NAWÂDIR (_continued_)
'What happened to the man who went to seek one filthier than she was?
How could he ever find one filthier?' inquired Rashîd, reverting to
Suleymân's unfinished story of the foolish woman and her husband and
the hapless cow, when we lay down to sleep that evening in the village
guest-room. I also asked to hear the rest of that instructive tale.
Suleymân, sufficiently besought, raised himself upon an elbow and
resumed the narrative. Rashîd and I lay quiet in our wrappings.
'We had reached that point, my masters, where the injured husband,
having seen the remnant of the cow, said to his wife: "Now, I am going
to walk this world until I find one filthier than thou art; and if I
fail to find one filthier than thou art I shall go on walking till I
die." Well, he walked and he walked--for months, some people say, and
others years--until he reached a village in Mount Lebanon--a village
of the Maronites renowned for foolishness. It was the reputation of
their imbecility which made him go there.'
'What was his name?' inquired Rashîd, who liked to have things clear.
'His name?' said Suleymân reflectively, 'was Sâlih.'
'He was a Muslim?'
'Aye, a Muslim, I suppose--though, Allah knows, he may perhaps have
been an Ismaîli or a Druze. Any more questions? Then I will proceed.
'He came into this village of the Maronites, and, being thirsty,
looked in at a doorway. He saw the village priest and all his family
engaged in stuffing a fat sheep with mulberry leaves. The sheep was
tethered half-way up the steps which led on to the housetop. The
priest and his wife, together with their eldest girl, sat on the
ground below, amid a heap of mulberry boughs; and all the other
children sat, one on every step, passing up the leaves, when ready, to
the second daughter, whose business was to force the sheep to go on
eating. This they would do until the sheep, too full to stand, fell
over on its side, when they would slaughter it for their supply of
fat throughout the coming year.
'So busy were they in this occupation that they did not see the
stranger in the doorway until he shouted: "Peace upon this house," and
asked them for a drink of water kindly. Even then the priest did not
disturb himself, but, saying "Itfaddal!" pointed to a pitcher standing
by the wall. The guest looked into it and found it dry.
'"No water here," he said.
'"Oh," sighed the priest, "to-day we are so thirsty with this work
that we have emptied it, and so busy that the children have forgotten
to refill it. Rise, O Nesîbeh, take the pitcher on thy head, and
hasten to the spring and bring back water for our guest."
'The girl Nesîbeh, who was fourteen years of age, rose up obediently,
shaking off the mulberry leaves and caterpillars from her clothing.
Taking up the pitcher, she went out through the village to the spring,
which gushed out of the rock beneath a spreading pear tree.
'There were so many people getting water at the moment that she could
not push her way among them, so sat down to wait her turn, choosing a
shady spot. She was a thoughtful girl, and, as she sat there waiting,
she was saying in her soul:
'"O soul, I am a big girl now. A year or two and mother will unite me
to a proper husband. The next year I shall have a little son. Again a
year or two, he will be big enough to run about; and his father will
make for him a pair of small red shoes, and he will come down to this
pleasant spring, as children do, to splash the water. Being a bold
lad, he will climb that tree."
'And then, as she beheld one great bough overhanging like a
stretched-out arm, and realised how dangerous it was for climbing
children, she thought:
'"He will fall down and break his neck."
'At once she burst out weeping inconsolably, making so great a din
that all the people who had come for water flocked around her, asking:
"O Nesîbeh, what has hurt thee?" And between her sobs, she told them:
'"I'm a big girl, now."
'"That is so, O beloved!"
'"A year or two, and mother will provide me with a husband."
'"It is likely."
'"Another year, and I shall have a little son."
'"If God wills!" sighed the multitude, with pious fervour.
'"Again a year or two, he will be big enough to run about, and his
father will make for him a pair of small red shoes. And he will come
down to the spring with other children, and will climb the tree.
And--oh!--you see that big bough overhanging. There he will slip and
fall and break his neck! Ah, woe!"
'At that the people cried: "O cruel fate!" and many of them rent their
clothes. They all sank down upon the ground around Nesîbeh, rocking
themselves to and fro and wailing:
'"Ah, my little neighbour. My poor, dear little neighbour! Ah, would
that thou had lived to bury me, my little neighbour!"[5]
'Meanwhile the stranger waiting for the water grew impatient, and he
once more ventured to interrupt the work of sheep-stuffing with a
remark that the young girl was long returning with her pitcher. The
priest said: "That is true," and sent his second daughter to expedite
the first. This girl went running to the spring, and found the
population of the village sitting weeping on the ground around her
sister. She asked the matter. They replied: "A great calamity! Thy
sister--poor distracted mother!--will inform thee of its nature." She
ran up to Nesîbeh, who moaned out: "I am a big girl now. A year or
two, our mother will provide me with a husband. The next year I shall
have a little son. Again a year or two he will be old enough to run
about. His father will make for him a pair of small red shoes. He
comes down to the spring to play in childish wise. He climbs that
tree, and from that overhanging branch he falls and breaks his neck."
'At this sad news the second girl forgot her errand. She threw her
skirt over her head and started shrieking: "Alas, my little nephew! My
poor, dear little nephew! Would God that thou had lived to bury me, my
little nephew!" And she too sat down upon the ground to hug her sorrow
with the rest.
'The priest said: "That one too is long in coming; I will send another
child; but thou must take her place upon the steps, O stranger, or
else the work of stuffing will be much delayed."
'The stranger did as he was asked, while child after child was sent,
till he alone was left to do the work of carrying the fresh leaves up
from the ground and stuffing them into the sheep. Still none returned.
'The priest's wife went herself, remarking that her husband and the
stranger were able by themselves to carry on the work. They did so a
long while, yet no one came.
'At last the priest rose, saying: "I myself will go and beat them for
this long delay. Do thou, O stranger, feed the sheep meanwhile. Cease
not to carry up the leaves and stuff him with them, lest all the good
work done be lost through negligence."
'In anger the priest strode out through the village to the spring. But
all his wrath was changed into amazement when he saw the crowd of
people sitting on the ground, convulsed with grief, around the members
of his family.
'He went up to his wife and asked the matter.
'She moaned: "I cannot speak of it. Ask poor Nesîbeh!"
'He then turned to his eldest daughter, who, half-choked by sobs,
explained:
'"I am a big girl now."
'"That is so, O my daughter."
'"A year or two, and you and mother will provide me with a husband."
'"That is possible."
'"Another year, and I shall have a little son!"
'"In sh' Allah!" said her father piously.
'"Again a year or two, and my son runs about. His father makes for him
a pair of small red shoes. He came down to the spring to play with
other children, and from that overhanging bough--how shall I tell
it?--he fell and broke his darling little neck!" Nesîbeh hid her face
again and wailed aloud.
'The priest, cut to the heart by the appalling news, tore his cassock
up from foot to waist, and threw the ends over his face, vociferating:
'"Woe, my little grandson! My darling little grandson! Oh, would that
thou had lived to bury me, my little grandson!" And he too sank upon
the ground, immersed in grief.
'At last the stranger wearied of the work of stripping off the
mulberry leaves and carrying them up the staircase to the tethered
sheep. He found his thirst increased by such exertions.'
'Did he in truth do that, with no one looking?' said Rashîd. 'He must
have been as big a fool as all the others.'
'He was, but in a different way,' said Suleymân.
'He walked down to the spring, and saw the congregation seated
underneath the pear tree, shrieking like sinners at the Judgment Day.
Among them sat the priest, with features hidden in his torn black
petticoat. He ventured to approach the man and put a question. The
priest unveiled his face a moment and was going to speak, but
recollection of his sorrow overcame him. Hiding his face again, he
wailed:
'"Alas, my little grandson! My pretty little grandson! Ah, would that
thou hadst lived to bury me, my little grandson!"
'A woman sitting near plucked at the stranger's sleeve and said:
'"You see that girl. She will be soon full-grown. A year or two, and
she will certainly be married. Another year, and she will have a
little son. Her little son grows big enough to run about. His father
made for him a pair of small red shoes. He came down to the spring to
play with other children. You see that pear tree? On a day like
this--a pleasant afternoon--he clambered up it, and from that bough,
which overhangs the fountain, he fell and broke his little neck upon
those stones. Alas, our little neighbour! Oh, would that thou had
lived to bury us, our little neighbour!" And everyone began to rock
and wail anew.
'The stranger stood and looked upon them for a moment, then he
shouted: "Tfû 'aleykum!"[6] and spat upon the ground. No other word
did he vouchsafe to them, but walked away; and he continued walking
till he reached his native home. There, sitting in his ancient seat,
he told his wife:
'"Take comfort, O beloved! I have found one filthier."'
Suleymân declared the story finished.
'Is there a moral to it?' asked Rashîd.
'The moral is self-evident,' replied the story-teller. 'It is this:
however bad the woman whom one happens to possess may be, be certain
it is always possible to find a worse.'
'It is also possible to find a better,' I suggested.
'Be not so sure of that!' said Suleymân. 'There are three several
kinds of women in the world, who all make claim to be descended from
our father Noah. But the truth is this: Our father Noah had one
daughter only, and three men desired her; so not to disappoint the
other two, he turned his donkey and his dog into two girls, whom he
presented to them, and that accounts for the three kinds of women now
to be observed. The true descendants of our father Noah are very
rare.'
'How may one know them from the others?' I inquired.
'By one thing only. They will keep your secret. The second sort of
woman will reveal your secret to a friend; the third will make of it a
tale against you. And this they do instinctively, as dogs will bark or
asses bray, without malevolence or any kind of forethought.
'That same priest of the Maronites of whom I told just now, in the
first days of his married life was plagued by his companion to reveal
to her the secrets people told him in confession. He refused,
declaring that she would divulge them.
'"Nay, I can keep a secret if I swear to do so. Only try me!" she
replied.
'"Well, we shall see," the priest made answer, in a teasing manner.
'One day, as he reclined upon the sofa in their house, that priest
began to moan and writhe as if in agony. His wife, in great alarm,
inquired what ailed him.
'"It is a secret," he replied, "which I dare not confide to thee, for
with it is bound up my earthly welfare and my soul's salvation."
'"I swear by Allah I will hide it. Tell me!" she implored.
'"Well," he replied, as if in torment, "I will risk my life and trust
thee. Know thou art in the presence of the greatest miracle. I, though
not a woman, am far gone with child--a thing which never happened on
the earth till now--and in this hour it is decreed that I produce my
first-born."
'Then, with a terrific cry, he thrust his hand beneath his petticoat,
and showed his wife a little bird which he had kept there hidden. He
let it fly away out through the window. Having watched it disappear,
he said devoutly:
'"Praise be to Allah! That is over! Thou hast seen my child. This is a
sacred and an awful mystery. Preserve the secret, or we all are dead!"
'"I swear I will preserve it," she replied, with fervour.
'But the miracle which she had witnessed burned her spirit. She knew
that she must speak of it or die; and so she called upon a friend
whose prudence she could trust, and binding her by vows, told her the
story.
'This woman also had a trusted friend, to whom she told the story,
under vows of secrecy, and so on, with the consequence that that same
evening the priest received a deputation of the village elders, who
requested, in the name of the community, to be allowed to kiss the
feet of his mysterious son--that little, rainbow-coloured bird, which
had a horn upon its head and played the flute.
'The priest said nothing to his wife. He did not beat her. He gave her
but one look. And yet from that day forward, she never plagued him
any more, but was submissive.'
'The priest was wise on that occasion, yet so foolish in the other
story!' I objected.
'The way of the majority of men!' said Suleymân. 'But women are more
uniformly wise or foolish. A happy night!' said Suleymân conclusively,
settling himself to sleep.
The usual night-light of the Syrian peasants--a wick afloat upon a
saucerful of oil and water--burned upon the ground between us, making
great shadows dance upon the walls and vaulting. The last I heard
before I fell asleep was Rashîd's voice, exclaiming:
'He is a famous liar, is our wise man yonder; yet he speaks the
truth!'
FOOTNOTES:
[5] 'Yâ takbar jârak, yâ jâri!'--a very common cry of grief in Syria.
[6] Something like 'Pooh-pooh to you!' but more insulting.