic:

— Go with him alone, Youssef. I shall wait for you here. I shall browse and look about until you come back.

I passed with Calmi along the road that divides the Montparnasse cemetery in two; we walked among the sumptuous tombs and stopped before the tomb of the poet "Baudelaire," contemplating his statue lying on its back, the color of the stone beginning to fade from rain and sun across years and years!

And Calmi recited: "When you lie sleeping, my sullen beauty, in the depths of a tomb built of black marble.." Then he continued, without finishing the verses: "This is no time for poetry..."

We turned north into the rue Froidevaux, and I opened the door of my place, which looks onto the street.

Calmi stepped forward, saying: —

— This is a studio for sculpture rather than for painting...

Then he ran his eye about the place, pausing a moment before each picture — most of them unfinished... among them the picture of a seated woman with seven spears thrust into her breast. I noticed that he turned down his lower lip, a sign of disdain, and I felt the cold sweat bedew my brow...

— What might this picture represent?

I answered him, feigning calm: —

— A picture of the Virgin Mary, Mother of the Seven Sorrows. Sister Thérèse, one of the Sisters of Charity, ordered it of me... I have sisters who are nuns...

Calmi looked into my eyes with a sharp look that disturbed me, then pointed to the picture of a man kneeling in devout prayer... and turned down his lip again and asked me: —

— And this picture?

— ... Christ in the Garden of Olives..

— And that one, too, is for the Sisters of Charity?! This, my friend, takes us very far from the practical question... If all you seek is the salvation of your soul, and the good graces of the nuns matter to you, that is your own affair and none of mine. But if you want to earn money, this is not the road, believe me! Nor is this the kind! Take my advice: try Cubism, and I will undertake to sell your pictures if you succeed. It is a matter of arithmetic, 1 + 1 = 2: ten percent of the sale price for me...

I told Gibran of all this, and said that I had taken Calmi's words seriously and that I meant to try...

— That road is rough and thorny, Youssef... How many times have I told you that art is neither a plaything nor a trade... It is a means of expressing feeling... it is a divine breath.. it is.. I can find no word to express what I mean..."

And as though, after this utter soaring of feeling, he came back down to earth, he finished his talk: — My opinion is that you should train yourself in sculpture.. in the Arab East there is no sculptor... you will be the first sculptor.. and if you wish to go with me to the United States, there the field is wide...

Neither Gibran nor I knew at that time what the tragedy of the fine arts meant in the Eastern climate, before the Great War... and after it.