It was the will of my father when I married a noble and rich man. My father was like most of the rich, whose only joy in life is to improve their wealth by adding more gold to their coffers in fear of poverty, and curry nobility with grandeur in anticipation of the attacks of the black days.… I find myself now, with all my love and dreams, a victim upon a golden altar which I hate, and an inherited honour which I despise.

“I respect my husband because he is generous and kind to all; he endeavours to bring happiness to me, and spends his gold to please my heart, but I have found that the impression of all these things is not worth one moment of a true and divine love. Do not ridicule me, my sister, for I am now a most enlightened person regarding the needs of a woman’s heart—that throbbing heart which is like a bird flying in the spacious sky of love.… It is like a vase replenished with the wine of the ages that has been pressed for the sipping souls.… It is like a book in whose pages one reads the chapters of happiness and misery, joy and pain, laughter and sorrow. No one can read this book except the true companion who is the other half of the woman, created for her since the beginning of the world.

“Yes, I became most knowing amongst all women as to the purpose of the soul and meaning of the heart, for I have found that my magnificent horses and beautiful carriages and glittering coffers of gold and sublime nobility are not worth one glance from the eyes of that poor young man who is patiently waiting and suffering the pangs of bitterness and misery.… That youth who is oppressed by the cruelty and will of my father, and imprisoned in the narrow and melancholy jail of Life.…

“Please, my dear, do not contrive to console me, for the calamity through which I have realized the power of my love is my great consoler. Now I am looking forward from behind my tears and awaiting the coming of Death to lead me to where I will meet the companion of my soul and embrace him as I did before we entered this strange world.

“Do not think evil of me, for I am doing my duty as a faithful wife, and complying calmly and patiently with the laws and rules of man. I honour my husband with my sense, and respect him with my heart, and revere him with my soul, but there is a withholding, for God gave part of me to my beloved before I knew him.

“Heaven willed that I spend my life with a man not meant for me, and I am wasting my days silently according to the will of Heaven; but if the gates of Eternity do not open, I will remain with the beautiful half of my soul and look back to the Past, and that Past is this Present.… I shall look at life as Spring looks at Winter, and contemplate the obstacles of Life as one who has climbed the rough trail and reached the mountain top.”

*    *    *    *    *

At that moment the maiden ceased writing and hid her face with her cupped hands and wept bitterly. Her heart declined to entrust to the pen its most sacred secrets, but resorted to the pouring of dry tears that dispersed quickly and mingled with the gentle ether, the haven of the lovers’ souls and the flowers’ spirits. After a moment she took the quill and added, “Do you remember that youth? Do you recollect the rays which emanated from his eyes, and the sorrowful signs upon his face? Do you recall that laughter which bespoke the tears of a mother, torn from her only child? Can you retrace his serene voice speaking the echo of a distant valley? Do you remember him meditating and staring longingly and calmly at objects and speaking of them in strange words, and then bending his head and sighing as if fearing to reveal the secrets of his great heart? Do you recall his dreams and beliefs? Do you recollect all these things in a youth whom humanity counts as one of her children and upon whom my father looked with eyes of superiority because he is higher than earthly greed and nobler than inherited grandeur?

“You know, my dear sister, that I am a martyr in this belittling world, and a victim of ignorance. Will you sympathize with a sister who sits in the silence of the horrible night pouring down the contents of her inner self and revealing to you her heart’s secrets? I am sure that you will sympathize with me, for I know that Love has visited your heart.”

*    *    *    *    *

Dawn came, and the maiden surrendered herself to Slumber, hoping to find sweeter and more gentle dreams than those she had encountered in her awakeness.…

My Countrymen

My Countrymen

WHAT DO YOU SEEK, My Countrymen?

Do you desire that I build for

You gorgeous palaces, decorated

With words of empty meaning, or

Temples roofed with dreams? Or

Do you command me to destroy what

The liars and tyrants have built?

Shall I uproot with my fingers

What the hypocrites and the wicked

Have implanted? Speak your insane

Wish!

What is it you would have me do,

My Countrymen? Shall I purr like

The kitten to satisfy you, or roar

Like the lion to please myself? I

Have sung for you, but you did not

Dance; I have wept before you, but

You did not cry. Shall I sing and

Weep at the same time?

Your souls are suffering the pangs

Of hunger, and yet the fruit of

Knowledge is more plentiful than

The stones of the valleys.

Your hearts are withering from

Thirst, and yet the springs of

Life are streaming about your

Homes—why do you not drink?

The sea has its ebb and flow,

The moon has its fullness and

Crescents, and the Ages have

Their winter and summer, and all

Things vary like the shadow of

An unborn God moving between

Earth and sun, but Truth cannot

Be changed, nor will it pass away;

Why, then, do you endeavour to

Disfigure its countenance?

I have called you in the silence

Of the night to point out the

Glory of the moon and the dignity

Of the stars, but you startled

From your slumber and clutched

Your swords in fear, crying,

“Where is the enemy? We must kill

Him first!” At morningtide, when

The enemy came, I called to you

Again, but now you did not wake

From your slumber, for you were

Locked in fear, wrestling with

The processions of spectres in

Your dreams.

And I said unto you, “Let us climb

To the mountain top and view the

Beauty of the world.” And you

Answered me, saying, “In the depths

Of this valley our fathers lived,

And in its shadow they died, and in

Its caves they were buried. How can

We depart this place for one which

They failed to honour?”

And I said unto you, “Let us go to

The plain that gives its bounty to

The sea.” And you spoke timidly to

Me, saying, “The uproar of the abyss

Will frighten our spirits, and the

Terror of the depths will deaden

Our bodies.”

*    *    *    *    *

I have loved you, My Countrymen, but

My love for you is painful to me

And useless to you; and today I

Hate you, and hatred is a flood

That sweeps away the dry branches

And quavering houses.

I have pitied your weakness, My

Countrymen, but my pity has but

Increased your feebleness, exalting

And nourishing slothfulness which

Is vain to Life. And today I see

Your infirmity which my soul loathes

And fears.

I have cried over your humiliation

And submission; and my tears streamed

Like crystalline, but could not sear

Away your stagnant weakness; yet they

Removed the veil from my eyes.

My tears have never reached your

Petrified hearts, but they cleansed

The darkness from my inner self.

Today I am mocking at your suffering,

For laughter is a raging thunder that

Precedes the tempest and never comes

After it.

What do you desire, My Countrymen?

Do you wish for me to show you

The ghost of your countenance on

The face of still water? Come,

Now, and see how ugly you are!

Look and meditate! Fear has

Turned your hair grey as the

Ashes, and dissipation has grown

Over your eyes and made them into

Obscured hollows, and cowardice

Has touched your cheeks that now

Appear as dismal pits in the

Valley, and Death has kissed

Your lips and left them yellow

As the Autumn leaves.

What is it that you seek, My

Countrymen? What ask you from

Life, who does not any longer

Count you among her children?

Your souls are freezing in the

Clutches of the priests and

Sorcerers, and your bodies

Tremble between the paws of the

Despots and the shedders of

Blood, and your country quakes

Under the marching feet of the

Conquering enemy; what may you

Expect even though you stand

Proudly before the face of the

Sun? Your swords are sheathed

With rust, and your spears are

Broken, and your shields are

Laden with gaps; why, then, do

You stand in the field of battle?

Hypocrisy is your religion, and

Falsehood is your life, and

Nothingness is your ending; why,

Then, are you living? Is not

Death the sole comfort of the

Miserables?

*    *    *    *    *

Life is a resolution that

Accompanies youth, and a diligence

That follows maturity, and a

Wisdom that pursues senility; but

You, My Countrymen, were born old

And weak. And your skins withered

And your heads shrank, whereupon

You became as children, running

Into the mire and casting stones

Upon each other.

Knowledge is a light, enriching

The warmth of life, and all may

Partake who seek it out; but you,

My Countrymen, seek out darkness

And flee the light, awaiting the

Coming of water from the rock,

And your nation’s misery is your

Crime.… I do not forgive you

Your sins, for you know what you

Are doing.

Humanity is a brilliant river

Singing its way and carrying with

It the mountains’ secrets into

The heart of the sea; but you,

My Countrymen, are stagnant

Marshes infested with insects

And vipers.

The Spirit is a sacred blue

Torch, burning and devouring

The dry plants, and growing

With the storm and illuminating

The faces of the goddesses; but

You, My Countrymen … your souls

Are like ashes which the winds

Scatter upon the snow, and which

The tempests disperse forever in

The valleys.

Fear not the phantom of Death,

My Countrymen, for his greatness

And mercy will refuse to approach

Your smallness; and dread not the

Dagger, for it will decline to be

Lodged in your shallow hearts.

I hate you, My Countrymen, because

You hate glory and greatness. I

Despise you because you despise

Yourselves. I am your enemy, for

You refuse to realize that you are

The enemies of the goddesses.

John the Madman

John the Madman

IN SUMMER John walked every morning into the field, driving his oxen and carrying his plough over his shoulder, hearkening to the soothing songs of the birds and the rustling of the leaves and the grass.

At noon he sat beside a brook in the colourful prairies for repast, leaving a few morsels upon the green grass for the birds of the sky.

At eventide he returned to his wretched hovel that stood apart from those hamlets and villages in North Lebanon. After the evening meal he sat and listened attentively to his parents, who related tales of the past ages until sleep allured and captured his eyes.

In winter he spent his days by the fireside, pondering the wailing of the winds and lamentation of the elements, meditating upon the phenomena of the seasons, and looking through the window toward the snow-laden valleys and leafless trees, symbolizing a multitude of suffering people left helpless in the jaws of biting frost and strong wind.

During the long winter nights he sat up until his parents retired, whereupon he opened a rough wooden closet, brought out his New Testament, and read it secretly under the dim light of a flickering lamp. The priests objected to the reading of the Good Book, and John exercised great caution during these fascinating moments of study. The fathers warned the simple-hearted people against its use, and threatened them with excommunication from the church if discovered possessing it.

Thus John spent his youth between the beautiful earth of God and the New Testament, full of light and truth. John was a youth of silence and contemplation; he listened to his parents’ conversations and never spoke a word nor asked a question. When sitting with his contemporaries, he gazed steadily at the horizon, and his thoughts were as distant as his eyes. After each visit to the church he returned home with a depressed spirit, for the teachings of the priests were different from the precepts he found in the Gospel, and the life of the faithful was not the beautiful life of which Christ spoke.

*    *    *    *    *

Spring came and the snow melted in the fields and valleys. The snow upon the mountain tops was thawing gradually and forming many streamlets in the winding paths leading into the valleys, combining into a torrent whose roaring bespoke the awakening of Nature. The almond and apple trees were in full bloom; the willow and poplar trees were sprouting with buds, and Nature had spread her happy and colourful garments over the countryside.

John, tired of spending his days by the fireside, and knowing that his oxen were longing for the pastures, released his animals from the sheds and led them to the fields, concealing his New Testament under his cloak for fear of detection. He reached a beautiful arbor adjacent to some fields belonging to the St. Elija Monastery* which stood majestically upon a nearby hill. As the oxen commenced grazing, John leaned upon a rock and began to read his New Testament and meditate the sadness of the children of God on earth, and the beauty of the Kingdom of Heaven.

It was the last day of Lent, and the villagers who abstained from eating meat were impatiently awaiting the coming of Easter. John, like the rest of the poor fellahin, never distinguished Lent from any other day of the year, for his whole life was an extended Lent, and his food never exceeded the simple bread, kneaded with the pain of his heart, or the fruits, purchased with the blood of his body. The only nourishment craved by John during Lent was that spiritual food—the heavenly bread that brought into his heart sad thoughts of the tragedy of the Son of Man and the end of His life on earth.

The birds were singing and hovering about him, and large flocks of doves circled in the sky, while the flowers swayed with the breeze as if exhilarated by the brilliant sunshine.

John busied himself absorbing the Book, and between these intense, light-giving sessions, he watched the domes of the churches in the nearby villages and listened to the rhythmic toll of the bells. Occasionally he would close his eyes and fly on the wings of dreams to Old Jerusalem, following Christ’s steps and asking the people of the city about die Nazarene, whereupon he would receive the answer, “Here He cured the paralyzed and restored to the blind their sight; and there they braided for Him a wreath of thorns and placed it upon His head; from that portico He spoke to the multitude with beautiful parables; in that palace they tied Him to the marble columns and scourged Him; on this road He forgave the adulteress her sins, and upon that spot He fell under the weight of His Cross.”

*    *    *    *    *

One hour passed, and John was suffering physically with God and glorifying with Him in spirit. Noon quickly came, and the oxen were beyond the reach of John’s sight.