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
With this installment we bid the reader farewell, until we meet again in the book "My Memories with Gibran" — the memories of Paris, 1909–1910, told by the doyen of our artists, Mr. Youssef Howayek, Gibran's friend and companion in Paris in those days, and set down by Edvick Jureidini Shayboub... Until we meet again!