Gibran Stories Omnibus

wish; then Selma's reputation would have been ruined and her name would
have been blemished by the dirt of lips and tongues. In the opinion of
the fox, high bunches of grapes that can't be reached are sour.
      Thus destiny seized Selma and led her like a humiliated slave in the
procession of miserable oriental woman, and thus fell that noble spirit
into the trap after having flown freely on the white wings of love in a
sky full of moonlight scented with the odour of flowers.
      In some countries, the parent's wealth is a source of misery for the
children. The wide strong box which the father and mother together have
used for the safety of their wealth becomes a narrow, dark prison for
the souls of their heirs. The Almighty Dinar which the people worship
becomes a demon which punished the spirit and deadens the heart. Selma
Karamy was one of those who were the victims of their parents' wealth
and bridegrooms' cupidity. Had it not been for her father's wealth,
Selma would still be living happily.
      A week had passed. The love of Selma was my sole entertainer,
singing songs of happiness for me at night and waking me at dawn to
reveal the meaning of life and the secrets of nature. It is a heavenly
love that is free from jealousy, rich and never harmful to the spirit.
It is deep affinity that bathes the soul in contentment; a deep hunger
for affection which, when satisfied, fills the soul with bounty; a
tenderness that creates hope without agitating the soul, changing earth
to paradise and life to a sweet and a beautiful dream. In the morning,
when I walked in the fields, I saw the token of Eternity in the
awakening of nature, and when I sat by the seashore I heard the waves
singing the song of Eternity. And when I walked in the streets I saw
the beauty of life and the splendour of humanity in the appearance of
passers-by and movements of workers.
      Those days passed like ghosts and disappeared like clouds, and soon
nothing was left for me but sorrowful memories. The eye with which I
used to look at the beauty of spring and the awakening of nature, could
see nothing but the fury of the tempest and the misery of winter. The
ears with which I formerly heard with delight the song of the waves,
could hear only the howling of the wind and the wrath of the sea
against the precipice. The soul which had observed happily the tireless
vigour of mankind and the glory of the universe, was tortured by the
knowledge of disappointment and failure. Nothing was more beautiful
than those days of love, and nothing was more bitter than those
horrible nights of sorrow.
      When I could no longer resist the impulse, I went, on the weekend,
once more to Selma's home —the shrine which Beauty had erected and
which Love had blessed, in which the spirit could worship and the heart
kneel humbly and pray. When I entered the garden I felt a power pulling
me away from this world and placing me in a sphere supernaturally free
from struggle and hardship. Like a mystic who receives a revelation of
Heaven, I saw myself amid the trees and flowers, and as I approached
the entrance of the house I beheld Selma sitting on the bench in the
shadow of a jasmine tree where we both had sat the week before, on that
night which Providence had chosen for the beginning of my happiness and
sorrow.
      She neither moved nor spoke as I approached her. She seemed to have
known intuitively that I was coming, and when I sat by her she gazed at
me for a moment and sighed deeply, then turned her head and looked at
the sky. And, after a moment full of magic silence, she turned back
toward me and tremblingly took my hand and said in a faint voice, “Look
at me, my friend; study my face and I read in it that which you want to
know and which I can not recite. Look at me, my beloved... look at me,
my brother.”
      I gazed at her intently and saw that those eyes, which a few days
ago were smiling like lips and moving like the wings of a nightingales,
were already sunken and glazed with sorrow and pain. Her face, that had
resembled the unfolding, sun kissed leaves of a lily, had faded and
become colourless. Her sweet lips were like two withering roses that
autumn has left on their stems. Her neck, that had been a column of
ivory, was bent forward as if it no longer could support the burden of
grief in her head.
      All these changes I saw in Selma's face, but to