Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris (18): What Did Miss Olga Want of Me?!

As was my habit every morning, I went over to Gibran's. At times we would work and analyze the affairs of life; at other times I would let him repeat in my hearing some of what was turning in his head, and what he intended to write. Had it occurred to me, in those days, to set down everything that came into Gibran's mind, it would have filled a huge volume — all of it delightful, and much of it still in the making. For example:

— I have something I want, something I long to say, but the words will not bend to my will. Inside me there is something tremendous — I know not whether it is a devil or an angel — a mighty spirit trying...

And before he could finish I cut in, saying:

— How I wish, Gibran, you would try to laugh... I fear that reading Nietzsche has captivated you and worked upon you. I have no taste for that scowling philosopher who ended in madness. I liked Lou's analysis of him: she said that the sharpness of his gaze did not promise happiness in love, and had he laughed, perhaps "Lou Salomé" would have changed her mind and not preferred to marry another. Then Gibran said:

— I see you speak of love as though you were an expert — but only when the matter concerns someone else. When you yourself are the hero... you feign ignorance, or pretend not to notice! Susan has assured me that Olga is nearly out of her mind — and you show neither pity nor mercy!..

— Is this a conspiracy against me, between you and Susan? If Miss Olga is nearly losing her mind, the matter is simple: she has only to leave Paris. It pains me to see her neglecting her studies. As for me, my friend, I assure you, first and last, that I have no inclination to reading romances or to acting them out — least of all to playing "the hero of the tale."

— We are always playing the hero of a tale, Youssef, whether we will or no.

— In any case... the waters of the Seine returned long ago to their normal level, and Miss Olga's room is no longer exposed to mold and damp... so the piano can be returned to where it was in the first place. You, Gibran, were the cause of its coming to my place; kindly see to its return.

And I was in earnest in what I said.

xxxx

After the evening at the Café du Dôme I returned to my place about midnight, and I did not find the piano; I found instead, on the table, a letter of four pages. I am sorry I did not keep it. I realize now, when it is too late, how singular, how precious that letter was — all of it evidence and arguments, philosophical, scientific, logical, to the effect that a woman is free to bear a child by a man of her own choosing, who fills her mind and her heart... that her father agreed with her in this view, and that she had found that man in me, but had not found in herself the moral courage and the boldness to broach the matter to me openly, and so had resorted to writing. And that she would come on the morrow to take the answer. She closed the letter in this fashion:

I beg you, my friend, if you will not go along with what I want, and if you insist on refusing my request, to make plain to me the reason for it, and to act by the inspiration of your sound mind and your great heart, so that I do not lose my regard for you...

and for myself.

Miss Olga's letter fell upon me like a thunderbolt, and I had the whole night before me to think, to analyze the situation and study it from every side. For the first time in my life, I remember, sleep would not come to me all night long, and this helped me to listen to the voice of inner feeling — the voice of conscience — and shortly before dawn I arrived at a final decision: to preserve the altar I had built to her in the depths of my heart. My soul was at peace with this decision, and it seemed to me, for all its harshness, far more beautiful than a fleeting momentary pleasure. Yes! I would act as she herself had wished — so as not to make her lose her regard for herself and for me... and also so as not to lose my own regard for myself.

Miss Olga came on the morrow, on her lips a bewitching smile she had lost of late, and I understood, from her first glance at me, that she knew I was refusing her request. I gave her to understand that I did so to preserve her good name and to safeguard her future... Then I expressed to her my desire to help her through this crisis of the spirit, and my readiness to discuss it and to join deed to word. But she turned to me and addressed me calmly and with composure, saying:

— Thank you, my friend. My things at the pension are packed. I shall leave Paris at once... Let me, if you will, press a farewell kiss upon your brow!

So, with the utmost simplicity, I let her kiss me and go, and like one stunned I stood at the window watching her take the cab and draw away, until she vanished from my eyes at the bend of the street. Only then, without my will having any say in it, I sat down on the divan, holding my head in both hands, and like a small child gave myself up to a sharp fit of weeping; I know not how many tears I shed in its course.

Contrary to custom, I did not go to Gibran's that morning. After Olga's going in that fashion, a fit of black melancholy came over me, as though a powerful hand had gripped and wrung my heart. Shortly before noon there came a knock at the door — and the knocker was none other than Gibran himself! He had come to look in on me and find out the reason for my absence. He came in leaning on his stick and stared long into my face before asking me:

— Why are your eyes red, Youssef?

— I sat up late last night, working on the translation of Dante's Inferno.

— That is not true! When did you learn to lie? I have always known you frank, speaking nothing but the truth though it cost you your head!

And before I could answer him he reached into his pocket and drew out a letter; I knew at once from whom it came. I recognized on it Miss Olga's hand: she had written it in haste after leaving me, and had passed by Gibran on her way to the railway station, to bid him farewell and acquaint him with the details of the story.

Gibran sat down beside me on the divan and began, as was his way, to put questions to me like an examining magistrate investigating an important case. He commented on my answers, analyzed the situation, and came at last to say:

— I am proud of you, Youssef, for you have proved yourself a man of honor, and you answered the call of reason, not of the heart — and it is no easy thing for reason to triumph over the desires of the flesh...

— Hush... I said to him, laying my finger on my lips: hush... The matter is private... very private indeed... and its chapters have ended in peace, so let us draw the curtain over it...

XXXX

Miss Susan said to me — I had found her alone in the art shop, dusting the books and the pictures:

— You simpleton! Is that how you let Olga slip out of your hands? Why don't you teach your arts to your friend Kalimi? For he is caught! He is engaged, and will soon be married — and the story is not without its comedy. Come, sit down, and I will tell it to you.

I said to Susan, not concealing my astonishment at what I was hearing:

— Is it possible? Is it true? My friend Kalimi caught? I thought him the most immune of us all, the most resistant to these things.

Miss Susan shook her head and said, with something of defiance, or of gloating:

— You men think yourselves immune. But every one of you, in his turn, has his day of being caught in the snare! Hear the tale as it is:

We have a friend in the protocol department at the English embassy, who lately invited Kalimi to a dancing party on the anniversary of King Edward's coronation. Kalimi asked his friend, by way of a joke, to present him with the title of "Count"... Among the guests was Miss Esther, come from London to attend to her father's business; and it occurred to her, too, to carry the title of "Lady." And when Count Kalimi met Lady Esther — she a bewitching enchantress, he splendid of countenance — they danced, and exchanged all the love they pleased; and her love came like a thunderbolt, sweeping and violent, and even after the two discovered

that "the Count and the Lady" were a fiction, their love was not shaken; rather it grew stronger and took full possession of their hearts. And it appeared afterward that they were of one nature and had inclinations in common, chief among them commerce — to which they will devote themselves after the marriage, which is to take place soon.

I was listening to Miss Susan's talk with attention and amazement, and before I could open my mouth to make any comment she resumed her speech with even greater animation:

— On the occasion of Kalimi's marriage we shall give a family party at our house, and you are among the invited — on condition that you persuade your friend Gibran to attend the party; otherwise Leah will die of grief and sorrow. She is busy now with my mother, making some sweets and preparing them for the occasion. As for me, I intend after that to travel to China, for we may set up a shop in Paris in agreement with the London house. That, at least, is Esther's wish... How I wish you would listen to me, and we would travel together! The arts, believe me, put no bread on the table!

— And who told you, my friend, that my aim in life is the piling up of money? Gibran and I are preparing to travel soon to Istanbul, Athens, and Rome...

— How strange you are, the two of you! I cannot see what good can come of such a journey — except that it is a waste of time!

XXXX

Gibran said to me, when I passed on to him some of Miss Susan's talk about the invitation to the wedding:

The circle is a Jewish one, in which, as you know, I am not at my ease, and I fear we shall feel like strangers in it. Still, it is "only a night, O muleteer," and Leah deserves some sacrifice, and Madame Kalimi speaks English. Very well. We shall go. Only there remains the present — is it proper that we go to the party swinging our empty hands?

I cut short Gibran's flow of talk and reassured him that our presence was a present... and more!

We were ten persons around the table, laden with everything savory and delicious, and after the eating and the drinking, the music and the family dancing, Susan made a sign, and silence fell.

She said:

— We shall close this party, ladies and gentlemen, with a competition for this prize.

And she gestured toward a red velvet box on the table, beside the seven-branched candlestick, saying:

— It goes to whoever tells the drollest story... and I shall draw, one after another, the names of three of those present. (And there were in the bag — or rather, in Susan's hand — only three names, according to my previous instructions to her!)

She drew first the name of a young Romanian, who told a story in the Romanian language that made those who understood it laugh; then she drew the name of "Leah," who at once told a Jewish story that made everyone laugh; then she drew the last slip and announced the name "Gibran"! The company turned toward him with craning necks and applauded him by way of encouragement. Gibran was flustered and looked at me with startled eyes, so I said to him in Arabic, encouragingly:

— The turn of your valiant grandfather has come. Did he not perform some heroic deed in his life? Surely among your grandfather's tales you have the drollest of stories!

And Madame Kalimi pressed him in English and urged him on. And when Gibran found himself facing an accomplished

fact, he gathered all his moral courage and began to tell the story of his grandfather "Gibran." He said:
— My grandfather never left his house without carrying his sword. And he would not close an eyelid unless the sword was at his side. It happened once that a certain bishop presented to the church of our town the pictures of the "Way of the Cross."
Here one of the company interrupted him, asking the meaning of "the Way of the Cross," so I hastened to the rescue and explained the meaning to him briefly, and Gibran went on with the story:
— The priest hung the pictures in the church and rang the bell, calling the people to gather and view them. And my grandfather came with the crowd of people — and of course his sword was with him! — and the priest began to explain, pointing to the first picture:
— This is Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Garden of Olives... and these soldiers are trying to seize him...
My grandfather drew the sword half out of its sheath, his eyes bulging with the violence of his anger. Then he mastered his feeling and returned the sword to its scabbard, listening to the rest of the explanation:
— And this picture, my children, shows Our Lord Jesus Christ with the crown of thorns upon his head... and this soldier striking him..
— "Din! Din!" cried my grandfather Gibran — nay, he roared, in a voice like thunder: "Here, in Bsharri, you strike Christ??" And this time he drew the sword to its full length and struck the soldier, breaking the glass, the frame, and the picture!
The whole company burst into laughter and applause, and Leah shouted, over and over:
— The prize to Gibran! The prize to Gibran!
Kalimi remarked:
— Give thanks, brothers of Judah, that Gibran's grandfather was not living in the time of Christ — he might well have defended him and saved him from the crucifixion! And Leah added:
— And then everything would have been thrown into confusion!
Gibran carried off the velvet box — his lawful winnings — and we left shortly before midnight. The sky was clear, sown with glittering stars, and there was a moon peeping at us from behind the trees on the two sides of the street; and each of us walked gazing upward, chest lifted, heart beating with a merriment near to intoxication. We could bear it no longer, and opened the box: within it were pieces of chocolate of Swiss make and pieces of fine sugared almonds, and in the middle of the box two photographs, of Susan and Leah, each within a little frame. It was natural that Gibran should give me Susan's picture and keep Leah's for himself. He gave me the chocolates as well, and kept the sugared almonds for himself...