Marriage in these days is a mockery whose management is in the hands of young men and parents. In most
countries the young men win while the parents lose. The woman is looked upon as a commodity, purchased
and delivered from one house to another. In time her beauty fades and she becomes like an old piece of
furniture left in a dark corner.
Modern civilization has made woman a little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man's
covetousness. The woman of yesterday was a happy wife, but the woman of today is a miserable mistress. In
the past she walked blindly in the light, but now she walks open−eyed in the dark. She was beautiful in her
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
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
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 thwarted love which leads a woman to the grave is like the despair which
pervades the people of the earth? A woman is to a nation as light is to a lamp. Will not the light be dim if the
oil in the lamp is low?
Autumn passed, and the wind blew the yellow leaves form the trees, making way for winter, which came
howling and crying. I was still in the City of Beirut without a companion save my dreams, which would lift
my spirit to the sky and then bury it deep in the bosom of the earth.
The sorrowful spirit finds relaxation in solitude. It abhors people, as a wounded deer deserts the herd and lives
in a cave until it is healed or dead.
One day I heard Farris Effandi was ill. I left my solitary abode and walked to his home, taking a new route, a
lonely path between olive trees, avoiding the main road with its rattling carriage wheels.
Arriving at the old man's house, I entered and found Farris Effandi lying on his bed, weak and pale. His eyes
were sunken and looked like two deep, dark valleys haunted by the ghosts of pain. The smile which had
always enlivened his face was choked with pain and agony; and the bones of his gentle hands looked like
naked branches trembling before the tempest. As I approached him and inquired as to his health, he turned his
pale face toward me, and on his trembling lips appeared a smile, and he said in a weak voice, "Go −−go, my
son, to the other room and comfort Selma and bring her to sit by the side of my bed."
I entered the adjacent room and found Selma lying on a divan, covering her head with her arms and burying
her face in a pillow so that her father would not hear her weeping. Approaching slowly, I pronounced her
name in a voice that seemed more like sighing than whispering. She moved fearfully, as if she had been
interrupted in a terrible dream, and sat up, looking at me with glazed eyes, doubting whether I was a ghost or a
living being. After a deep silence which took us back on the wings of memory to that hour when we were
intoxicated with wine of love, Selma wiped away her tears and said, "See how time has changed us! See how
time has changed the course of our lives and left us in these ruins. In this place spring united us in a bond of
love, and in this place has brought us together before the throne of death. How beautiful was spring, and how
terrible is this winter!"
Speaking thus, she covered her face again with her hands as if she were shielding her eyes from the spectre of
the past standing before her. I put my hand on her head and said, "Come, Selma, come and let us be as strong
towers before the tempest. Let us stand like brave soldiers before the enemy and face his weapons. If we are
killed, we shall die as martyrs; and if we win, we shall live as heroes. Braving obstacles and hardships is
nobler than retreat to tranquillity. The butterfly that hovers around the lamp until it dies is more admirable
than the mole that lives in a dark tunnel. Come, Selma, let us walk this rough path firmly, with our eyes
toward the sun so that we may not see the skulls and serpents among the rocks and thorns. if fear should stop
us in middle of the road, we would hear only ridicule from the voices of the night, but if we reach the
mountain peak bravely we shall join the heavenly spirits in songs of triumph and joy. Cheer up, Selma, wipe
away your tears and remove the sorrow from your face. Rise, and let us sit by the bed of your father, because
his life depends on your life, and your smile is his only cure."
Kindly and affectionately she looked at me and said, "Are you asking me to have patience, while you are in
need of it yourself? Will a hungry man give his bread to another hungry man? Or will sick man give medicine
to another which he himself needs badly?"
She rose, her head bent slightly forward and we walked to the old man's room and sat by the side of his bed.
Selma forced a smile and pretended to be patient, and her father tried to make her believe that he was feeling
better and getting stronger; but both father and daughter were aware of each other's sorrow and heard the
unvoiced sighs. They were like two equal forces, wearing each other away silently. The father's heart was
melting because of his daughter's plight. They were two pure souls, one departing and the other agonized with
grief, embracing in love and death; and I was between the two with my own troubled heart. We were three
people, gathered and crushed by the hands of destiny; an old man like a dwelling ruined by flood, a young
woman whose symbol was a lily beheaded by the sharp edge of a sickle, and a young man who was a weak
sapling, bent by a snowfall; and all of us were toys in the hands of fate.
Farris Effandi moved slowly and stretched his weak hand toward Selma, and in a loving and tender voice said,
"Hold my hand, my beloved." Selma held his hand; then he said, "I have lived long enough, and I have
enjoyed the fruits of life's seasons. I have experienced all its phases with equanimity. I lost your mother when
you were three years of age, and she left you as a precious treasure in my lap. I watched you grow, and your
face reproduced your mother's features as stars reflected in a calm pool of water. Your character, intelligence,
and beauty are your mother's, even your manner of speaking and gestures. You have been my only
consolation in this life because you were the image of your mother in every deed and word. Now, I grow old,
and my only resting place is between the soft wings of death. Be comforted, my beloved daughter, because I
have lived long enough to see you as a woman. Be happy because I shall live in you after my death. My
departure today would be no different from my going tomorrow or the day after, for our days are perishing
like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my death
approaches rapidly, and my soul is desirous of being united with your mother's."
As he uttered these words sweetly and lovingly, his face was radiant. Then he put his hand under his pillow
and pulled out a small picture in a gold frame. With his eyes on the little photograph, he said, "Come, Selma,
come and see your mother in this picture."
Selma wiped away her tears, and after gazing long at the picture, she kissed it repeatedly and cried, "Oh, my
beloved mother! Oh, mother!" Then she placed her trembling lips on the picture as if she wished to pour her
soul into that image.
The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word "Mother," and the most beautiful call is the call of
"My mother." it is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart.
The mother is every thing −−she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in
weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his mother loses a pure
soul who blesses and guards him constantly.
Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother. The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of hear;
it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of
birds and brooks. And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans
them. The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. And the mother, the
prototype of all existence, is the eternal spirit, full of beauty and love.
Selma Karamy never knew her mother because she had died when Selma was an infant, but Selma wept when
she saw the picture and cried, "Oh, mother!" The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our
lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the heart of the rose and mingles with clear
and cloudy air.
Selma stared at her mother's picture, kissing it repeatedly, until she collapsed by her father's bed.
The old man placed both hands on her head and said, "I have shown you, my dear child, a picture of your
mother on paper. Now listen to me and I shall let you hear her words."
She lifted her head like a little bird in the nest that hears its mother's wing, and looked at him attentively.
Farris Effandi opened his mouth and said, 'Your mother was nursing you when she lost her father; she cried
and wept at his going, but she was wise and patient. She sat by me in this room as soon as the funeral was
over and held my hand and said, 'Farris, my father is dead now and you are my only consolation in this world.
The heart's affections are divided like the branches of the cedar tree; if the tree loses one strong branch, it will
suffer but it does not die. It will pour all its vitality into the next branch so that it will grow and fill the empty
place.' This is what your mother told me when her father died, and you should say the same thing when death
takes my body to its resting place and my soul to God's care.'
Selma answered him with falling tears and broken heart, "When Mother lost her father, you took his place; but
who is going to take yours when you are gone? She was left in the care of a loving and truthful husband; she
found consolation in her little daughter, and who will be my consolation when you pass away? You have been
my father and mother and the companion of my youth."
Saying these words, she turned and looked at me, and, holding the side of my garment, said, "This is the only
friend I shall have after you are gone, but how can he console me when he is suffering also? How can a
broken heart find consolation in a disappointed soul? A sorrowful woman cannot be comforted by her
neighbour's sorrow, nor can a bird fly with broken wings. He is the friend of my soul, but I have already
placed a heavy burden of sorrow upon him and dimmed his eyes with my tears till he can see nothing but
darkness. he is a brother whom I dearly love, but he is like all brothers who share my sorrow and help me shed
tears which increase my bitterness and burn my heart."
Selma's words stabbed my heart, and I felt that I could bear no more. The old man listened to her with
depressed spirit. The old man listened to her with depressed spirit, trembling like the light of a lamp before the
wind. Then he stretched out his hand and said, "Let me go peacefully, my child. I have broken the bars of this
cage; let me fly and do not stop me, for your mother is calling me. The sky is clear and the sea is calm and the
boat is ready to sail; do not delay its voyage. Let my body rest with those who are resting; let my dream end
and my soul awaken with the dawn; let your soul embrace mine and give me the kiss of hope; let no drops of
sorrow or bitterness fall upon my body lest the flowers and grass refuse their nourishment. Do not shed tears
of misery upon my hand, for they may grow thorns upon my grave. Do not draw lines of agony upon my
forehead, for the wind may pass and read them and refuse to carry the dust of my bones to the green prairies...
I love you, my child, while I lived, and I shall love you when I am dead, and my soul shall always watch over
you and protect you."
When Farris Effandi looked at me with his eyes half closed and said, "My son, be a real brother to Selma as
your father was to me. Be her help and friend in need, and do not let her mourn, because mourning for the
dead is a mistake. Repeat to her pleasant tales and sing for her the songs of life so that she may forget her
sorrows. Remember me to your father; ask him to tell you the stories of your youth and tell him that I loved
him in the person of his son in the last hour of my life."
Silence prevailed, and I could see the pallor of death on the old man's face. Then he rolled his eyes and looked
at us and whispered, "Don't call the physician, for he might extend my sentence in this prison by his medicine.
The days of slavery are gone, and my soul seeks the freedom of the skies. And do not call the priest to my
bedside, because his incantations would not save me if I were a sinner, nor would it rush me to Heaven if I
were innocent. The will of humanity cannot change the will of God, as an astrologer cannot change the course
of the stars. But after my death let the doctors and priest do what they please, for my ship will continue sailing
until it reaches its destination."
At midnight Farris Effandi opened his tired eyes for the last time and focused them on Selma, who was
kneeling by his bedside. He tried to speak, but could not, for death had already choked his voice; but he
finally managed to say, "The night has passed... Oh, Selma...Oh...Oh, Selma..." Then he bent his head, his
face turned white, and I could see a smile on his lips as he breathed his last.
Selma felt her father's hand. It was cold. Then she raised her head and looked at his face. It was covered with
the veil of death. Selma was so choked that she could not shed tears, nor sigh, nor even move. For a moment
she stared at him with fixed eyes like those of a statue; then she bent down until her forehead touched the
floor, and said, "Oh, Lord, have mercy and mend our broken wings."
Farris Effandi Karamy died; his soul was embraced by Eternity, and his body was returned to the earth.
Mansour Bey Galib got possession of his wealth, and Selma became a prisoner of life−−a life of grief and
I was lost in sorrow and reverie. Days and nights preyed upon me as the eagle ravages its victim. Many a time
I tried to forget my misfortune by occupying myself with books and scriptures of past generation, but it was
like extinguishing fire with oil, for I could see nothing in the procession of the past but tragedy and could hear
nothing but weeping and wailing. The Book of Job was more fascinating to me than the Psalms and I
preferred the Elegies of Jeremiah to the Song of Solomon. Hamlet was closer to my heart than all other
dramas of western writers. Thus despair weakens our sight and closes our ears. We can see nothing but
spectres of doom and can hear only the beating of our agitated hearts.