BASTIRMA
The moon began to shine upon the gardens of Damascus, casting pale
shadows, though the daylight had not quite departed, and the sky
behind the trees to westward was still green. We were sitting out on
stools under the walnut trees, beside a stream which made a pleasant
murmur. The air was laden with the scent of unseen roses. Behind us
was a little tavern with a lantern lighted in its entrance arch, a
solitary yellow eye amid the twilight.
We were the centre of a crowd, as usual when Suleymân was with us. His
voice attracted people like a drum, and the matter of his talk had
power to hold them. It was a weighty voice of studied modulations,
which promised wisdom on the brink of laughter. He generally chose
some moral or religious subject for discourse, and illustrated it by
what we call 'nawâdir' (rare things) selected from his vast
experience of life. By his own account he had journeyed to the world's
rim, and had associated not alone with men, but also with jinn and
ghouls. On the other hand, he had been to Europe several times, and
knew the streets of Paris and of London. Somehow, one never doubted
any of his stories while he was telling them, the accents of his voice
had such conviction. One was conscious that his tales--even the most
extravagant--were true in some mysterious, intrinsic way. This time he
chose to speak to us of guilt and innocence, of good and evil works,
and their effect on man's salvation. He aired the theory, which roused
approving murmurs in the listening circle, that to have a good
intention was the chief desideratum for every son of Adam on his
journey through the world, no matter though his works might turn out
bad or unsuccessful.
'To lie with good intention is better than to tell the truth with bad
intention,' he declared.
'To lie is the salt of a man; the shame is to him who believes,' put
in Rashîd, my servant, who was great at proverbs.
Suleymân paid no heed to the interruption.
'A sin committed thoughtlessly,' said he, 'is light compared with one
which thou hast hatched and planned.'
'Nay, O beloved, a sin is a sin, appointed so by the Most High; and
the duty of a man is to avoid it. The hurt to man's salvation is the
same, however he approach it,' said an old man in the audience. 'If I
cut my hand, is the wound less, is it not rather likely to be
more--for being thoughtless?'
There was a murmur of applause as all eyes turned on this objector,
whose likeness could not be distinguished in the gloaming.
I spoke in approbation of the view expressed, and the old man,
emboldened, laughed:
'To lie is bad, to kill is bad, to steal is bad. Our Lord destroy this
rogue of an Intention, which plain men cannot catch nor understand!'
'Nay, listen!' Suleymân became persuasive and profoundly earnest, as
was his manner always under opposition. 'Thou hast not altogether
caught my meaning. I say a man should trust in the Most High, not
think too much beforehand of his ways. By thinking beforehand, he may
form a bad intention, since man's thoughts are naturally fallible.
Let him think afterwards, thus he will learn to shun such snares in
future, and by repentance place a good work to his credit. Men learn
wisdom from their sins, not from their righteous deeds. And the
consciousness of sin, the knowledge that they may at any moment fall
into it, preserves them from the arrogance of goodness.'
'There may be some small grain of sense in what thou sayest,' chuckled
the objector, 'but not enough to make sin righteous, nor yet to
abrogate the sacred law.'
Suleymân pursued unheeding: 'I have a rare thing, which will show you
what I mean.
'A new judge had been appointed to the Holy City. He was departing
from Stambûl by ship to take up his appointment. On the quay, a Jew of
his acquaintance came to him with reverence, and begged him kindly to
convey a basket of bastirma to his (the Jew's) son at the Holy City,
which the Jews in their own language call Jerusalem. You all know what
bastirma is. It is dried and salted mutton--very tasty--a dish of
which the Turks are most inordinately fond. The Cadi graciously
consented, bidding his major-domo take the basket, and bestow it
carefully among the things. The Jew departed. The Cadi and his party
journeyed till they reached their destination, where, upon arrival,
they discovered a young Jew inquiring earnestly about a basket of
bastirma. The Cadi had forgotten its existence. "Ah, to be sure!" he
cried. "I gave it my major-domo for safe keeping."
'He called that servant, and commanded him to give the basket of
bastirma to the Jew there waiting. The major-domo bowed his head,
folded his hands upon his breast, and said: "I ask forgiveness, O my
lord. The basket still remains, but the bastirma was so excellent
that, having tasted but a piece of it, I wanted more, so that, in
fact, I ate it all upon the journey. I wish to pay the price of it to
this young Jew."
'The Cadi thought his servant's offer fair enough, but the young Jew
went mad. Flying at the throat of the major-domo, he flung him to the
ground, and tried to tear the soul out of his body with his teeth and
nails. The Cadi called upon the bystanders for help. The Jew was
dragged with difficulty from his victim. Then the Cadi asked:
'"Why, pray, did you attack my servant in that savage way?"
'"That man," said the Jew, still white with rage, and pointing with
his tallow finger at the major-domo, who had risen from the
ground--"that man contains my grandfather."
'"What words are these? Explain yourself!" the Cadi cried.
'"Three weeks ago, O gracious Excellency, my grandfather died in
Stambûl. It had ever been his dearest wish to be buried in the Holy
City, near the scene of judgment; and that wish of his was law on us
his offspring. But how could we fulfil it? How, I ask? No skipper,
whether Nazarene or Muslim, would receive a dead Jew on his ship for
less than the corpse-weight in gold. And we are poor. To take him
overland was quite impossible. And so my father and my mother in
Stambûl cured his dead limbs, and made of them bastirma, and sent him
hither in the way thou knowest. It follows that thy servant has
committed a most dreadful crime. Let him be killed, I pray, and
buried in the tomb we have prepared, that so my grandfather's great
wish may be fulfilled."
'The major-domo was more dead than living as he heard that story. He
rent his clothes and fell down on the ground insensible.
'The Cadi answered the young Jew with wisdom, saying: "Thou art
entitled to the price of one basket of bastirma, and no more, from
this my servant; but he, on his side, has a right to all thou ownest.
What wealth can ever compensate him for the haunting fear that on the
Last Day he may rise inextricably mingled with thy worthy grandfather?
Go, I say, and never venture to approach him any more, or I shall
surely act upon this judgment and denude thee quite." The
major-domo--'
Cries of 'Miskîn! Miskîn!' (poor fellow!) interrupted the narrative.
One said: 'I once ate pig's flesh by mistake, but this man's plight is
much more horrible.'
Suleymân's opponent cried: 'It was a judgment on him, evidently, for
his theft of the bastirma. Say, what became of him thereafter, O
narrator?'
'The major-domo, who, till then, had been a precious rogue--I knew him
intimately from a child, and so can vouch for it--became from that day
forth the saintliest of men. He thought about his crime and mourned
for it, and deemed himself an unclean beast until he died--may God
have mercy on him--and was buried in the Holy City as the Jew desired.
He thought of nothing but good deeds, yet without seeking merit,
knowing that nothing he could do would ever cleanse him. He became the
humblest and the best of men, who had before been arrogant and very
wicked. Therefore I say that it is well for men to think of their sins
after rather than before committing them.'
'But the intention!--What of the intention, O my master? His intention
was not good. He stole!'
'His intention went no further than a basket of bastirma. The Jew was
only an unpleasant accident, in respect whereof no guilt attached to
him. The case is clear, and yet, although I used to argue with him on
the subject, I never could contrive to make him see it. One thing is
certain, and will prove to you the worth of good intentions. He only
meant to eat a basket of bastirma; therefore he felt great remorse
when he devoured a Jew, and so became a saint for Paradise. Had he
intended to devour a Jew he could not possibly have felt such great
remorse. What say you?'
And everyone agreed that it was so.