Women... (Maha and Mimi)

...Eight types — eight portraits of woman, drawn for us by Nur Salman in her lecture "Women," given at the invitation of the Thurayya Circle on the evening of June 1 last.

In "Women," the rising Nur has planted her foot firmly in the meadows of literature... From this day on she is an accredited woman of letters, with her own luxuriant color, her pulsing images, and her choice, expressive words — all of it elegant, and all of it Nur's own! And therein lies her literary worth! We publish the portraits of her "women" in installments, taking care to give her introduction first...

Woman (from the introduction to the lecture)

In woman is the Creator's rare jewel. And in woman is a fertile world that occupies man, who wears himself out over mighty means to attain an inhuman perfection!...

It stands written in the register of time that woman gladdens... that she sustains... that she uplifts... but she remains a worldly world within a worldly world...

There are no demigods in a world where a woman lives... rather, perhaps, there are giants whom a prayer inspires and a support arouses... and whose powers a faithful love sends soaring.

Yes — God created woman and so adorned life... and He opened to her the heart of the world... that she might be; and so she exists — to know and to give.

Do you not see woman in every great legend? In every leap of a soul? In every flash of genius? In every persistence of hope? And then, do you not see her too behind a revolt of despair, and through the wilting of a soul?

Man... in her world is a visitor... awaited... She loves him and takes pride in him and helps him and sacrifices for his sake, but she is unable to find the key to her own soul, from its farthest end to its farthest end, so as to give it to him!

And she is the most generous of givers, the sweetest in tenderness, and the readiest of all to find sacrifice sweet...

In woman's reliance... lies the secret of life's positive force... She will never compete with man — she is his mother and his sister and his wife... and love does not compete... She is a spacious shade that draws and does not overwhelm!

And this woman... do you not see her? Beautiful in her glances? In her pampered frivolity? In her generous impulsiveness? In her artlessness? Beautiful in her frank adornment, beautiful in her open-hearted old age?

Maha

Maha came to know the most about everything the moment the president handed her a paper ringed with a red ribbon. It is another identity card, and she wishes her pocket could hold it, so that she might carry it with her everywhere.

In Maha's head a thousand and one ideas are dancing, and her imagination leaps with her from one wide field to a wider one. She wishes from the bottom of her heart that her ambition might forget traditions in whose forbidding sting there is a rebellious pain.

Maha is in revolt against the picture of femininity among us, and she describes it with a sarcasm driven on by exasperation. It lies, as she says, in the downcast eye... the dull modesty... the drowsing feeling... and the timid... heart!

And she never stops wishing she were a young man, so that she could throw off the curtain of caution that wraps her... and speak... and speak... and speak, without her speech being branded impudence or wounding boldness. And in a rebellious defiance Maha would cry: I wish I could make love-talk whenever love-talk pleases me, without shame being fastened to my love-talk!

Poor indeed... is he whose passing days no woman has shaded... nor the phantom... of a woman!!

And I fill my heart with a love I willed to be — and it was; a love I strove to have rule me — and it ruled; and through it I embraced my destiny... it profited me and protected me. A love not imposed by reckless circumstance nor woven by stunning decrees.

And to her friend she would whisper: I wish the breast of life would open to me, that I might drink deep of it and take my luck and my portion. I do not want to catch my luck from people's open palms. Luck and portion... come from the mine of life.

And the idea of marriage?

Yes, it steals into Maha's mind, and it occupies her and does not occupy her. She knows that this marriage... is one of her aims, but she wants it to win her, not that she should go seeking it.

The picture of the bridegroom she drew in her free moments — that is, while closing one book and preparing to open another. In that picture is the summit of wishing and the impossible of asking, if Maha only knew — but she did not... know!...

Maha went out from the door... of the university into the arena, as Joan of Arc went out. The dazzling triumph so occupies her that she does not pursue it — with plain, unpampered pursuit.

And Maha became acquainted with many people — in the shops, at receptions, at the office, and at meetings — and she read about many others here and there. Then she traveled beyond her continent... and there the new and the strange delighted her — and then turned and bewildered her!!

And after that she came back to where she had been before the journey, talking — praising and criticizing — then listening, in order to agree.

Has the shadow of revolt shrunk away from Maha's soul?

Has her ambition been schooled, and its plans amended? Who knows...

But Maha has come to wish to remain... a woman!

Mimi jumps from window to window to catch a glimpse of her neighbor... her eye shakes hands with his — and then she goes back and throws herself on the bed in a maiden rapture!

Mimi has begun to forget the silly games and the mountebank books, with their stories and tales whose fancy has strayed far from her and receded.

Mimi now wants, in her room, a long wide mirror, and a roomy wardrobe whose key stays in her own pocket. And on the night of her fifteenth birthday Mimi clasped her hands tight, shut her eyes fervently, and said: "Lord... make me beautiful — for health and a sound body... are not enough..."

And Mimi resolved to tame her greediness by every means, so as to clasp with ease the belt of her dewy waist.

Her appointment with the mirror never fails. She courts its favor with every experiment of a gesture... or a walk, or a smile, or a shifting of a leg.

In Mimi's heart is a surging wave that plays in her eye and in her head. In her ruling imagination are evenly matched pictures of Apollo, Rock Hudson, and James Dean... the late lamented. And her legs cry out for the storm of rock and roll, and she leaps up chanting, flying... as though the music were made for her legs... and her legs for the music.

Mimi's red handbag is the wrapper of great secrets... in it a lipstick whose tip has melted away, and two cinema tickets: one that Mama knows about, and the other timed to end when the piano lesson ends, on Wednesday afternoon...

As for the songs of the season, she takes care to scatter their dancing lines here and there across the pages of her schoolbooks...

Mimi can no longer bring herself to haggle with the shopkeeper with yesterday's assurance. And she no longer consents to address the driver in the tone of the day before!...

It astounds her... how far her yesterday lies from her blossoming today... and she wonders, wide awake... How was I? How... have I become?!

Mimi, in any case, wants... and wants... and does not know what she wants!