17/7/09

THE HAND OF DESTINY - The broken wings

In the spring of the that wonderful year, I was in Beirut. The gardens were full of Nisan flowers and the earth
was carpeted with green grass, and like a secret of earth revealed to Heaven. The orange trees and apple trees,
looking like houris or brides sent by nature to inspire poets and excite the imagination, were wearing white
garments of perfumed blossoms.
Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is most beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit that roams round the earth but
hovers over Lebanon, conversing with kings and prophets, singing with the rives the songs of Solomon, and
repeating with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the memory of ancient glory. Beirut, free from the mud of winter
and the dust of summer, is like a bride in the spring, or like a mermaid sitting by the side of a brook drying her
smooth skin in the rays of the sun.
One day, in the month of Nisan, I went to visit a friend whose home was at some distance from the glamorous
city. As we were conversing, a dignified man of about sixty−five entered the house. As I rose to greet him, my
friend introduced him to me as Farris Effandi Karamy and then gave him my name with flattering words. The
old man looked at me a moment, touching his forehead with the ends of his fingers as if he were trying to
regain his memory. Then he smilingly approached me saying, " You are the son of a very dear friend of mine,
and I am happy to see that friend in your person."
Much affected by his words, I was attracted to him like a bird whose instinct leads him to his nest before the
coming of the tempest. As we sat down, he told us about his friendship with my father, recalling the time
which they spent together. An old man likes to return in memory to the days of his youth like a stranger who
longs to go back to his own country. He delights to tell stories of the past like a poet who takes pleasure in
reciting his best poem. He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems
to him an approach to the oblivion of the grave. An hour full of old memories passed like the shadows of the
trees over the grass. When Farris Effandi started to leave, he put his left hand on my shoulder and shook my
right hand, saying, " I have not seen your father for twenty years. I hope you will l take his place in frequent
visits to my house." I promised gratefully to do my duty toward a dear friend of my father.
Then the old man left the house, I asked my friend to tell me more about him. He said, "I do not know any
other man in Beirut whose wealth has made him kind and whose kindness has made him wealthy. He is one of
the few who come to this world and leave it without harming any one, but people of that kind are usually
miserable and oppressed because they are not clever enough to save themselves from the crookedness of
others. Farris Effandi has one daughter whose character is similar to his and whose beauty and gracefulness
are beyond description, and she will also be miserable because her father's wealth is placing her already at the
edge of a horrible precipice."
As he uttered these words, I noticed that his face clouded. Then he continued, "Farris Effandi is a good old
man with a noble heart, but he lacks will power. People lead him like a blind man. His daughter obeys him in
spite of her pride and intelligence, and this is the secret which lurks in the life of father and daughter. This
secret was discovered by an evil man who is a bishop and whose wickedness hides in the shadow of his
Gospel. He makes the people believe that he is kind and noble. He is the head of religion in this land of the
religions. The people obey and worship him. he leads them like a flock of lambs to the slaughter house. This
bishop has a nephew who is full of hatefulness and corruption. The day will come sooner or later when he will
place his nephew on his right and Farris Effandi's daughter on this left, and, holding with his evil hand the
wreath of matrimony over their heads, will tie a pure virgin to a filthy degenerate, placing the heart of the day
in the bosom of the night.
That is all I can tell you about Farris Effandi and his daughter, so do not ask me any more questions."
Saying this, he turned his head toward the window as if he were trying to solve the problems of human
existence by concentrating on the beauty of the universe.
As I left the house I told my friend that I was going to visit Farris Effandi in a few days for the purpose of
fulfilling my promise and for the sake of the friendship which had joined him and my father. He stared at me
for a moment, and I noticed a change in his expression as if my few simple words had revealed to him a new
idea. Then he looked straight through my eyes in a strange manner, a look of love, mercy, and fear −−the look
of a prophet who foresees what no one else can divine. Then his lips trembled a little, but he said nothing
when I started towards the door. That strange look followed me, the meaning of which I could not understand
until I grew up in the world of experience, where hearts understand each other intuitively and where spirits are
mature with knowledge.

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