One day in the late part of June, as the people left
the city for the mountain to avoid the heat of summer, I went as usual
to the temple to meet Selma, carrying with me a little book of
Andalusian poems. As I reached the temple I sat there waiting for Selma,
glancing at intervals at the pages of my book, reciting those verses
which filled my heart with ecstasy and brought to my soul the memory of
the kings, poets, and knights who bade farewell to Granada, and left,
with tears in their eyes and sorrow in their hearts, their palaces,
institutions and hopes behind. In an hour I saw Selma walking in the
midst of the gardens and I approaching the temple, leaning on her
parasol as if she were carrying all the worries of the world upon her
shoulders. As she entered the temple and sat by me, I noticed some sort
of change in her eyes and I was anxious to inquire about it.
Selma felt what was going on in my mind, and she put her hand on my head
and said, "Come close to me, come my beloved, come and let me quench my
thirst, for the hour of separation has come."
I asked her, "Did your husband find out about our meeting her?" She
responded, "My husband does not care about me, neither does he know how I
spend my time, for he is busy with those poor girls whom poverty has
driven into the houses of ill fame; those girls who sell their bodies
for bread, kneaded with blood and tears."
I inquired, "What prevents you from coming to this temple and sitting by
me reverently before God? Is your soul requesting our separation?"
She answered with tears in her eyes, "No, my beloved, my spirit did not
ask for separation, for you are a part of me. My eyes never get tired of
looking at you, for you are their light; but if destiny ruled that I
should walk the rough path of life loaded with shackles, would I be
satisfied if your fate should be like mine?" Then she added, "I cannot
say everything, because the tongue is mute with pain and cannot talk;
the lips are sealed with misery and cannot move; all I can say to you is
that I am afraid you may fall in the same trap I fell in."
When I asked, "What do you mean, Selma, and of whom are you afraid?" She
covered her face with her hands and said, "The Bishop has already found
out that once a month I have been leaving the grave which he buried me
in."
I inquired, "Did the Bishop find out about our meetings here?" She
answered, "If he did, you would not see me here sitting by you, but he
is getting suspicious and he informed all his servants and guards to
watch me closely. I am feeling that the house I live in and the path I
walk on are all eyes watching me, and fingers pointing at me, and ears
listening to the whisper of my thoughts."
She was silent for a while, and then she added, with tears pouring down
her cheeks, "I am not afraid of the Bishop, for wetness does not scare
the drowned, but I am afraid you might fall into the trap and become his
prey; you are still young and free as the sunlight. I am not frightened
of fate which has shot all its arrows in my breast, but I am afraid the
serpent might bite your feet and detain you from climbing the mountain
peak where the future awaits you with its pleasure and glory."
I said, "He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped
at by the wolves of darkness will always be deceived by the days and
nights. But listen, Selma, listen carefully; is separation the only
means of avoiding people's evils and meanness? Has the path of love and
freedom been closed and is nothing left except submission to the will of
the slaves of death?"
She responded, "Nothing is left save separation and bidding each other farewell."
With rebellious spirit I took her hand and said excitedly, "We have
yielded to the people's will for a long time; since the time we met
until this hour we have been led by the blind and have worshipped with
them before their idols. Since the time I met you we have been in the
hands of the Bishop like two balls which he has thrown around as he
pleased. Are we going to submit to his will until death takes us away?
Did God give us the breath of life to place it under death's feet? Did
He give us liberty to make it a shadow of slavery? He who extinguishes
his spirit's fire with his own hands is an infidel in the eyes of
Heaven, for Heaven set the fire that burns in our spirits. He who does
not rebel against oppression is doing himself injustice. I love you,
Selma, and you love me, too; and Love is a precious treasure, it is
God's gift to sensitive and great spirits. Shall we throw this treasure
away and let the pigs scatter it and trample on it? This world is full
of wonder and beauty. Why are we living in this narrow tunnel which the
Bishop and his assistants have dug out for us? Life is full of happiness
and freedom; why don't we take this heavy yoke off our shoulders and
break the chains tied to our feet, and walk freely toward peace? Get up
and let us leave this small temple for God's great temple. Let us leave
this country and all its slavery and ignorance for another country far
away and unreached by the hands of the thieves. Let us go to the coast
under the cover of night and catch a boat that will take us across the
oceans, where we can find a new life full of happiness and
understanding. Do not hesitate, Selma for these minutes are more
precious to us than the crowns of kings and more sublime than the
thrones of angels. Let us follow the column of light that leads us from
this arid desert into the green fields where flowers and aromatic plants
grow."
She shook her head and gazed at something invisible on the ceiling of
the temple; a sorrowful smile appeared on her lips; then she said, "No,
no my beloved. Heaven placed in my hand a cup, full of vinegar and gall;
I forced myself to drink it in order to know the full bitterness at the
bottom until nothing was left save a few drops, which I shall drink
patiently. I am not worthy of a new life of love and peace; I am not
strong enough for life's pleasure and sweetness, because a bird with
broken wings cannot fly in the spacious sky. The eyes that are
accustomed to the dim light of a candle are not strong enough to stare
at the sun. Do not talk to me of happiness; its memory makes me suffer.
Mention not peace to me; its shadow frightens me; but look at me and I
will show you the holy torch which Heaven has lighted in the ashes of my
heart—you know that I love you as a mother loves her only child, and
Love only taught me to protect you even from myself. It is Love,
purified with fire, that stops me from following you to the farthest
land. Love kills my desires so that you may live freely and virtuously.
Limited love asks for possession of the beloved, but the unlimited asks
only for itself. Love that comes between the naivete and awakening of
youth satisfies itself with possessing, and grows with embraces. But
Love which is born in the firmament's lap and has descended with the
night's secrets is not contended with anything but Eternity and
immortality; it does not stand reverently before anything except deity.
When I knew that the Bishop wanted to stop me from leaving his
nephew's house and to take my only pleasure away from me, I stood before
the window of my room and looked toward the sea, thinking of the vast
countries beyond it and the real freedom and personal independence which
can be found there. I felt that I was living close to you, surrounded
by the shadow of your spirit, submerged in the ocean of your affection.
But all these thoughts which illuminate a woman's heart and make her
rebel against old customs and live in the shadow of freedom and justice,
made me believe that I am weak and that our love is limited and feeble,
unable to stand before the sun's face. I cried like a king whose
kingdom and treasure have been usurped, but immediately I saw your face
through my tears and your eyes gazing at me and I remembered what you
said to me once (Come, Selma, come and let us be 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 tranquility.) These words, my beloved, you uttered when the
wings of death were hovering around my father's bed; I remembered them
yesterday when the wings of despair were hovering above my head. I
strengthened myself and felt, while in the darkness of my prison, some
sort of precious freedom easing our difficulties and diminishing our
sorrows. I found out that our love was as deep as the ocean and as high
as the stars and as spacious as the sky. I came here to see you, and in
my weak spirit there is a new strength, and this strength is the ability
to sacrifice a great thing in order to obtain a greater one; it is the
sacrifice of my happiness so that you may remain virtuous and honorable
in the eyes of the people and be far away from their treachery and
persecution.
In the past, when I came to this place I felt as if heavy chains were
pulling down on me, but today I came here with a new determination that
laughs at the shackles and shortens the way. I used to come to this
temple like a scared phantom, but today I came like a brave woman who
feels the urgency of sacrifice and knows the value of suffering, a woman
who likes to protect the one she loves from the ignorant people and
from her hungry spirit. I used to sit by you like a trembling shadow,
but today I came here to show you my true self before Ishtar and Christ.
I am a tree, grown in the shade, and today I stretched my branches to
tremble for a while in the daylight. I came here to tell you good-bye,
my beloved, and it is my hope that our farewell will be great and awful
like our love. Let our farewell be like fire that bends the gold and
makes it more resplendent."
Selma did not allow me to speak or protest, but she looked at me, her
eyes glittering, her face retaining its dignity, seeming like an angel
worthy of silence and respect. Then she flung herself upon me, something
which she had never done before, and put her smooth arms around me and
printed a long, deep, fiery kiss on my lips.
As the sun went down, withdrawing its rays from those gardens and
orchards, Selma moved to the middle of the temple and gazed along at its
walls and corners as if she wanted to pour the light of her eyes on its
pictures and symbols. Then she walked forward and reverently knelt
before the picture of Christ and kissed His feet, and she whispered,
"Oh, Christ, I have chosen Thy Cross and deserted Ishtar's world of
pleasure and happiness; I have worn the wreath of thorns and discarded
the wreath of laurel and washed myself with blood and tears instead of
perfume and scent; I have drunk vinegar and gall from a cup which was
meant for wine and nectar; accept me, my Lord, among Thy followers and
lead me toward Galilee with those who have chosen Thee, contended with
their sufferings and delighted with their sorrows."
Then she rose and looked at me and said, "Now I shall return happily to
my dark cave, where horrible ghosts reside, Do not sympathize with me,
my beloved, and do not feel sorry for me, because the soul that sees the
shadow of God once will never be frightened, thereafter, of the ghosts
of devils. And the eye that looks on heaven once will not be closed by
the pains of the world."
Uttering these words, Selma left the place of worship; and I remained
there lost in a deep sea of thoughts, absorbed in the world of
revelation where God sits on the throne and the angels write down the
acts of human beings, and the souls recite the tragedy of life, and the
brides of Heaven sing the hymns of love, sorrow and immortality.
Light had already come when I awakened from my swoon and found myself
bewildered in the midst of the gardens, repeating the echo of every word
uttered by Selma and remembering her silence, her actions, her
movements, her expression and the touch of her hands, until I realized
the meaning of farewell and the pain of lonesomeness. I was depressed
and heart-broken. It was my first discovery of the fact that men, even
if they are born free, will remain slaves of strict laws enacted by
their forefathers; and that the firmament, which we imagine as
unchanging, is the yielding of today to the will of tomorrow and
submission of yesterday to the will of today.—Many a time, since the
night, I have thought of the spiritual law which made Selma prefer death
to life, and many a time I have made a comparison between nobility of
sacrifice and happiness of rebellion to find out which one is nobler and
more beautiful; but until now I have distilled only one truth out of
the whole matter, and this truth is sincerity, which makes all our deeds
beautiful and honorable. And this sincerity was in Selma Karamy.
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