TOLD IN THE
GARDENS OF ARABY
(UNTRANSLATED UNTIL NOW)
BY
IZORA CHANDLER
AND
MARY W. MONTGOMERY
NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS
CINCINNATI: JENNINGS & GRAHAM
CONTENTS
Page
Prelude 5
The Emerald Roc 18
The Story of the Beautiful Girl Who Had Her Wish 44
The Story of the Beautiful One Who Did Not Have Her Desire 62
Story of the Crying Pomegranate and the Laughing Bear 97
Story of the Bird of Affliction 130
Story of the Water-Carrier 157
Story of the Coffee-Maker’s Apprentice 168
Story of the Candy-Maker’s Apprentice 182
The Crystal Kiosk and the Diamond Ship 203
TOLD IN THE GARDENS OF ARABY
PRELUDE
Memory swings backward to revel in a certain Garden of Delight; to
picture the high whitewashed wall, topped with red tiles, and guarding
within its quadrangle of acres clustering palms, grave cypress trees,
the fig, quince, orange, pomegranate, and mulberry; also the gray
olive, with roots twisted out of the soil as if by force and seeming to
hint that, once upon a time, giant souls were imprisoned within each
grizzly trunk and struggled themselves to death, in mad wrestlings
after freedom.
Shielded by these varied branches, roses and cabbages, lilies and
onions, jessamine and melons, the crimson-flowered oleander, pumpkins,
tomatoes, and carrots mingle in a delightful democracy. Here the day
wakens with sweet morning clearness, waxes into a scorching noontide,
and burns onward, to be extinguished by the breath of a dewy twilight.
Stars march slowly from out the vaulted shadows overhead, to halt
at awful distances. Distant mountain peaks stretch away beyond the
city, in indescribable loveliness, and melt in the distance, like
a veritable land of cloud. Upon the other hand lies the desert;
become a sea of silver under the stern light of the stars. One stands
impressed—oppressed and compelled to listen to the mighty, threatening
silence. Small wonder is it that, to-day, in the interior of Arabia,
like his forefathers during the time of Abimelech and Jethro, the
lonely shepherd is a worshiper of the stars—poised, unchanging and
serene, above the changing, tumultuous earth.
Through this Garden, in which Memory lies dreaming, a silvery stream
flows from a marble basin. Into this basin play the waters from a
tree-shaded fountain. Beside it sits a gruff old pelican, eyeing
dweller and guest with equal disfavor. This bird of desolation likes
not his fair prison. Sweeter, to his ear, is the owl’s hoot than any
music distilled by human voices.
At one corner of the great quadrangle stands the long, roomy dwelling.
Its lower story comprises the general reception room, the kitchen, and
stables. From contiguous windows in this last, two white heads lean out
and gaze, wistfully, each into the other’s eyes. One is that of the
snow-white ass, upon which the daughter of the house rides when,
attended by Ismail, she goes forth to pay visits. The other is that of
the foal, shut into a separate stall because he has grown so large that
he must be weaned. Here his greatest effort only succeeds in reaching
up and resting his funny little head upon the window sill; where he
must content himself with waving long ears and casting glances of
entreaty across at the mother, who stands helpless in all but the
expression of her sympathy.
Attention is fastened upon these patient dumb creatures. At this, the
young hostess—who, by the way, speaks Arabic, modern Greek, French,
German, English; who interprets Chopin with appealing sympathy upon the
piano in the beautiful drawing-room; and, upon occasion, picks her
mandolin to light, minor-keyed melodies—decides that the American lady
must have a ride about the garden.
Ismail, a dark-skinned boy who has haunted our footsteps in readiness
for service, and whose eyes and teeth are marvels of brilliancy, leads
forth the petted beast and tricks her out with the most gorgeous
trappings. Then the visitor is wheedled into mounting the high, smooth
saddle. This she does gingerly and sidewise, after the fashion of her
countrywomen. The baby donkey is let out to enjoy a bit of exercise,
and crowds so closely to the side of his adored parent as nearly to
crush the ankles of her nervous rider.
The white beasts trot placidly over the graveled walks of the
quadrangle, and the pastime is growing pleasant to the rider. But
“Faster! faster!” commands the young hostess. “It is not with this
sleep of the day that we should seek to amuse one who comes from the
Land of Haste! Faster! Ismail, faster!”
Time is not given in which to explain that a mild gait is preferred;
for the Arab boy at once enters into the spirit of his mistress—strikes
a resounding blow upon each snowy flank, with such immediate effect
that the unaccustomed rider slides from her insecure position and joins
in the merriment.
“Alas! the Orient has broken your spirit! It is not like this that in
your own country you would ride. Think you that I do not know?”
Hastily arranging her flowing skirts, the young girl sprang gayly
astride the high, polished saddle; leaned forward and whispered, “Away!
Babash!” During the next few moments, shadow and sunlight became a
swift kaleidoscope of gayety and color. The little animal, divining
what was expected of her, broke into a gallop of whose madness one
never would have dreamed her capable; and which made it most comical to
witness the wild attempts of her poor little foal at keeping pace, and
his bewilderment when, after viewing, with despair, her disappearance
before him, his astonished gaze discovered her hastening toward him
from behind, only to leave him again, a little farther on.
Meantime the surly pelican had waddled to an unfrequented corner, where
the gravel, flying from delicate hoofs, could not reach him. Madame,
the elder hostess, came out upon the balcony, which extended along the
second story of the dwelling, to wave her hand in enjoyment of the
sport.
At length, wearied with making exhibition of the speed which, in her
opinion, characterized the home life of her visitor, the young girl
tossed her reins to Ismail, commanded that coffee be brought, then
conducted to a beautiful summerhouse, or kiosk, where were cushions and
rugs in profusion; where the most comfortable corner hid its hand
mirror and rose-water sprinkler, and over whose lattice climbed roses
and jessamine.
Of these latter flowers—so precious to every woman of the Orient—three
were gathered and tucked into the visitor’s belt. “Three, the Oriental
number: one for health, one for wealth, and one for prosperity. If I
wish you these and to you they come, what is there more, that for it
you should ask?” was the compelling explanation, made in a voice that
was music’s own in quality and, like her manner—when not merrily
exemplifying prevailing notions of American life—was gentle as the most
fastidious aristocrat could desire.
The air was sprayed with rose water; we reclined upon the cushions.
Quiet restored, the Madame descended and joined us. Coffee was
brought—though not at once; for the moments do not urge, as in the
Occident; they weave themselves, unnoted, into slow and shining hours.
Resting thus, and, later on, tasting the cream tart of whose
deliciousness the half has never been told, it was inevitable that we
should fall into the custom of the country and relate, each to the
others, tales of our native lands.
Story-telling is a most natural blossom upon the Oriental life tree.
Silent, tropical, motionless days breed no restlessness of the life
intellectual, no ravening after to-day’s knowledge and its fleeting
fame, no feverish haste after anything. The past fades and the future
becomes dim. It is a Land of the Present Moment. In the estimation of
its people, the present moment, only, is to be compared with Paradise.
As consequence, the dreaming of dreams or the relation of marvelous
tales, concerning adventures and intrigues of imaginary characters,
serves to satisfy the indolent and luxurious character. Disinclination
to travel has found expression in “Better be a dog at home than a lion
afloat.” And universal custom exemplifies the belief that it is better
also to recline at ease, with coffee and nargileh; enfolded in such
peace that any relation of turbulence and romance is rendered thrilling
by mere force of contrast—far better is all this than to fare forth
one’s self. One does not marvel that natures pent in such inactive
bodies should require, to their better satisfaction with the stories
told them, blood-curdling elements, violence, with strange
interventions and achievements of the supernatural. By this means is
poise maintained and the slothful soul drugged into dreaminess.
Action and progress are discouraged in the Orient. Until the
authorities grant permission, a man may not rebuild his house after the
flames have destroyed it; nor may he celebrate the marriage of a child.
Only during the feast month of Ramazan is any woman permitted outside
of her walls after sunset; and a man, without his lighted lantern, is
in danger of trouble with the police. Indeed, the dwellers not only are
expected, but themselves expect, to retire at sunset into their
separate home worlds, without whose walls the strait-laced effendi
likes not to have his women seen at any time. Yet, even when within the
home, cards seldom are resorted to; and games of chance everywhere are
forbidden the good Moslem.
Then how should this be other than a land for reverie? Certain hours of
every day are witness to the sun’s terrible triumph. Its atmosphere
becomes of intolerable sultriness. Its climate renders the people
indolent in action, while permitting their intellects to remain keen
and their passions lively. They have, moreover, quick sense of the
ludicrous; a childish, untutored taste for practical jokes; a
refinement of cunning, and, often seemingly asleep, in reality they
never lose their sagacity. Only when in dispute are their voices and
actions unsubdued. As a rule, they are not good in conversation; any
point is made clear by the relation of some parallel tale; and always
the men are ready to loiter and to loaf.
Although the dairy life of the women is enriched with the arts of
cookery and exquisite needlework, it must become monotonous. They are
passionately fond of the open air; but their fullest enjoyment of it
consists in reclining upon rug and cushion, beneath some fragrant
shade, while their slow, indolent eyes traverse the beauty of garden,
sea, or sky, and the ear is soothed with some story which, at the same
time, stirs the sense, gives wing to imagination, and satisfies the
inaction of their present by calling up visions of far-away activities,
perhaps aided by the unseen and unknown.
One, for whom character needs not to consist in eternal effort, must
find great charm in these people, with their childish love for the
passing hour and readiness to give or accept friendliness. Often the
youths are of ideal beauty. Usually the men are well built, healthful,
abstemious. Always the women are splendidly robust and handsome. Nearly
everyone is unmalicious, gentle in temper, leisurely—nay,
more—loitering. Nobody is in a hurry. He who hastes is viewed with
suspicion. Even punctuality in the payment of dues is decried; and no
shopkeeper, worthy of a booth in the bazaar, will permit a customer to
depart until after bewildering his sight with the most gorgeous
properties upon the shelves. Should an unwary shopper ask the price of
any article or permit his eye to linger upon it, coffee is at once
served and the business call becomes a visit of ceremony.
With touching faith in his kismet—decreed fate—the peasant endures
whatever of ill his days may bring. He receives every stranger with
perfect faith; trusting that he may be the messenger of some
long-delayed good. The thought of seeking an occupation rarely occurs
to him—however needy he may be. With only a few piasters in his pouch
for present needs, he becomes wealthy; for, may he not dream of hidden
treasure which, when found, will supply splendors ineffable? Beside,
were he to make strenuous effort in the hope of bettering his estate,
he might thwart some beautiful on-coming providence. In this land where
gentle consideration reigns, children treat their mothers with a royal
deference, which but increases with every added year of their own
lives.
The Osmanlis will have nothing to do with hereditary rank. The
misfortunes and sins which constitute the unanswerable Eastern
Question, arise from the fact that their Prophet failed to provide a
law by which his successors might be determined. Members of the
reigning family marry the simplest family; and the genealogical records
are forgotten. Sentiment is opposed to class lines between ruler and
people; hence, in their stories, the young prince is free to marry any
maiden, be she ever so lowly.
However somber this life, the pious Moslem finds content in letting his
mind dwell upon the bliss of that life beyond. He is profoundly
submissive in the presence of death; accepts its coming with
unquestioning resignation, since his Edjel—appointed death hour—and
that of his beloved ones, was decreed by Allah and invisibly inscribed
upon the brow at birth. Dying means that one is bidden, by “the
Cupbearer of the Spheres,” to partake of the joys of Paradise. Why,
then, should one regret the summons?
Devotion is natural to him. Five times each day does the dweller in
village or city obey a call to prayer—even though the muezzin who cries
may be far from holy and his intrigues furnish the point for many a
tale. According to Lady Blunt, “nothing gives so much distinction, in
this land, as regular attendance at prayers.” The name of Allah enters
into every bargain, greeting, or conflict. To the really faithful,
every living creature has some spiritual significance. The killing of a
dog may cost a man many bushels of grain—perchance, his life. The stork
and swallow are sacred. Even the unclean vulture must not be slain. His
body is the abode of some sinful soul; and, if the bird be killed, the
poor soul forever must perish.
The Land of Midian is a mysterious, dreary land of gloomy cliffs and
broad deserts; of shadowless plains, narrow valleys, and monotonous
wilderness regions. Its mirage allures to death; and the clear
atmosphere suddenly may become dark with the burning heat of the
simoon. Through its desert God’s Chosen People are believed to have
wandered during their forty years of punishment and preparation. Fiery
serpents and scorpions made their passage hideous; and the
undisciplined wanderers were “much discouraged because of the way.”
Over this indescribably romantic country—which has been inhabited since
the earliest time and has undergone fewer changes than any other known
upon the globe—a mighty Presence seems on patient guard. One is never
freed from the sense of some Great Unseen.
At points the configuration is fantastic and weird in the character of
its desolation. It is a region of gloomy cliffs, of granite hills, of
detached, volcanic centers—like that of the true Mount Sinai—and over
whose difficult passages the complaining camel seems fittest transport.
Each tribe, in this Land of Ishmael, claims descent from some one of
the three members of Abraham’s family; and insists that social and
religious status were overthrown by Mohammed, when he subjected them to
his version of the law of the One God. To this it may be added that
there are those who believe that the enmity of Christians against the
Jews prevented the great prophet from adopting the Christian faith.
Upon his possession of Arabia does the Sultan base his title of Caliph.
With the downfall of those rulers came a relapse into the former
separate chieftaincies; so that every valley, between desert and coast,
or mountain range, now supports its wandering band. For this reason,
these people love that the stories told them should concern that time
of the Caliphs; when the country flourished as never before or after.
Yemen, a central, fertile tract in southwest Arabia, is the Arab’s
Arcadia. Here Alexander the Great determined to fix his court after he
should have conquered India. His strong nature was attracted to this
surprising land; where a single step may bear one from dreary
somberness into the most luxurious vegetation—from the desert into an
oasis, redolent with the scent of flowers, shadowed with orchards and
musical with the insect’s drone.
In a land like this, among a people of courtesy and charm, it becomes
gently imperative that the most barren imagination should indulge in
bits of phantasy and the dullest sense become susceptible to passing
beauty. A pure and refreshing fountain is certain to become a center of
romantic interest that will unseal the lips of a traveler. And, since
bachelors are looked upon with disfavor and not an old maid exists in
all the country, it is to be expected that any relation should turn
upon marriage. Nor need one fear that the tale will prove erotic, since
its creation was in a land where the modesty of a peasant will not
admit even of his staring at a company of bathers; but sends his eyes
to search the tree tops or distant mountains, until temptation is far
passed.
Perhaps it will be well to begin these stories from the Orient with a
relation of cruel intrigue and of patient revenge, aided by potent,
albeit most unlikely, supernatural forces:
THE EMERALD ROC
PART I
THE DRAGON OF THE APPLES
Once upon a time, in the pleasure garden of a king, there grew a tree
which produced three apples every year. But the king had never tasted
one of them. In the middle of the night, before they were quite ripe, a
seven-headed genie always came and carried them away.
Now, the king had three sons. One day the eldest son came into his
father’s presence, kissed the ground, then arose and stood before him.
“What dost thou wish, my son?” asked the king.
“My father,” was the answer, “thou knowest that the precious apples
should be ripe upon the morrow. To-night I would keep watch in the
garden and kill the genie.”
“Thou speakest well, my son,” said the king.
Thereupon the prince took a bow in his hand and hid himself in the
garden. At midnight there was a terrific earthquake, followed by a
black cloud, out of which the genie emerged and walked toward the tree
upon which hung the precious fruit. At sight of him the affrighted
prince forgot his determination and ran to the palace for safety. The
genie plucked the apples and carried them away.
In the morning the king sent for the prince and inquired if he had
accomplished his purpose.
“Sire,” was the reply, “I barely escaped with my life!”
When a year had passed the second son asked that he be allowed to kill
the monster. His ill fortune was like unto that of his brother. At the
end of another year the youngest prince came into his father’s
presence.
“If your majesty only consent,” he pleaded, “I will go and kill this
evil creature who trespasses upon your private grounds.”
But the king was loath to let his favorite son rush into danger, and
demurred, saying: “If thy brothers could not accomplish this hazardous
undertaking how canst thou hope to do it? Alas! thou wilt surely
perish.”
Nevertheless, upon the pleading of the boy, permission was granted him.
The grateful young prince placed the Koran in his bosom, took a
poisoned arrow in his hand, and sought a secluded spot in the garden.
Exactly at midnight there was an earthquake, after which appeared a
dense cloud, out of which emerged the seven-headed genie and approached
the tree which bore the precious fruit.
“By the power of Allah!” cried the young prince as he threw the
poisoned arrow. It passed through all the seven heads of the monster,
who, uttering a cry that made the earth to tremble, sank upon the
ground.
The prince gathered the apples, ran with them to his father, and told
what he had done.
“Brave art thou, my son!” cried the king. “I perceive that thou hast
great courage.”
But the prince was not content. Kissing the ground before his father,
he asked permission to remove the body of the genie from off the face
of the earth. And, although the king had grave fears for his son’s
safety, he was persuaded to yield consent.