Gibran Stories Omnibus

ignorance,
virtuous in her simplicity, and strong in her weakness. Today she has
become ugly in her ingenuity, superficial and heartless in her
knowledge. Will the day ever come when beauty and knowledge, ingenuity
and virtue, and weakness of body and strength of spirit will be united
in a woman?
      I am one of those who believe that spiritual progress is a rule of
human life, but the approach to perfection is slow and painful. If a
woman elevates herself in one respect and is retarded in another, it is
because the rough trail that leads to the mountain peak is not free of
ambushes of thieves and lairs of wolves.
      This strange generation exists between sleeping and waking. It holds
in its hands the soil of the past and the seeds of the future. However,
we find in every city a woman who symbolizes the future.
      In the city of Beirut, Selma Karamy was the symbol of the future
Oriental woman, but, like many who lie ahead of their time, she became
the victim of the present; and like a flower snatched from its stem and
carried away by the current of a river, she walked in the miserable
procession of the defeated.
      Mansour Bey Galib and Selma were married, and lived together in a
beautiful house at Ras Beyrouth, where all the wealthy dignitaries
resided. Farris Effandi Karamy was left in his solitary home in the
midst of his garden and orchards like a lonely shepherd amid his flock.
      The days and merry nights of the wedding passed, but the honeymoon
left memories of times of bitter sorrow, as wars leave skulls and dead
bones on the battlefield. The dignity of an Oriental wedding inspires
the hearts of young men and women, but its termination may drop them
like millstones to the bottom of the sea. Their exhilaration is like
footprints on sand which remain only till they are washed away by the
waves.
      Spring departed, and so did summer and autumn, but my love for Selma
increased day by day until it became a kind of mute worship, the
feeling that an orphan has toward the soul of his mother in Heaven. My
yearning was converted to blind sorrow that could see nothing but
itself, and the passion that drew tears from my eyes was replaced by
perplexity that sucked the blood from my heart, and my sighs of
affection became a constant prayer for the happiness of Selma and her
husband and peace for her father.
      My hopes and prayers were in vain, because Selma's misery was an
internal malady that nothing but death could cure.
      Mansour Bey was a man to whom all the luxuries of life came easily;
but, in spite of that, he was dissatisfied and rapacious. After
marrying Selma, he neglected her father in his loneliness and prayed
for his death so that he could inherit what was left of the old man's
wealth.
      Mansour Bey's character was similar to his uncle's; the only
difference between the two was that the Bishop got everything he wanted
secretly, under the protection of his ecclesiastical robe and the
golden cross which he wore on his chest, while his nephew did
everything publicly. The Bishop went to church in the morning and spent
the rest of the day pilfering from the widows, orphans, and simple
minded people. But Mansour Bey spent his days in pursuit of sexual
satisfaction. On Sunday, Bishop Bulos Galib preached his Gospel; but
during weekdays he never practiced what he preached, occupying himself
with political intrigues of the locality. And, by means of his uncle's
prestige and influence, Mansour Bey made it his business to secure
political plums for those who could offer a sufficient bribe.
      Bishop Bulos was a thief who hid himself under the cover of night,
while his nephew, Mansour Bey, was a swindler who walked proudly in
daylight. However, the people of Oriental nations place trust in such
as they—wolves and butchers who ruin their country through
covetousness and crush their neighbours with an iron hand.
      Why do I occupy these pages with words about the betrayers of poor
nations instead of reserving all the space for the story of a miserable
woman with a broken heart? Why do I shed tears for oppressed peoples
rather than keep all my tears for the memory of a weak woman whose life
was snatched by the teeth of death?
      But my dear readers, don't' you think that such a woman is like a
nation that is oppressed by priests and rulers? Don't you believe that