What Is Love?... — Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris (16)

-16-

There is a tradition common among poets which says: the gods are at times jealous of man's happiness, and their jealousy drives them to spite, so they set themselves against him... If they truly reasoned, they would smooth his road to happiness, and it would cost them nothing but a redoubling of his thanks to them, and in consequence an increase of their own cheer and delight through all the ages...

True happiness is to make happy the one we love... How so?? That is one of the secrets of the gods.

In the Italian language one does not say "I love you"; one says: "I wish you well." And that is what I felt toward Miss Olga: I wished her much good, and I expressed this feeling of mine by arranging flowers around the piano, and by tending them so they would not wilt... Sometimes, on my return in the evening, I would find a piece of sweet on a little plate beside the vase of flowers... And once I found a note, on which was written: "If you are free tomorrow afternoon and would like to sit on the green meadow, instead of imprisoning yourself in the art institute, you will find me at three o'clock by the pear trees... These spring days are so beautiful!!"

xxxx

After drawing at the Colarossi institute I turned aside, as usual, to spend the evening at the Café du Dôme... And at the first glance at Suzanne's face I read in her eyes — in that special flirting look of her eyes — that she had something to tell me... So I sat down beside her. Calmy was in a circle of companions taking up the affairs of the hour... As for Léa, she was between the two — one ear turned toward them and one toward us, lest any news escape her! Suzanne said: "Lend me your hearing and your attention... This time I have serious, important things..." I said to her:

"And in the times past, were your things not serious and important? The philosophy of love... the journey to China?" She said:

"I am not joking now, I beg you... You are strange in your ways... Anyone who knows you would suppose you possess a measure of intelligence... Have you not yet understood that Miss Olga loves you?"

Léa laughed her mocking laugh, and I took notice, and answered Suzanne, jesting and serious at once: "If I have, as you say, some measure of understanding, then — so as not to lose my senses at the first little word — I need to love, not to be loved... Love, Miss Suzanne, is an important thing; it is the most important and most beautiful thing in life..." She said eagerly:

"I beg you, tell me what it is, in your view — this love you mean??"

"First of all, I do not share your opinion that love is like a drink of water... nor that the playful woman is dangerous... nor that the man is only a means and the end is the child... as 'Nietzsche' claims in a book of his that Miss Olga gave me, called 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra,' which I read with a feeling in which admiration was mingled with loathing..." Suzanne said:

"Nietzsche had that despairing view because 'Lou Salomé' did not return his love."

And Léa added: "She used to say of him: his gaze is sharp and promises no happiness... In other words, his gaze was not like Gibran's...!"

Suzanne silenced her and went on:

"And no doubt those who fail in love turn away from it to philosophy, and to doing good works... and reforming the universe... and composing poetry..." Her eyes took on their flirting look and she said, concluding: "Rest assured that I shall not leave you to philosophize and compose poetry!!" I said to her:

"If I do none of that, the credit will not be yours. Believe me."

"To whom does the credit go, then? To... Rosina the Italian??"

"That is my own secret..."

Suzanne was taken aback, then said:

"Tell me at least, my friend, what is love?"

It is not easy to answer in a word or a brief phrase... Love is a state of the soul.

It is an active, hidden feeling... like artistic and religious feeling... those feelings in which a man goes utterly mad!

Léa laughed scornfully and said:
"Words upon words... a tedious talk. I would rather have a story about a priest or a Capuchin monk..."

Suzanne cut her off with a motion of her hand and put the question to me again:
"If it is not easy to answer my question in a word or a phrase, I am ready to hear a lecture on the subject... on condition that I finally understand your own opinion..." I said to her:
"That takes us away from the practical matter — as Calmy says. Are you charged with a mission from Miss Olga? What exactly does she want? We lately stayed nearly two hours sitting on the green meadow discussing everything... except the sentimental subject... She did not utter a word, nor did anything show in her to make me feel that there is blood running in her veins... and a heart beating in her breast!!"
"You men are simpletons, naive... and you above all... Olga, even if she is our age... in matters of love she is still a little child..."

Léa heaved a long sigh as a sign of boredom... so I said to her, deliberately changing the subject:
"Come closer, and I will tell you the story of a Capuchin monk:
'At ten o'clock in the morning, with the heat pressing hard... his reverence was walking behind his donkey across a broad plain. He grew tired and tried to climb onto the donkey's back, but his feet would not carry him... He looked for a wall or a rock to help him mount, and found none... Nothing remained but to kneel and pray to Saint Anthony. Then he rose, braced his hands on the donkey's back, and leaped with all his might... with the result that he toppled over to the other side... Whereupon he got up, shaking the dust from his habit and saying: "Too much, Saint Anthony... I did not ask you for all this grace!"' Léa guffawed with all her might... As for Suzanne, she brought her mouth close to my ear and whispered to me something from which I turn the light away now...

The next day word reached me from Sister "Thérèse," a Sister of Charity, asking whether the pictures were ready. I answered her yes and set a time for her to collect them... I brought out the picture of the Virgin — Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows — and the picture of Christ in the Garden of Olives, and arranged the studio to receive Sister "Thérèse." She came at the appointed time with the Mother Superior and a second nun — they entered with dignity, the white wings fluttering above their heads, and knelt before the pictures, their hands clasped upon their breasts in a short prayer... Then they rose to their feet and, one after another, expressed their admiration for the pictures and thanked me... I invited them to sit, and they sat with modesty, and the Mother Superior asked me about my health and my circumstances, and for news of my uncle the Patriarch and my sisters, the nuns...

A wave of deep emotion swept over me... of spiritual radiance and inner peace... The sight of devotion and reverence on the faces of the nuns is the true divine beauty! How far I was, at that moment, from worldly influences; from the Café du Dôme, and the drawing institute, and the old streets of Paris... even from the green meadow... All those atmospheres appeared to my inner eye as cold matter, compared with the pure, warm air that the virgins of Monsieur "Vincent" spread about me. In vain did the demon of reason try to have his word; the deep inner feeling silenced him...

In Sister Thérèse's hands was a little box tied with a blue ribbon. She presented it to me, and I heard the Mother Superior say:
"In truth we do not know how to reward you except with our abundant thanks and our fervent prayers for your success..." After that she invited me to hear Mass the following Sunday, and to see the two pictures in their place upon the altar... Then she stood to take her leave, and Sister Thérèse carried one picture and the second nun the other... and they went off in a halo of holiness and purity...
I untied the blue ribbon from the velvet box, and there met my eyes a rosary of fine ivory beads, from which hung a small silver cross, and, on a card, "An indulgence from the hand of the Most Holy Father," and a dozen linen handkerchiefs embroidered at the edges with the first letter of my name... and a written note of thanks signed by the Superior. I still keep all these things as a beautiful memento...

Gibran would listen to me as I recounted my news of Olga and Suzanne and of the Sisters of Charity, and he would analyze, and soar in his analysis, then presently come down... then drift away... only to return and ask me with all simplicity and naivety:
"Do you love Miss Olga?"
"That is prying on your part, Gibran — into the very heart of my private affairs!... Have I ever asked you such a question?... And in truth I do not know whether what I feel toward her is the love you mean..."
"Love is love, Youssef...
An intoxication that runs with the blood in the veins... and its kinds are many beyond counting, so that there is almost a special kind for every man and every woman, determined by chance and luck... and perhaps by height and the color of the eyes!! It is true that man no longer lives in caves and forests... but his life has evolved with time, and so has his thinking... and the religious factor has had its potent effect... The priests laid down laws for love which my soul detests... because they are inspired by ignorance and pride and injustice and bondage... The poor woman is forced to submit... They did not consult her on the morrow they laid down the statutes and the laws... in a matter that concerns her more than it concerns them... Then they went on attributing their laws to the Creator, and the Creator is innocent of them... for when you analyze them you find them far from the spirit of divine justice..."
Gibran was speaking with great fervor and feeling... as though the subject had long occupied his mind... Then he returned to his question:
"Tell me, Youssef, what do you feel toward Miss Olga?"

And so as not to rebuff him a second time, I answered:
"I wish her every good... and happiness. I have built her, in the depths of my heart, an altar, and I do not want it cracked or torn down... even if she herself should wish it..." He said testily, having lost all patience with me:
"And since when do you talk in poetry?!... If love is mutual and the lovers are free... what is there to prevent them from being happy??"
I answered, objecting:
"Am I to understand from your words that you agree with Miss Suzanne that love is like a drink of water?... No, Gibran... I can never be at ease with that kind of carnal, selfish, vulgar love... Something in the depths of my heart protests violently... something stronger than reason and logic... Tell me, my friend: to what does love come in the end, if we strip it of the beauty of its soul?!"

"The beauty of its soul?" said Gibran, laughing. "You talk like a Sister of Charity... It seems to me there are still active deposits of the priesthood in your being!"

The blood rose to my head on hearing Gibran's remark, and I felt something like an insult... It was the first time the argument between us had grown so heated... But instead of flaring up — and flaring up is not in my nature — I repeated the question:
"To what does the love you mean come in the end? Tell me. Is it not to something cheap and paltry, almost a disgrace and a shame?!..." He asked me sarcastically:

"And to what would you have it come?!"
"To a high station... one that raises man to the rank of the gods, enables him to fathom the deepest and most wondrous feelings, and impels him to the noblest and most honorable deeds..."

"Fine words, no doubt," said Gibran in a gentler tone... "I shall study this subject; it deserves study..."
"You write... and I will put the 'writing' into practice..."

Thus the talk between Gibran and me came to an end, without the quarrel over "Cupid," the god of love, son of the beloved "Venus," reaching a crisis... and without our arriving at any agreed decision... In these subjects, almost every person has an opinion of his own.