ASHAAB THE COVETOUS--THE STINGY MERCHANT AND THE HUNGRY BEDOUIN--THE
SECT OF SAMRADIANS--THE STORY-TELLER AND THE KING--ROYAL GIFTS TO
POETS--THE PERSIAN POET AND THE IMPOSTOR--"STEALING POETRY"--THE RICH
MAN AND THE POOR POET.
Avaricious and covetous men are always the just objects of derision as
well as contempt, and surely covetousness was quite concentrated in the
person of Ashaab, a servant of Othman (seventh century), and a native of
Medina, whose character has been very amusingly drawn by the scholiast:
He never saw a man put his hand into his pocket without hoping and
expecting that he would give him something. He never saw a funeral go
by, but he was pleased, hoping that the deceased had left him something.
He never saw a bride about to be conducted through the streets to the
house of the bridegroom but he prepared his own house for her reception,
hoping that her friends would bring her to his house by mistake. If he
saw a workman making a box, he took care to tell him that he was putting
in one or two boards too many, hoping that he would give him what was
over, or, at least, something for the suggestion. He is said to have
followed a man who was chewing mastic (a sort of gum, chewed, like
betel, by Orientals as a pastime) for a whole mile, thinking he was
perhaps eating food, intending, if so, to ask him for some. When the
youths of the town jeered and taunted him, he told them there was a
wedding at such a house, in order to get rid of them (because they would
go to get a share of the bonbons distributed there); but, as soon as
they were gone, it struck him that possibly what he had told them was
true, and that they would not have quitted him had they not been aware
of its truth; and he actually followed them himself to see what he could
do, though exposing himself thereby to fresh taunts from them. When
asked whether he knew anyone more covetous than himself, he said: "Yes;
a sheep I once had, that climbed to an upper stage of my house, and,
seeing a rainbow, mistook it for a rope of hay, and jumping at it, broke
her neck"--whence "Ashaab's sheep" became proverbial among the Arabs for
covetousness as well as Ashaab himself.
* * * * *
Hospitality has ever been the characteristic virtue of the Arabs, and a
mean, stingy disposition is rarely to be found among them. A droll story
of an Arab of the latter description has been rendered into verse by the
Persian poet Liwá'í, the substance of which is as follows: An Arab
merchant who had been trading between Mecca and Damascus, at length
turned his face homeward, and had reached within one stage of his house
when he sat down to rest and to refresh himself with the contents of his
wallet. While he was eating, a Bedouin, weary and hungry, came up, and,
hoping to be invited to share his repast, saluted him, "Peace be with
thee!" which the merchant returned, and asked the nomad who he was and
whence he came. "I have come from thy house," was the answer. "Then,"
said the merchant, "how fares my son Ahmed, absence from whom has
grieved me sore?" "Thy son grows apace in health and innocence." "Good!
and how is his mother?" "She, too, is free from the shadow of sorrow."
"And how is my beauteous camel, so strong to bear his load?" "Thy camel
is sleek and fat." "My house-dog, too, that guards my gate, pray how is
he?" "He is on the mat before thy door, by day, by night, on constant
guard." The merchant, having thus his doubts and fears removed, resumed
his meal with freshened appetite, but gave nought to the poor nomad,
and, having finished, closed his wallet. The Bedouin, seeing his
stinginess, writhed with the pangs of hunger. Presently a gazelle passed
rapidly by them, at which he sighed heavily, and the merchant inquiring
the cause of his sorrow, he said: "The cause is this--had not thy dog
died he would not have allowed that gazelle to escape!" "My dog!"
exclaimed the merchant. "Is my doggie, then, dead?" "He died from
gorging himself with thy camel's blood." "Who hath cast this dust on
me?" cried the merchant. "What of my camel?" "Thy camel was slaughtered
to furnish the funeral feast of thy wife." "Is my wife, too, dead?" "Her
grief for Ahmed's death was such that she dashed her head against a
rock." "But, Ahmed," asked the father--"how came he to die?" "The house
fell in and crushed him." The merchant heard this tale with full belief,
rent his robe, cast sand upon his head, then started swiftly homeward to
bewail his wife and son, leaving behind his well-filled wallet, a prey
to the starving desert-wanderer.[34]
[34] A variant of this story is found in Le Grand's _Fabliaux
et Contes_, ed. 1781, tome iv, p. 119, and it was
probably brought from the East during the Crusades:
Maimon was a valet to a count. His master, returning
home from a tourney, met him on the way, and asked him
where he was going. He replied, with great coolness,
that he was going to seek a lodging somewhere. "A
lodging!" said the count. "What then has happened at
home?" "Nothing, my lord. Only your dog, whom you love
so much, is dead." "How so?" "Your fine palfrey, while
being exercised in the court, became frightened, and in
running fell into the well." "Ah, who startled the
horse?" "It was your son, Damaiseau, who fell at its
feet from the window." "My son!--O Heaven! Where, then,
were his servant and his mother? Is he injured?" "Yes,
sire, he has been killed by falling. And when they went
to tell it to madame, she was so affected that she fell
dead also without speaking." "Rascal! in place of flying
away, why hast thou not gone to seek assistance, or why
didst thou not remain at the chateau?" "There is no more
need, sire; for Marotte, in watching madame, fell
asleep. A light caused the fire, and there remains
nothing now."--Truly a delicate way of "breaking ill
news"!
The Samradian sect of fire-worshippers, who believe only in the "ideal,"
anticipated Bishop Berkeley's theory, thus referred to by Lord Byron
(_Don Juan_, xi, 1):
When Bishop Berkeley said, "there was no matter,"
And proved it--'twas no matter what he said;
They say, his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head.
Some amusing anecdotes regarding this singular sect are given in the
Dabistán, a work written in Persian, which furnishes a very impartial
account of the principal religions of the world: A Samradian said to his
servant: "The world and its inhabitants have no actual existence--they
have merely an ideal being." The servant, on hearing this, took the
first opportunity to steal his master's horse, and when he was about to
ride, brought him an ass with the horse's saddle. When the Samradian
asked: "Where is the horse?" he replied: "Thou hast been thinking of an
idea; there was no horse in being." The master said: "It is true," and
then mounted the ass. Having proceeded some distance, followed by his
servant on foot, he suddenly dismounted, and taking the saddle off the
back of the ass placed it on the servant's back, drawing the girths
tightly, and, having forced the bridle into his mouth, he mounted him,
and flogged him along vigorously. The servant having exclaimed in
piteous accents: "What is the meaning of this, O master?" the Samradian
replied: "There is no such thing as a whip; it is merely ideal. Thou art
thinking only of a delusion." It is needless to add that the servant
immediately repented and restored the horse.--Another of this sect
having obtained in marriage the daughter of a wealthy lawyer, she, on
finding out her husband's peculiar creed, purposed to have some
amusement at his expense. One day the Samradian brought home a bottle of
excellent wine, which during his absence she emptied of its contents and
filled again with water. When the time came for taking wine, she poured
out the water into a gold cup, which Was her own property. The Samradian
remarked: "Thou hast given me water instead of wine." "It is only
ideal," she answered; "there was no wine in existence." The husband then
said: "Thou hast spoken well; give me the cup that I may go to a
neighbour's house and bring it back full of wine." He thereupon took the
gold cup and went out and sold it, concealing the money, and, instead of
the gold vase, he brought back an earthen vessel filled with wine. The
wife, on seeing this, said: "What hast thou done with the golden cup?"
He quietly replied: "Thou art surely thinking of an ideal gold cup," on
which the lady sorely repented her witticism.[35]
[35] _The Dabistán, or School of Manners_. Translated from
the original Persian, by David Shea and Anthony Troyer.
3 vols. Published by the Oriental Translation Fund,
1843. Vol. i, 198-200. The author of this work is said
to be Moshan Fáni, who flourished at Hyderábád about the
end of the 18th century.
I do not know whether there are any English parallels to these stories,
but I have read of a Greek sage who instructed his slave that all that
occurred in this world was the decree of Fate. The slave shortly after
deliberately committed some offence, upon which his master commenced to
soften his ribs with a stout cudgel, and when the slave pleaded that it
was no fault of his, it was the decree of Fate, his master grimly
replied that it was also decreed that he should have a sound beating.
* * * * *
In _Don Quixote_, it will be remembered by all readers of that
delightful work, Sancho begins to tell the knight a long story about a
man who had to ferry across a river a large flock of sheep, but he could
only take one at a time, as the boat could hold no more. This story
Cervantes, in all likelihood, borrowed from the _Disciplina Clericalis_
of Petrus Alfonsus, a converted Spanish Jew, who flourished in the 12th
century, and who avowedly derived the materials of his work from the
Arabian fabulists--probably part of them also from the Talmud.[36] His
eleventh tale is of a king who desired his minstrel to tell him a long
story that should lull him to sleep. The story-teller accordingly begins
to relate how a man had to cross a ferry with 600 sheep, two at a time,
and falls asleep in the midst of his narration. The king awakes him, but
the story-teller begs that the man be allowed to ferry over the sheep
before he resumes the story.[37]--Possibly the original form of the
story is that found in the _Kathá Manjarí_, an ancient Indian
story-book: There was a king who used to inquire of all the learned men
who came to his court whether they knew any stories, and when they had
related all they knew, in order to avoid rewarding them, he abused them
for knowing so few, and sent them away. A shrewd and clever man, hearing
of this, presented himself before the king, who asked his name. He
replied that his name was Ocean of Stories. The king then inquired how
many stories he knew, to which he answered that the name of Ocean had
been conferred on him because he knew an endless number. On being
desired to relate one, he thus began: "O King, there was a tank 36,000
miles in breadth, and 54,000 in length. This was densely filled with
lotus plants, and millions upon millions of birds with golden wings
[called Hamsa] perched on those flowers. One day a hurricane arose,
accompanied with rain, which the birds were not able to endure, and they
entered a cave under a rock, which was in the vicinity of the tank." The
king asked what happened next, and he replied that one of the birds flew
away. The king again inquired what else occurred, and he answered:
"Another flew away"; and to every question of the king he continued to
give the same answer. At this the king felt ashamed, and, seeing it was
impossible to outwit the man, he dismissed him with a handsome present.
[36] Pedro Alfonso (the Spanish form of his adopted name) was
originally a Jewish Rabbi, and was born in 1062, at
Huesca, in the kingdom of Arragon. He was reputed a man
of very great learning, and on his being baptised (at
the age of 44) was appointed by Alfonso XV, king of
Castile and Leon, physician to the royal household. His
work, above referred to, is written in Latin, and has
been translated into French, but not as yet into
English. An outline of the tales, by Douce, will be
found prefixed to Ellis' _Early English Metrical
Romances_.
[37] This is also the subject of one of the _Fabliaux_.--In
a form similar to the story in Alfonsus it is current
among the Milanese, and a Sicilian version is as
follows: Once upon a time there was a prince who studied
and racked his brains so much that he learned magic and
the art of finding hidden treasures. One day he
discovered a treasure in Daisisa. "O," he says, "now I
am going to get it out." But to get it out it was
necessary that ten million million of ants should cross
the river one by one in a bark made of the half-shell of
a nut. The prince puts the bark in the river, and makes
the ants pass over--one, two, three; and they are still
doing it. Here the story-teller pauses and says: "We
will finish the story when the ants have finished
crossing the river."--Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_,
p. 156.
A story bearing some resemblance to this is related of a khalíf who was
wont to cheat poets of their expected reward when they recited their
compositions to him, until he was at length outwitted by the famous
Arabian poet Al-Asma'í: It is said that a khalíf, who was very
penurious, contrived by a trick to send from his presence without any
reward those poets who came and recited their compositions to him. He
had himself the faculty of retaining in his memory a poem after hearing
it only once; he had a mamlúk (white slave) who could repeat one that he
had heard twice; and a slave-girl who could repeat one that she had
heard thrice. Whenever a poet came to compliment him with a panegyrical
poem, the king used to promise him that if he found his verses to be of
his own composition he would give him a sum of money equal in weight to
what they were written on. The poet, consenting, would recite his ode,
and the king would say: "It is not new, for I have known it some years";
and he would repeat it as he had heard it; after which he would add:
"And this mamlúk also retains it in his memory," and order the mamlúk to
repeat it, which, having heard it twice, from the poet and the king, he
would do. Then the king would say to the poet: "I have also a slave-girl
who can repeat it," and, ordering her to do so, stationed behind the
curtains, she would repeat what she had thus thrice heard; so the poet
would go away empty-handed. The celebrated poet Al-Asma'í, having heard
of this device, determined upon outwitting the king, and accordingly
composed an ode made up of very difficult words. But this was not the
poet's only preparative measure--another will be presently explained;
and a third was to assume the dress of a Bedouin, that he might not be
known, covering his face, the eyes only excepted, with a _litham_ (piece
of drapery), as is usual with the Arabs of the desert. Thus disguised,
he went to the palace, and having obtained permission, entered and
saluted the king, who said to him: "Who art thou, O brother of the
Arabs? and what dost thou desire?" The poet answered: "May Allah
increase the power of the king! I am a poet of such a tribe, and have
composed an ode in praise of our lord the khalíf." "O brother of the
Arabs," said the king, "hast thou heard of our condition?" "No,"
answered the poet; "and what is it, O khalíf of the age?" "It is,"
replied the king, "that if the ode be not thine, we give thee no reward;
and if it be thine, we give thee the weight in money equal to what it is
written upon." "How," said the poet, "should I assume to myself that
which belongeth to another, and knowing, too, that lying before kings is
one of the basest of actions? But I agree to the condition, O our lord
the khalíf." So he repeated his ode. The king, perplexed, and unable to
remember any of it, made a sign to the mamlúk, but he had retained
nothing; then called to the female slave, but she was unable to repeat a
word. "O brother of the Arabs," said the king, "thou hast spoken truth;
and the ode is thine without doubt. I have never heard it before.
Produce, therefore, what it is written upon, and I will give thee its
weight in money, as I have promised." "Wilt thou," said the poet, "send
one of the attendants to carry it?" "To carry what?" demanded the king.
"Is it not upon a paper in thy possession?" "No, O our lord the khalíf.
At the time I composed it I could not procure a piece of paper on which
to write it, and could find nothing but a fragment of a marble column
left me by my father; so I engraved it upon that, and it lies in the
courtyard of the palace." He had brought it, wrapped up, on the back of
a camel. The king, to fulfil his promise, was obliged to exhaust his
treasury; and, to prevent a repetition of this trick, in future rewarded
poets according to the custom of kings.
* * * * *
_Apropos_ of royal gifts to poets, it is related that, when the Afghans
had possession of Persia, a rude chief of that nation was governor of
Shíráz. A poet composed a panegyric on his wisdom, his valour, and his
virtues. As he was taking it to the palace he was met by a friend at the
outer gate, who inquired where he was going, and he informed him of his
purpose. His friend asked him if he was insane, to offer an ode to a
barbarian who hardly understood a word of the Persian language. "All
that you say may be very true," said the poor poet, "but I am starving,
and have no means of livelihood but by making verses. I must, therefore,
proceed." He went and stood before the governor with his ode in his
hand. "Who is that fellow?" said the Afghan lord. "And what is that
paper which he holds?" "I am a poet," answered the man, "and this paper
contains some poetry." "What is the use of poetry?" demanded the
governor. "To render great men like you immortal," he replied, making at
the same time a profound bow. "Let us hear some of it." The poet, on
this mandate, began reading his composition aloud, but he had not
finished the second stanza when he was interrupted. "Enough!" exclaimed
the governor; "I understand it all. Give the poor man some money--_that_
is what he wants." As the poet retired he met his friend, who again
commented on the folly of carrying odes to a man who did not understand
one of them. "Not understand!" he replied. "You are quite mistaken. He
has beyond all men the quickest apprehension of a _poet's meaning_!"
The khalífs were frequently lavish of their gifts to poets, but they
were fond of having their little jokes with them when in merry mood. One
day the Arabian poet Thálebí read before the khalíf Al-Mansúr a poem
which he had just composed, and it found acceptance. The khalíf said: "O
Thálebí, which wouldst thou rather have--that I give thee 300 gold
dínars [about £150], or three wise sayings, each worth 100 dínars?" The
poet replied: "Learning, O Commander of the Faithful, is better than
transitory treasure." "Well, then," said the khalíf, "the first saying
is: When thy garment grows old, sew not a new patch on it, for it hath
an ill look." "O woe!" cried the poet, "one hundred dínars are lost!"
Mansúr smiled, and proceeded: "The second saying is: When thou anointest
thy beard, anoint not the lower part, for that would soil the collar of
thy vest." "Alas!" exclaimed Thálebí, "a thousand times, alas! two
hundred dínars are lost!" Again the khalíf smiled, and continued: "The
third saying"--but before he had spoken it, the poet said: "O khalíf of
our prosperity, keep the third maxim in thy treasury, and give me the
remaining hundred dínars, for they will be worth a thousand times more
to me than the hearing of maxims." At this the khalíf laughed heartily,
and commanded his treasurer to give Thálebí five hundred dínars of gold.
A droll story is told of the Persian poet Anwarí: Passing the
market-place of Balkh one day, he saw a crowd of people standing in a
ring, and going up, he put his head within the circle and found a fellow
reciting the poems of Anwarí himself as his own. Anwarí went up to the
man, and said: "Sir, whose poems are these you are reciting?" He
replied: "They are Anwarí's." "Do you know him, then?" said Anwarí. The
man, with cool effrontery, answered: "What do you say? I am Anwarí." On
hearing this Anwarí laughed, and remarked: "I have heard of one who
stole poetry, but never of one who stole the poet himself!"--Talking of
"stealing poetry," Jámí tells us that a man once brought a composition
to a critic, every line of which he had plagiarised from different
collections of poems, and each rhetorical figure from various authors.
Quoth the critic: "For a wonder, thou hast brought a line of camels; but
if the string were untied, every one of the herd would run away in
different directions."
There is no little humour in the story of the Persian poet who wrote a
eulogium on a rich man, but got nothing for his trouble; he then abused
the rich man, but he said nothing; he next seated himself at the rich
man's gate, who said to him: "You praised me, and I said nothing; you
abused me, and I said nothing; and now, why are you sitting here?" The
poet answered: "I only wish that when you die I may perform the funeral
service."
V
UNLUCKY OMENS--THE OLD MAN'S PRAYER--THE OLD WOMAN IN THE MOSQUE--THE
WEEPING TURKMANS--THE TEN FOOLISH PEASANTS--THE WAKEFUL SERVANT--THE
THREE DERVISHES--THE OIL-MAN'S PARROT--THE MOGHUL AND HIS PARROT--THE
PERSIAN SHOPKEEPER AND THE PRIME MINISTER--HEBREW FACETIÆ.
Muslims and other Asiatic peoples, like Europeans not so many centuries
since, are always on the watch for lucky or unlucky omens. On first
going out of a morning, the looks and countenances of those who cross
their path are scrutinised, and a smile or a frown is deemed favourable
or the reverse. To encounter a person blind of the left eye, or even
with one eye, forebodes sorrow and calamity. While Sir John Malcolm was
in Persia, as British Ambassador, he was told the following story: When
Abbas the Great was hunting, he met one morning as day dawned an
uncommonly ugly man, at the sight of whom his horse started. Being
nearly dismounted, and deeming it a bad omen, the king called out in a
rage to have his head cut off. The poor peasant, whom the attendants had
seized and were on the point of executing, prayed that he might be
informed of his crime. "Your crime," said the king, "is your unlucky
countenance, which is the first object I saw this morning, and which has
nearly caused me to fall from my horse." "Alas!" said the man, "by this
reckoning what term must I apply to your Majesty's countenance, which
was the first object my eyes met this morning, and which is to cause my
death?" The king smiled at the wit of the reply, ordered the man to be
released, and gave him a present instead of cutting off his
head.--Another Persian story is to the same purpose: A man said to his
servant: "If you see two crows together early in the morning, apprise me
of it, that I may also behold them, as it will be a good omen, whereby I
shall pass the day pleasantly." The servant did happen to see two crows
sitting in one place, and informed his master, who, however, when he
came saw but one, the other having in the meantime flown away. He was
very angry, and began to beat the servant, when a friend sent him a
present of game. Upon this the servant exclaimed: "O my lord! you saw
only one crow, and have received a fine present; had you seen _two_, you
would have met with _my_ fare."[38]
[38] This last jest reappears in the apocryphal Life of Esop,
by Planudes, the only difference being that Esop's
master is invited to a feast, instead of receiving a
present of game, upon which Esop exclaims: "Alas! I see
two crows, and I am beaten; you see one, and are asked
to a feast. What a delusion is augury!"
It would seem, from the following story, that an old man's prayers are
sometimes reversed in response, as dreams are said to "go by
contraries": An old Arab left his house one morning, intending to go to
a village at some distance, and coming to the foot of a hill which he
had to cross he exclaimed: "O Allah! send some one to help me over this
hill." Scarcely had he uttered these words when up came a fierce
soldier, leading a mare with a very young colt by her side, who
compelled the old man, with oaths and threats, to carry the colt. As
they trudged along, they met a poor woman with a sick child in her arms.
The old man, as he laboured under the weight of the colt, kept groaning,
"O Allah! O Allah!" and, supposing him to be a dervish, the woman asked
him to pray for the recovery of her child. In compliance, the old man
said: "O Allah! I beseech thee to shorten the days of this poor child."
"Alas!" cried the mother, "why hast thou made such a cruel prayer?"
"Fear nothing," said the old man; "thy child will assuredly enjoy long
life. It is my fate to have the reverse of whatever I pray for. I
implored Allah for assistance to carry me over this hill, and, by way of
help, I suppose, I have had this colt imposed on my shoulders."
* * * * *
Jámí tells this humorous story in the Sixth "Garden" of his
_Baháristán_, or Abode of Spring: A man said the prescribed prayers in a
mosque and then began his personal supplications. An old woman, who
happened to be near him, exclaimed: "O Allah! cause me to share in
whatsoever he supplicates for." The man, overhearing her, then prayed:
"O Allah! hang me on a gibbet, and cause me to die of scourging." The
old trot continued: "O Allah! pardon me, and preserve me from what he
has asked for." Upon this the man turned to her and said: "What a very
unreasonable partner this is! She desires to share in all that gives
rest and pleasure, but she refuses to be my partner in distress and
misery."
* * * * *
We have already seen that even the grave and otiose Turk is not devoid
of a sense of the ludicrous, and here is another example, from Mr.
E. J. W. Gibb's translation of the _History of the Forty Vezírs_: A party
of Turkmans left their encampment one day and went into a neighbouring
city. Returning home, as they drew near their tents, they felt hungry,
and sat down and ate some bread and onions at a spring-head. The juice
of the onions went into their eyes and caused them to water. Now the
children of those Turkmans had gone out to meet them, and, seeing the
tears flow from their eyes, they concluded that one of their number had
died in the city, so, without making any inquiry, they ran back, and
said to their mothers: "One of ours is dead in the city, and our fathers
are coming weeping." Upon this all the women and children of the
encampment went forth to meet them, weeping together. The Turkmans who
were coming from the city thought that one of theirs had died in the
encampment; and thus they were without knowledge one of the other, and
they raised a weeping and wailing together such that it cannot be
described. At length the elders of the camp stood up in their midst and
said: "May ye all remain whole; there is none other help than patience";
and they questioned them. The Turkmans coming from the city asked: "Who
is dead in the camp?" The others replied: "No one is dead in the camp;
who has died in the city?" Those who were coming from the city, said:
"No one has died in the city." The others said: "For whom then are ye
wailing and lamenting?" At length they perceived that all this tumult
arose from their trusting the words of children.
This last belongs rather to the class of simpleton-stories; and in the
following, from the Rev. J. Hinton Knowles' _Folk Tales of Kashmír_
(Trübner: 1888), we have a variant of the well-known tale of the twelve
men of Gotham who went one day to fish, and, before returning home,
miscounted their number, of which several analogues are given in my
_Book of Noodles_, pp. 28 ff. (Elliot Stock: 1888): Ten peasants were
standing on the side of the road weeping. They thought that one of their
number had been lost on the way, as each man had counted the company,
and found them nine only. "Ho! you--what's the matter?" shouted a
townsman passing by. "O sir," said the peasants, "we were ten men when
we left the village, but now we are only nine." The townsman saw at a
glance what fools they were: each of them had omitted to count himself
in the number. He therefore told them to take off their _topís_
(skull-caps) and place them on the ground. This they did, and counted
ten of them, whereupon they concluded they were all there, and were
comforted. But they could not tell how it was.
* * * * *
That wakefulness is not necessarily watchfulness may seem paradoxical,
yet here is a Persian story which goes far to show that they are not
always synonymous terms: Once upon a time (to commence in the good old
way) there came into a city a merchant on horseback, attended by his
servant on foot. Hearing that the city was infested by many bold and
expert thieves, in consequence of which property was very insecure, he
said to his servant at night: "I will keep watch, and do you sleep; for
I cannot trust you to keep awake, and I much fear that my horse may be
stolen." But to this arrangement his faithful servant would not consent,
and he insisted upon watching all night. So the master went to sleep,
and three hours after awoke, when he called to his servant: "What are
you doing?" He answered: "I am meditating how Allah has spread the earth
upon the water." The master said: "I am afraid lest thieves come, and
you know nothing of it." "O my lord, be satisfied; I am on the watch."
The merchant again went to sleep, and awaking about midnight cried: "Ho!
what are you doing?" The servant replied: "I am considering how Allah
has supported the sky without pillars." Quoth the master: "But I am
afraid that while you are busy meditating thieves will carry off my
horse." "Be not afraid, master, I am fully awake; how, then, can thieves
come?" The master replied: "If you wish to sleep, I will keep watch."
But the servant would not hear of this; he was not at all sleepy; so his
master addressed himself once more to slumber; and when one hour of the
night yet remained he awoke, and as usual asked him what he was doing,
to which he coolly answered: "I am considering, since the thieves have
stolen the horse, whether I shall carry the saddle on my head, or you,
sir."
* * * * *
Somewhat akin to the familiar "story" of the man whose eyesight was so
extraordinary that he could, standing in the street, perceive a fly on
the dome of St. Paul's is the tale of the Three Dervishes who,
travelling in company, came to the sea-shore of Syria, and desired the
captain of a vessel about to sail for Cyprus to give them a passage. The
captain was willing to take them "for a consideration"; but they told
him they were dervishes, and therefore without money, but they possessed
certain wonderful gifts, which might be of use to him on the voyage. The
first dervish said that he could descry any object at the distance of a
year's journey; the second could hear at as great a distance as his
brother could see. "Well!" exclaimed the captain, "these are truly
miraculous gifts; and pray, sir," said he, turning to the third dervish,
"what may _your_ particular gift be?" "I, sir," replied he, "am an
unbeliever." When the captain heard this, he said he could not take such
a person on board of his ship; but on the others declaring they must all
three go together or remain behind, he at length consented to allow the
third dervish a passage with the two highly-gifted ones. In the course
of the voyage, it happened one fine day that the captain and the three
dervishes were on deck conversing, when suddenly the first dervish
exclaimed: "Look, look!--see, there--the daughter of the sultan of India
sitting at the window of her palace, working embroidery." "A mischief on
your eyes!" cried the second dervish, "for her needle has this moment
dropped from her hand, and I hear it sound upon the pavement below her
window." "Sir," said the third dervish, addressing the captain, "shall
I, or shall I not, be an unbeliever?" Quoth the captain: "Come, friend,
come with me into my cabin, and let us cultivate unbelief together!"
* * * * *
A very droll parrot story occurs--where, indeed, we should least expect
to meet with such a thing--in the _Masnaví_ of Jelálu-'d-Dín er-Rúmí
(13th century), a grand mystical poem, or rather series of poems, in six
books, written in Persian rhymed couplets, as the title indicates. In
the second poem of the First Book we read that an oilman possessed a
fine parrot, who amused him with her prattle and watched his shop during
his absence. It chanced one day, when the oilman had gone out, that a
cat ran into the shop in chase of a mouse, which so frightened the
parrot that she flew about from shelf to shelf, upsetting several jars
and spilling their contents. When her master returned and saw the havoc
made among his goods he fetched the parrot a blow that knocked out all
her head feathers, and from that day she sulked on her perch. The
oilman, missing the prattle of his favourite, began to shower his alms
on every passing beggar, in hopes that some one would induce the parrot
to speak again. At length a bald-headed mendicant came to the shop one
day, upon seeing whom, the parrot, breaking her long silence, cried out:
"Poor fellow! poor fellow! hast thou, too, upset some oil-jar?"[39]
[39] This tale is found in the early Italian novelists,
slightly varied, and it was doubtless introduced by
Venetian merchants from the Levant: A parrot belonging
to Count Fiesco was discovered one day stealing some
roast meat from the kitchen. The enraged cook,
overtaking him, threw a kettle of boiling water at him,
which completely scalded all the feathers from his head,
and left the poor bird with a bare poll. Some time
afterwards, as Count Fiesco was engaged in conversation
with an abbot, the parrot, observing the shaven crown of
his reverence, hopped up to him and said: "What! do
_you_ like roast meat too?"
In another form the story is orally current in the North
of England. Dr. Fryer tells it to this effect, in his
charming _English Fairy Tales from the North Country_: A
grocer kept a parrot that used to cry out to the
customers that the sugar was sanded and the butter mixed
with lard. For this the bird had her neck wrung and was
thrown upon an ash-heap; but reviving and seeing a dead
cat beside her she cried: "Poor Puss! have you, too,
suffered for telling the truth?"
There is yet another variant of this droll tale, which
has been popular for generations throughout England, and
was quite recently reproduced in an American journal as
a genuine "nigger" story: In olden times there was a
roguish baker who made many of his loaves less than the
regulation weight, and one day, on observing the
government inspector coming along the street, he
concealed the light loaves in a closet. The inspector
having found the bread on the counter of the proper
weight, was about to leave, when a parrot, which the
baker kept in his shop, cried out: "Light bread in the
closet!" This caused a search to be made, and the baker
was heavily fined. Full of fury, the baker seized the
parrot, wrung its neck, and threw it in his back yard,
near the carcase of a pig that had died of the measles.
The parrot, coming to itself again, observed the dead
porker and inquired in a tone of sympathy: "O poor
piggy, didst thou, too, tell about light bread in the
closet?"
Somewhat more credible is the tale of the man who taught a parrot to
say, "What doubt is there of this?" (_dur ín cheh shuk_) and took it to
market for sale, fixing the price at a hundred rupís. A Moghul asked the
bird: "Are you really worth a hundred rupís?" to which the bird answered
very readily: "What doubt is there of this?" Delighted with the apt
reply, he bought the parrot and took it home; but he soon found that,
whatever he might say, the bird always made the same answer, so he
repented his purchase and exclaimed: "I was certainly a great fool to
buy this bird!" The parrot said: "What doubt is there of this?" The
Moghul smiled, and gave the bird her liberty.
* * * * *
Sir John Malcolm cites a good example of the ready wit of the citizens
of Isfahán, in his entertaining _Sketches of Persia_, as follows: When
the celebrated Haji Ibrahím was prime minister of Persia [some sixty
years since], his brother was governor of Isfahán, while other members
of his family held several of the first offices of the kingdom. A
shop-keeper one day went to the governor to represent that he was unable
to pay certain taxes. "You must pay them," replied the governor, "or
leave the city." "Where can I go to?" asked the Isfahání. "To Shíráz or
Kashan." "Your nephew rules in one city and your brother in the other."
"Go to the Sháh, and complain if you like." "Your brother the Haji is
prime minister." "Then go to Satan," said the enraged governor. "Haji
Merhúm, your father, the pious pilgrim, is dead," rejoined the undaunted
Isfahání. "My friend," said the governor, bursting into laughter, "I
will pay your taxes, even myself, since you declare that my family keep
you from all redress, both in this world and the next."
* * * * *
The Hebrew Rabbis who compiled the Talmud were, some of them, witty as
well as wise--indeed I have always held that wisdom and wit are cousins
german, if not full brothers--and our specimens of Oriental Wit and
Humour may be fittingly concluded with a few Jewish jests from a scarce
little book, entitled, _Hebrew Tales_, by Hyman Hurwitz: An Athenian,
walking about in the streets of Jerusalem one day, called to a little
Hebrew boy, and, giving him a _pruta_ (a small coin of less value than a
farthing), said: "Here is a pruta, my lad, bring me something for it, of
which I may eat enough, leave some for my host, and carry some home to
my family." The boy went, and presently returned with a quantity of
salt, which he handed to the jester. "Salt!" he exclaimed, "I did not
ask thee to buy me salt." "True," said the urchin; "but didst thou not
tell me to bring thee something of which thou mightest eat, leave, and
take home? Of this salt there is surely enough for all three
purposes."[40]
[40] In the Rev. J. Hinton Knowles' _Folk-Tales of Kashmír_ a
merchant gives his stupid son a small coin with which he
is to purchase something to eat, something to drink,
something to gnaw, something to sow in the garden, and
some food for the cow. A clever young girl advises him
to buy a water-melon, which would answer all the
purposes required.--P. 145.
Another Athenian desired a boy to buy him some cheese and eggs. Having
done so, "Now, my lad," said the stranger, "tell me which of these
cheese were made of the milk of white goats and which of black goats?"
The little Hebrew answered: "Since thou art older than I, and more
experienced, first do thou tell me which of these eggs came from white
and which from black hens."
Once more did a Hebrew urchin prove his superiority in wit over an
Athenian: "Here, boy," said he, "here is some money; bring us some figs
and grapes." The lad went and bought the fruit, kept half of it for
himself, and gave the other half to the Athenian. "How!" cried the man,
"is it the custom of this city for a messenger to take half of what he
is sent to purchase?" "No," replied the boy; "but it is our custom to
speak what we mean, and to do what we are desired." "Well, then, I did
not desire thee to take half of the fruit." "Why, what else could you
mean," rejoined the little casuist, "by saying, 'Bring _us_?' Does not
that word include the hearer as well as the speaker?" The stranger, not
knowing how to answer such reasoning, smiled and went his way, leaving
the shrewd lad to eat his share of the fruit in peace.
"There is no rule without some exception," as the following tale
demonstrates: Rabbi Eliezar, who was as much distinguished by his
greatness of mind as by the extraordinary size of his body, once paid a
friendly visit to Rabbi Simon. The learned Simon received him most
cordially, and filling a cup with wine handed it to him. Eliezar took it
and drank it off at a draught. Another was poured out--it shared the
same fate. "Brother Eliezar," said Simon, jestingly, "rememberest thou
not what the wise men have said on this subject?" "I well remember,"
replied his corpulent friend, "the saying of our instructors, that
people ought not to take a cup at one draught. But the wise men have not
so defined their rule as to admit of no exception; and in this instance
there are not less than three--the _cup_ is small, the _receiver_ is
large, and your WINE, brother Simon, is DELICIOUS!"