The doors of the mosque in Hodeidah stood wide and inviting after the
blaze of an Arabian afternoon. And within, the hour of prayer having
drawn nigh, were prostrated a few of the more faithful, their faces
toward Mecca. Without, upon the platform of the great mosque and within
the shadow of the high east wall, a dozen mendicants in their rags were
already huddled or still arranging themselves, in anticipation of the
departure of those of the faithful who might cast them a pice or an
anna, so plain is the prescription of the Koran. For is it not written:
“And forget not the poor, and the son of the road”? Even so, praise be
to Allah, the good, the great.
Apart from them, oblivious of them and their woes, even of the import
of the mosque itself, a score or more of Arabian children were at play,
circling about like knats or bats. And passing among these or idling
in groups for a word as to the affairs of the day, were excellent
citizens of Hodeidah, fresh from their shops and errands—Bhori, the
tin-seller, for one, making his way before going home to a comfortable
mabraz, there to smoke a water-pipe and chew a bit of khat; and Ahmed,
the carpet-weaver, stopping at the mosque to pray before going home;
and Chudi, the baker, and Zad-el-Din, the seller of piece goods,
whose shops were near together, both fathers, these, and discussing
trade and the arrival of the camel train from Taif. And now came Azad
Bakht, the barber, mopping his brow as was his wont. And Feruz, the
water-carrier, to offer water for sale. And many others came and went,
for this was the closing hour of the shops; soon all would be making
for home or the mabrazes after a moment of prayer in the mosque, so
near is the hereafter to the now.
But Gazzar-al-Din, a mendicant story-teller, fresh from the camel
train out of Taif which within the hour had passed beyond the Chedar
gate, was not one of these. Indeed he was a stranger in Hodeidah, one
of those who make their way from city to city and village to village
by their skill as tellers of tales, reciters of the glories of kings
and princesses and princes and the doings of Jinn and magicians and
fabled celebrities generally. Yet poor was he indeed. His tales he had
gathered on many travels. And though nearing the age of eighty and
none too prepossessing of mien, yet so artful was he in the manner of
presenting his wares that he had not thus far died of want. His garb
was no more than a loincloth, a turban and a cape as dirty as they
were ragged. His beard and hair had not for years known any other comb
than the sands of the desert and the dust of the streets. His face was
parchment, his hands claws, one arm was withered.
Taking in at a glance the presence of a score of comrades in misery at
or near the mosque door, Gazzar-al-Din betook himself to a respectful
distance and surveyed the world in which he found himself. The
cook-shop of Al Hadjaz being not far off and some inviting fragrance
therefrom streaming to him on the wind, he made shift to think how he
could best gather an audience of all who now came and went so briskly.
For eat he must. No doubt there were many in Hodeidah who told tales,
and by those about the mosque who sought alms certainly an additional
seeker would not be welcomed. Indeed there had been times when open
hostility had been manifested, as in Feruz where, after gathering many
anna from an admiring throng, once he had been set upon and beaten, his
purse taken, and, to crown it all, a pail of slops cast upon him by
a savage she-wolf of their pack. It behooved him therefore to have a
care.
Still, all things considered, it was not so poor a life. Many had
their homes, to be sure, and their wives and shops, but were there not
drawbacks? The best of them were as fixed as the palms and sands of
the desert. Once in their lives perhaps they had journeyed to Mecca or
Medina, to be preyed upon and swindled, in some instances even to be
murdered, by the evil hawks that dwelt there. But in his case now....
The fragrances from the shop of Al Hadjaz renewed themselves.... There
was nothing for it: he must find a comfortable doorway or the shaded
side of a wall where he could spread his cape, belabor his tambour
and so attract attention and secure as many anna as might be before
he began to unfold such a tale of adventure and surprise as would
retain the flagging interest of the most wearied and indifferent.
And eventually secure him sufficient anna for his meal and lodging.
But to do that, as he well knew, there must be in it somewhere, a
beautiful princess and a handsome lover; also a noble and generous and
magnificent caliph. And much talk to be sure of gold and power where
so little existed in real life. In addition there should be cruel
robbers and thieves, and, also, a righteous man too—though in real
life, how few. Sometimes as the faces of those addressed showed a wane
of interest it was wise to take apart and recombine many tales, borrow
from one to bolster up another.
As he walked, looking at the windows and doors of all the shops and
residences about him, he eventually spied a deep recess giving into
the closed market a score of feet from the public square. Here he
seated himself and began softly to thump his tambour, lest those
religiously minded should take offense. Also it was no part of his
desire to attract the mendicants, who were still before the door of
the mosque. Soon they might depart, and then he would feel safer, for
in them, especially for such as he—a fellow craftsman, as it were—was
nothing but jibes and rivalry. He drummed softly, looking briskly about
the while, now at the windows, now toward the mosque, now along the
winding street. Seeing two urchins, then a third, pause and gaze, he
reasoned that his art was beginning to lure. For where children paused,
their elders were sure to follow. And so it proved. Drawing nearer
and nearer these first children were joined by a fourth, a fifth, a
sixth. Presently Haifa, the tobacco vendor, limping toward the mosque
to sell his wares, paused and joined the children. He was curious as to
what was to follow—whether Gazzar would secure an audience. Next came
Waidi, the water-seller, fresh from a sale; then Ajeeb, ne’er-do-well
cleaner of market stalls for the merchants, and full of curiosity ever.
And after him came Soudi and Parfi, carriers, an appetite for wonders
besetting them; and then El-Jed, the vendor of kindling.
As they gathered about him Gazzar-al-Din ventured to thrum louder and
louder, exclaiming: “A marvelous tale, O Company of the Faithful! A
marvelous tale! Hearken! A tale such as has never yet been told in all
Hodeidah—no, not in all Yemen! ‘A Prince Who was a Thief.’ A Prince
Who Was a Thief! For a score of anna—yea, the fourth part of a rupee—I
begin. And ah, the sweetness of it! As jasmine, it is fragrant; as
khat, soothing. A marvelous tale!”
“Ay-ee, but how is one to know that,” observed Ahmed, the
carpet-weaver, to Chudi, the tailor, with whom he had drawn near.
“There are many who promise excellent tales but how few who tell them.”
“It is even as thou sayst, O Ahmed. Often have I hearkened and given
anna in plenty, yet few there are whose tales are worth the hearing.”
“Why not begin thy tale, O Kowasji?” inquired Soudi, the carrier. “Then
if, as thou sayst, it is so excellent, will not anna enough be thine?
There are tellers of tales, and tellers of tales—”
“Yea, and that I would,” replied the mendicant artfully, “were all as
honest as thou lookest and as kind. Yet have I traveled far without
food, and I know not where I may rest this night.... A tale of the
great caliph and the Princess Yanee and the noble Yussuf, stolen and
found again. And the great treasury sealed and guarded, yet entered and
robbed by one who was not found. Anna—but a score of anna, and I begin!
What? Are all in Hodeidah so poor that a tale of love and pleasure and
danger and great palaces and great princes and caliphs and thieves can
remain untold for the want of a few anna—for so many as ten dropped
into my tambour? A marvelous tale! A marvelous tale!”
He paused and gazed speculatively about, holding out his tambour. His
audience looked dubiously and curiously at him; who now was this latest
teller of wonders, and from whence had he come? An anna was not much,
to be sure, and a tale well told—well—yet there had been tellers of
such whose tales were as dull as the yawn of a camel.
“An excellent tale, sayst thou?” queried Parfi cautiously. “Then, if it
be so marvelous, why not begin? For a handful of anna one may promise
anything.”
“A great promiser there was here once,” commented Ajeeb, the gossip,
sententiously, “and he sat himself in this self-same door. I remember
him well. He wore a green turban, but a greater liar there never was.
He promised wonders and terrors enough, but it came to nothing—not a
demon or Jinn in it.”
“Is it of demons and Jinns only that thou thinkest, donkey?” demanded
Haifa. “Verily, there are wonders and mysteries everywhere, without
having them in tales.”
“Yea, but a tale need not be for profit, either,” said Waidi, the
water-seller. “It is for one’s leisure, at the end of a day. I like
such as end happily, with evil punished and the good rewarded.”
“Come, O friends,” insisted Gazzar-al-Din, seeing that one or two were
interested, “for a score of anna I begin. Of Yemen it is, this very
Yemen, and Baghdad, once a greater city than any to-day—”
“Begin then,” said Azad Bakht, the barber. “Here is an anna for thee,”
and he tossed a coin in the tambour.
“And here is another for thee,” observed Haifa, fishing in his purse.
“I do not mind risking it.”
“And here is another,” called Soudi condescendingly. “Begin.”
“And here is yet another,” added Parfi grandiosely. “Now, then, thy
tale, and look thee that it is as thou sayst, marvelous.” And they
squatted about him on the ground.
But Gazzar, determined not to begin until he had at least ten anna,
the price of a bowl of curds and a cup of kishr, waited until he had
accumulated so many, as well as various “Dogs!” and “Pigs!” and “Wilt
thou begin, miser, or wilt thou fill thy tambour?” into the bargain. He
then crouched upon his rags, lifted his hand for silence, and began:
“Know then, O excellent citizens of Hodeidah, that once, many years
since, there lived in this very Yemen where now is Taif, then a much
more resplendent city, a sultan by the name of Kar-Shem, who had great
cities and palaces and an army, and was beloved of all over whom he
ruled. When he—wilt thou be seated, O friend? And silence!—when he was
but newly married and ruling happily a son was born to him, Hussein,
an infant of so great charm and beauty that he decided he should be
carefully reared and wisely trained and so made into a fit ruler for so
great a country. But, as it chanced, there was a rival or claimant to
this same throne by another line, a branch long since deposed by the
ancestors of this same king, and he it was, Bab-el-Bar by name, who was
determined that the young Prince Hussein should be stolen and disposed
of in some way so that he should never return and claim the throne. One
day, when the prince was only four years of age, the summer palace was
attacked and the princeling captured. From thence he was carried over
great wastes of sand to Baghdad, where he was duly sold as a slave to a
man who was looking for such, for he was a great and successful thief,
one who trained thieves from their infancy up so that they should never
know what virtue was.”
“Ay-ee, there are such,” interrupted Ahmed, the carpet-weaver, loudly,
for his place had only recently been robbed. “I know of the vileness of
thieves.”
“Peace! Peace!” insisted Waidi and Haifa sourly.
Gazzar-al-Din paused until quiet should be restored, then resumed:
“Once the Prince Hussein was in the hands of this thief, he was at
once housed with those who stole, who in turn taught him. One of the
tricks which Yussuf, the master thief, employed was to take each of
his neophytes in turn at the age of seven, dress him in a yarn jacket,
lower him into a dry cistern from which there was no means of escape,
place a large ring-cake upon a beam across the top and tell him to
obtain the cake or starve. Many starved for days and were eventually
dismissed as unworthy of his skill. But when the young Prince Hussein
was lowered he meditated upon his state. At last he unraveled a part
of his yarn jacket, tied a pebble to it and threw it so that it fell
through the hole of the cake, and thus he was able to pull it down. At
this Yussuf was so pleased that he had him drawn up and given a rare
meal.
“One day Yussuf, hearing good reports from those who were training
Hussein in thieving, took him to the top of a hill traversed by a road,
where, seeing a peasant carrying a sheep on his back approaching,
Yussuf Ben Ali asked of Hussein, now renamed Abou so that he might not
be found: ‘How shall we get the sheep without the peasant learning
that we have taken it?’ Trained by fear of punishment to use his wits,
Abou, after some thought replied: ‘When thou seest the sheep alone,
take it!’ Stealing from the thicket, he placed one of his shoes in the
road and then hid. The peasant came and saw the shoe, but left it lying
there because there was but one. Abou ran out and picked up the shoe,
reappearing from the wood far ahead of the peasant where he put down
the mate to the first shoe and then hid again. The peasant came and
examined the shoe, then tied his sheep to a stake and ran back for the
first one. Yussuf, seeing the sheep alone, now came out and hurried
off with it, while Abou followed, picking up the last shoe.”
“He was a donkey to leave his sheep in the road,” interpolated Parfi,
the carrier, solemnly.
“But more of a donkey not to have taken up the first shoe,” added Soudi.
“Anna! Anna!” insisted Gazzar-al-Din, seizing upon this occasion to
collect from those who had newly arrived. “’Tis a marvellous tale!
Remember the teller of good tales, whose gift it is to sweeten the
saddest of days. He lightens the cares of those who are a-weary. Anna!
Anna!” And with a clawy hand he held out the tambour to Zad-el-Din and
Azad Bakht, who began to regret their interest.
“Cannot a man speak without thou demandest anna?” grumbled Zad-el-Din,
fishing in his purse and depositing an anna, as did Azad Bakht and
several more. Whereupon, the others beginning to grumble, Gazzar
continued:
“The peasant coming back to where he had seen the first shoe and not
finding it, was dazed and ran back to his sheep, to find that that and
the second shoe were gone. Yussuf was much pleased and rewarded Abou
with a new coat later, but for the present he was not done. Judging by
long experience that the peasant had either bought the sheep and was
taking it home or that he was carrying it to market to sell, he said to
Abou: ‘Let us wait. It may be that he will return with another.’”
“Ah, shrewd,” muttered Ajeeb, nodding his head gravely. “Accordingly,”
went on Gazzar-al-Din, “they waited and soon the peasant returned
carrying another sheep. Yussuf asked Abou if he could take this one
also, and Abou told him that when he saw the sheep alone to take it.”
“Dunce!” declared Chudi, the baker. “Will he put another sheep down
after just losing one? This is a thin tale!” But Gazzar was not to be
disconcerted.
“Now Yussuf was a great thief,” he went on, “but this wit of Abou’s
puzzled him. Of all the thieves he had trained few could solve the
various problems which he put before them, and in Abou he saw the
makings of a great thief. As the peasant approached, Abou motioned to
Yussuf to conceal himself in a crevice in the nearby rocks, while he
hid in the woods. When the peasant drew near Abou placed his hands to
his lips and imitated a sheep bleating, whereupon the peasant, thinking
it must be his lost sheep, put down behind a stone the one he was
carrying, for its feet were tied, and went into the woods to seek the
lost one. Yussuf, watching from his cave, then ran forth and made off
with the sheep. When the peasant approached, Abou climbed a tree and
smiled down on him as he sought his sheep, for he had been taught that
to steal was clever and wise, and the one from whom he could steal was
a fool.”
“And so he is,” thought Waidi, who had stolen much in his time.
“When the peasant had gone his way lamenting, Abou came down and
joined Yussuf. They returned to the city and the home of Yussuf, where
the latter, much pleased, decided to adopt Abou as his son.” Gazzar
now paused upon seeing the interest of his hearers and held out his
tambour. “Anna, O friends, anna! Is not the teller of tales, the
sweetener of weariness, worthy of his hire? I have less than a score
of anna, and ten will buy no more than a bowl of curds or a cup of
kishr, and the road I have traveled has been long. So much as the right
to sleep in a stall with the camels is held at ten anna, and I am no
longer young.” He moved the tambour about appealingly.
“Dog!” growled Soudi. “Must thy tambour be filled before we hear more?”
“Bismillah! This is no story-teller but a robber,” declared Parfi.
“Peace, friends,” said Gazzar, who was afraid to irritate his hearers
in this strange city. “The best of the tale comes but now—the marvelous
beauty of the Princess Yanee and the story of the caliph’s treasury
and the master thief. But, for the love of Allah, yield me but ten
more anna and I pause no more. It is late. A cup of kishr, a camel’s
stall—” He waved the tambour. Some three of his hearers who had not
yet contributed anything dropped each an anna into his tambour.
“Now,” continued Gazzar somewhat gloomily, seeing how small were his
earnings for all his art, “aside from stealing and plundering caravans
upon the great desert, and the murdering of men for their treasure, the
great Yussuf conducted a rug bazaar as a blind for more thievery and
murder. This bazaar was in the principal street of the merchants, and
at times he was to be seen there, his legs crossed upon his pillows.
But let a merchant of wealth appear, a stranger, and although he might
wish only to ask prices Yussuf would offer some rug or cloth so low
that even a beggar would wish to take it. When the stranger, astonished
at its price, would draw his purse a hand-clap from Yussuf would bring
forth slaves from behind hangings who would fall upon and bind him,
take his purse and clothes and throw his body into the river.”
“An excellent robber indeed!” approved Soudi.
“Yussuf, once he had adopted Abou as his son, admitted him to his own
home, where were many chambers and a garden, a court with a pool, and
many servants and cushions and low divans in arcades and chambers; then
he dressed him in silks and took him to his false rug market, where
he introduced him with a great flourish as one who would continue his
affairs after he, Yussuf, was no more. He called his slaves and said:
‘Behold thy master after myself. When I am not here, or by chance am
no more—praise be to Allah, the good, the great!—see that thou obey
him, for I have found him very wise.’ Soon Yussuf disguised himself
as a dervish and departed upon a new venture. As for Abou, being left
in charge of the rug market, he busied himself with examining its
treasures and their values and thinking on how the cruel trade of
robbery, and, if necessary, murder, which had been taught him, and how
best it was to be conducted.
“For although Abou was good and kind of heart, still being taken so
young and sharply trained in theft and all things evil, and having
been taught from day to day that not only were murder and robbery
commendable but that softness or error in their pursuit was wrong and
to be severely punished, he believed all this and yet innocently enough
at times sorrowed for those whom he injured. Yet also he knew that he
durst not show his sorrow in the presence of Yussuf, for the latter,
though kind to him, was savage to all who showed the least mercy or
failed to do his bidding, even going so far as to slay them when they
sought to cross or betray him.”
“Ay-ee, a savage one was that,” muttered Al Hadjaz, the cook.
“And I doubt not there are such in Yemen to this day,” added Ajeeb, the
cleaner of stalls. “Was not Osman Hassan, the spice-seller, robbed and
slain?”
“Soon after Yussuf had left on the secret adventure, there happened
to Abou a great thing. For it should be known that at this time there
ruled in Baghdad the great and wise Yianko I., Caliph of the Faithful
in the valleys of the Euphrates and the Tigris and master of provinces
and principalities, and the possessor of an enormous treasury of gold,
which was in a great building of stone. Also he possessed a palace of
such beauty that travelers came from many parts and far countries to
see. It was built of many-colored stones and rare woods, and possessed
walks and corridors and gardens and flowers and pools and balconies and
latticed chambers into which the sun never burst, but where were always
cool airs and sweet. Here were myrtle and jasmine and the palm and
the cedar, and birds of many colors, and the tall ibis and the bright
flamingo. It was here, with his many wives and concubines and slaves
and courtiers, and many wise men come from far parts of the world to
advise with him and bring him wisdom, that he ruled and was beloved and
admired.
“Now by his favorite wife, Atrisha, there had been born to him some
thirteen years before the beautiful and tender and delicate and
loving and much-beloved Yanee, the sweetest and fairest of all his
daughters, whom from the very first he designed should be the wife of
some great prince, the mother of beautiful and wise children, and the
heir, through her husband, whoever he should be, to all the greatness
and power which the same must possess to be worthy of her. And also,
because he had decided that whoever should be wise and great and
deserving enough to be worthy of Yanee should also be worthy of him
and all that he possessed—the great Caliphate of Baghdad. To this end,
therefore, he called to Baghdad instructors of the greatest wisdom and
learning of all kinds, the art of the lute and the tambour and the
dance. And from among his wives and concubines he had chosen those
who knew most of the art of dress and deportment and the care of the
face and the body; so that now, having come to the age of the ripest
perfection, thirteen, she was the most beautiful of all the maidens
that had appeared in Arabia or any of the countries beyond it. Her hair
was as spun gold, her teeth as pearls of the greatest price, lustrous
and delicate; her skin as the bright moon when it rises in the east,
and her hands and feet as petals in full bloom. Her lips were as the
pomegranate when it is newly cut, and her eyes as those deep pools into
which the moon looks when it is night.”
“Yea, I have heard of such, in fairy-tales,” sighed Chudi, the baker,
whose wife was as parchment that has cracked with age.
“And I, behind the walls of palaces and in far cities, but never here,”
added Zad-el-Din, for neither his wife nor his daughters was any too
fair to look upon. “They come not to Hodeidah.”
“Ay-ee, were any so beautiful,” sighed Al Tadjaz, “there would be no
man worthy. But there are none.”
“Peace!” cried Ahmed. “Let us have the tale.”
“Yea, before he thinks him to plead for more anna,” muttered Hadjaz,
the sweeper, softly.
But Gazzar, not to be robbed of this evidence of interest, was already
astir. Even as they talked he held out the tambour, crying: “Anna,
anna, anna!” But so great was the opposition that he dared not persist.
“Dog!” cried Waidi. “Wilt thou never be satisfied? There is another for
thee, but come no more.”
“Thou miser!” said Haifa, still greatly interested, “tell thy tale and
be done!”
“The thief has rupees and to spare, I warrant,” added Scudi,
contributing yet another anna.
And Zad-el-Din and Ahmed, because they were lustful of the great beauty
of Yanee, each added an anna to his takings.
“Berate me not, O friends,” pleaded Gazzar tactfully, hiding his anna
in his cloak, “for I am as poor as thou seest—a son of the road, a
beggar, a wanderer, with nowhere to lay my head. Other than my tales I
have nothing.” But seeing scant sympathy in the faces of his hearers,
he resumed.
“Now at the time that Abou was in charge of the dark bazaar it chanced
that the caliph, who annually arranged for the departure of his
daughter for the mountains which are beyond Azol in Bactria, where he
maintained a summer palace of great beauty, sent forth a vast company
mounted upon elephants and camels out of Ullar and Cerf and horses of
the rarest blood from Taif. This company was caparisoned and swathed
in silks and thin wool and the braided and spun cloth of Esher and Bar
with their knitted threads of gold. And it made a glorious spectacle
indeed, and all paused to behold. But it also chanced that as this
cavalcade passed through the streets of Baghdad, Abou, hearing a great
tumult and the cries of the multitude and the drivers and the tramp of
the horses’ feet and the pad of the camels’, came to the door of his
bazaar, his robes of silk about him, a turban of rare cloth knitted
with silver threads upon his head. He had now grown to be a youth
of eighteen summers. His hair was as black as the wing of the duck,
his eyes large and dark and sad from many thoughts as is the pool
into which the moon falls. His face and hands were tinted as with
henna when it is spread very thin, and his manners were graceful and
languorous. As he paused within his doorway he looked wonderingly at
the great company as it moved and disappeared about the curves of the
long street. And it could not but occur to him, trained as he was, how
rich would be the prize could one but seize upon such a company and
take all the wealth that was here and the men and women as slaves.
“Yet, even as he gazed and so thought, so strange are the ways of
Allah, there passed a camel, its houdah heavy with rich silks, and
ornaments of the rarest within, but without disguised as humble, so
that none might guess. And within was the beautiful Princess Yanee,
hidden darkly behind folds of fluttering silk, her face and forehead
covered to her starry eyes, as is prescribed, and even these veiled.
Yet so strange are the ways of life and of Allah that, being young and
full of the wonder which is youth and the curiosity and awe which that
which is unknown or strange begets in us all, she was at this very
moment engaged in peeping out from behind her veils, the while the
bright panorama of the world was passing. And as she looked, behold,
there was Abou, gazing wonderingly upon her fine accoutrements. So
lithe was his form and so deep his eyes and so fair his face that,
transfixed as by a beam, her heart melted and without thought she threw
back her veil and parted the curtains of the houdah the better to see,
and the better that he might see. And Abou, seeing the curtains put to
one side and the vision of eyes that were as pools and the cheeks as
the leaf of the rose shine upon him, was transfixed and could no longer
move or think.
“So gazing, he stood until her camel and those of many others had
passed and turned beyond a curve of the street. Then bethinking himself
that he might never more see her, he awoke and ran after, throwing one
citizen and another to the right and the left. When at last he came up
to the camel of his fair one, guarded by eunuchs and slaves, he drew
one aside and said softly: ‘Friend, be not wrathful and I will give
thee a hundred dinars in gold do thou, within such time as thou canst,
report to me at the bazaar of Yussuf, the rug-merchant, who it is that
rides within this houdah. Ask thou only for Abou. No more will I ask.’
The slave, noting his fine robes and the green-and-silver turban,
thought him to be no less than a noble, and replied: ‘Young master, be
not overcurious. Remember the vengeance of the caliph.... ‘Yet dinars
have I to give.’... ‘I will yet come to thee.’
“Abou was enraptured by even so little as this, and yet dejected also
by the swift approach and departure of joy. ‘For what am I now?’ he
asked himself. ‘But a moment since, I was whole and one who could find
delight in all things that were given me to do; but now I am as one who
is lost and knows not his way.’”
“Ay-ee,” sighed Azad Bakht, the barber, “I have had that same feeling
more than once. It is something that one may not overcome.”
“Al Tzoud, in the desert—” began Parfi, but he was interrupted by cries
of “Peace—Peace!”
“Thereafter, for all of a moon,” went on Gazzar, “Abou was as one in
a dream, wandering here and there drearily, bethinking him how he was
ever to know more of the face that had appeared to him through the
curtains of the houdah. And whether the driver of the camel would ever
return. As day after day passed and there was no word, he grew thin and
began to despair and to grow weary of life. At last there came to his
shop an aged man, long of beard and dusty of garb, who inquired for
Abou. And being shown him said: ‘I would speak with thee alone.’ And
when Abou drew him aside he said: ‘Dost thou recall the procession of
the caliph’s daughter to Ish-Pari in the mountains beyond Azol?’ And
Abou answered, ‘Ay, by Allah!’ ‘And dost thou recall one of whom thou
madest inquiry?’ ‘Aye,’ replied Abou, vastly stirred. ‘I asked who
it was that was being borne aloft in state.’ ‘And what was the price
for that knowledge?’ ‘A hundred dinars.’ ‘Keep thy dinars—or, better
yet, give them to me that I may give them to the poor, for I bring
thee news. She who was in the houdah was none other than the Princess
Yanee, daughter of the caliph and heir to all his realm. But keep thou
thy counsel and all thought of this visit and let no one know of thy
inquiry. There are many who watch, and death may yet be thy portion
and mine. Yet, since thou art as thou art, young and without knowledge
of life, here is a spray of the myrtles of Ish-Pari—but thou art to
think no further on anything thou hast seen or heard. And thou dost
not—death!’ He made the sign of three fingers to the forehead and the
neck and gave Abou the spray, receiving in return the gold.”
“Marhallah!” cried Soudi. “How pleasant it is to think of so much gold!”
“Yea,” added Haifa, “there is that about great wealth and beauty and
comfort that is soothing to the heart of every man.”
“Yet for ten more anna,” began Gazzar, “the price of a bed in the stall
of a camel, how much more glorious could I make it—the sweetness of the
love that might be, the wonder of the skill of Abou—anna, anna—but five
more, that I may take up this thread with great heart.”
“Jackal!” screamed Ajeeb fiercely. “Thou barkst for but one thing—anna.
But now thou saidst if thou hadst but ten more, and by now thou hast a
hundred. On with thy tale!”
“Reremouse!” said Chudi. “Thou art worse than thy Yussuf himself!” And
none gave an anna more.
“Knowing that the myrtle was from the princess,” went on Gazzar
wearily, “and that henceforth he might seek but durst not even so much
as breathe of what he thought or knew, he sighed and returned to his
place in the bazaar.
“But now, Yussuf, returning not long after from a far journey, came
to Abou with a bold thought. For it related to no other thing than
the great treasury of the caliph, which stood in the heart of the
city before the public market, and was sealed and guarded and built
of stone and carried the wealth of an hundred provinces. Besides, it
was now the time of the taking of tithes throughout the caliphate, as
Yussuf knew, and the great treasury was filled to the roof, or so it
was said, with golden dinars. It was a four-square building of heavy
stone, with lesser squares superimposed one above the other after
the fashion of pyramids. On each level was a parapet, and upon each
side of every parapet as well as on the ground below there walked two
guards, each first away from the centre of their side to the end and
then back, meeting at the centre to reverse and return. And on each
side and on each level were two other guards. No two of these, of any
level or side, were permitted to arrive at the centre or the ends of
their parapet at the same time, as those of the parapets above or
below, lest any portion of the treasury be left unguarded. There was
but one entrance, which was upon the ground and facing the market. And
through this no one save the caliph or the caliph’s treasurer or his
delegated aides might enter. The guards ascended and descended via a
guarded stair. “Anna, O friends,” pleaded Gazzar once more, “for now
comes the wonder of the robbing of the great treasury—the wit and
subtlety of Abou—and craft and yet confusion of the treasurer and the
Caliph—anna!—A few miserable anna!”
“Jackal!” shouted Azad Bakht, getting up. “Thou robbest worse than any
robber! Hast thou a treasury of thine own that thou hopest to fill?”
“Give him no more anna,” called Feruz stoutly. “There is not an anna’s
worth in all his maunderings.”
“Be not unkind, O friends,” pleaded Gazzar soothingly. “As thou seest,
I have but twenty annas—not the price of a meal, let alone of a bed.
But ten—but—five—and I proceed.”
“Come, then, here they are,” cried Al Hadjaz, casting down four; and
Zad-el-Din and Haifa and Chudi each likewise added one, and Gazzar
swiftly gathered them up and continued:
“Yussuf, who had long contemplated this wondrous storehouse, had also
long racked his wits as to how it might be entered and a portion of
the gold taken. Also he had counseled with many of his pupils, but
in vain. No one had solved the riddle for him. Yet one day as he and
Abou passed the treasury on their way to the mosque for the look of
honor, Yussuf said to Abou: ‘Bethink thee, my son; here is a marvelous
building, carefully constructed and guarded. How wouldst thou come
to the store of gold within?’ Abou, whose thoughts were not upon the
building but upon Yanee, betrayed no look of surprise at the request,
so accustomed was he to having difficult and fearsome matters put
before him, but gazed upon it so calmly that Yussuf exclaimed: ‘How
now? Hast thou a plan?’ ‘Never have I given it a thought, O Yussuf,’
replied Abou; ‘but if it is thy wish, let us go and look more closely.’
“Accordingly, through the crowds of merchants and strangers and donkeys
and the veiled daughters of the harem and the idlers generally, they
approached and surveyed it. At once Abou observed the movement of the
guards, saw that as the guards of one tier were walking away from
each other those of the tiers above or below were walking toward each
other. And although the one entrance to the treasury was well guarded
still there was a vulnerable spot, which was the crowning cupola, also
four-square and flat, where none walked or looked. ‘It is difficult,’
he said after a time, ‘but it can be done. Let me think.’
“Accordingly, after due meditation and without consulting Yussuf, he
disguised himself as a dispenser of fodder for camels, secured a rope
of silk, four bags and an iron hook. Returning to his home he caused
the hook to be covered with soft cloth so that its fall would make
no sound, then fastened it to one end of the silken cord and said to
Yussuf: ‘Come now and let us try this.’ Yussuf, curious as to what Abou
could mean, went with him and together they tried their weight upon it
to see if it would hold. Then Abou, learning by observation the hour
at night wherein the guards were changed, and choosing a night without
moon or stars, disguised himself and Yussuf as watchmen of the city
and went to the treasury. Though it was as well guarded as ever they
stationed themselves in an alley nearby. And Abou, seeing a muleteer
approaching and wishing to test his disguise, ordered him away and he
went. Then Abou, watching the guards who were upon the ground meet and
turn, and seeing those upon the first tier still in the distance but
pacing toward the centre, gave a word to Yussuf and they ran forward,
threw the hook over the rim of the first tier and then drew themselves
up quickly, hanging there above the lower guards until those of the
first tier met and turned. Then they climbed over the wall and repeated
this trick upon the guards of the second tier, the third and fourth,
until at last they were upon the roof of the cupola where they lay
flat. Then Abou, who was prepared, unscrewed one of the plates of
the dome, hooked the cord over the side and whispered: ‘Now, master,
which?’ Yussuf, ever cautious in his life, replied: ‘Go thou and
report.’
“Slipping down the rope, Abou at last came upon a great store of gold
and loose jewels piled in heaps, from which he filled the bags he had
brought. These he fastened to the rope and ascended. Yussuf, astounded
by the sight of so much wealth, was for making many trips, but Abou,
detecting a rift where shone a star, urged that they cease for the
night. Accordingly, after having fastened these at their waists and the
plate to the roof as it had been, they descended as they had come.”
“A rare trick,” commented Zad-el-Din.
“A treasury after mine own heart,” supplied Al Hadjaz.
“Thus for three nights,” continued Gazzar, fearing to cry for more
anna, “they succeeded in robbing the treasury, taking from it many
thousands of dinars and jewels. On the fourth night, however, a guard
saw them hurrying away and gave the alarm. At that, Abou and Yussuf
turned here and there in strange ways, Yussuf betaking himself to his
home, while Abou fled to his master’s shop. Once there he threw off the
disguise of a guard and reappeared as an aged vendor of rugs and was
asked by the pursuing guards if he had seen anybody enter his shop.
Abou motioned them to the rear of the shop, where they were bound
and removed by Yussuf’s robber slaves. Others of the guards, however,
had betaken themselves to their captain and reported, who immediately
informed the treasurer. Torches were brought and a search made, and
then he repaired to the caliph. The latter, much astonished that no
trace of the entrance or departure of the thieves could be found,
sent for a master thief recently taken in crime and sentenced to be
gibbeted, and said to him:
“‘Wouldst thou have thy life?’
“‘Aye, if thy grace will yield it.’
“‘Look you,’ said the caliph. ‘Our treasury has but now been robbed and
there is no trace. Solve me this mystery within the moon, and thy life,
though not thy freedom, is thine.’
“‘O Protector of the Faithful,’ said the thief, ‘do thou but let me see
within the treasury.’
“And so, chained and in care of the treasurer himself and the caliph,
he was taken to the treasury. Looking about him he at length saw a
faint ray penetrating through the plate that had been loosed in the
dome.
“‘O Guardian of the Faithful,’ said the thief wisely and hopefully, ‘do
thou place a cauldron of hot pitch under this dome and then see if the
thief is not taken.’
“Thereupon the caliph did as advised, the while the treasury was
resealed and fresh guards set to watch and daily the pitch was renewed,
only Abou and Yussuf came not. Yet in due time, the avarice of Yussuf
growing, they chose another night in the dark of the second moon and
repaired once more to the treasury, where, so lax already had become
the watch, they mounted to the dome. Abou, upon removing the plate, at
once detected the odor of pitch and advised Yussuf not to descend, but
he would none of this. The thought of the gold and jewels into which
on previous nights he had dipped urged him, and he descended. However,
when he neared the gold he reached for it, but instead of gold he
seized the scalding pitch, which when it burned, caused him to loose
his hold and fall. He cried to Abou: ‘I burn in hot pitch. Help me!’
Abou descended and took the hand but felt it waver and grow slack.
Knowing that death was at hand and that should Yussuf’s body be found
not only himself but Yussuf’s wife and slaves would all suffer, he drew
his scimitar, which was ever at his belt, and struck off the head.
Fastening this to his belt, he reascended the rope, replaced the plate
and carefully made his way from the treasury. He then went to the house
of Yussuf and gave the head to Yussuf’s wife, cautioning her to secrecy.
“But the caliph, coming now every day with his treasurer to look
at the treasury, was amazed to find it sealed and yet the headless
body within. Knowing not how to solve the mystery of this body, he
ordered the thief before him, who advised him to hang the body in the
market-place and set guards to watch any who might come to mourn or
spy. Accordingly, the headless body was gibbeted and set up in the
market-place where Abou, passing afar, recognized it. Fearing that
Mirza, the wife of Yussuf, who was of the tribe of the Veddi, upon whom
it is obligatory that they mourn in the presence of the dead, should
come to mourn here, he hastened to caution her. ‘Go thou not thither,’
he said; ‘or, if thou must, fill two bowls with milk and go as a seller
of it. If thou must weep drop one of the bowls as if by accident and
make as if thou wept over that.’ Mirza accordingly filled two bowls and
passing near the gibbet in the public square dropped one and thereupon
began weeping as her faith demanded. The guards, noting her, thought
nothing—‘for here is one,’ said they, ‘so poor that she cries because
of her misfortune.’ But the caliph, calling for the guards at the end
of the day to report to himself and the master thief, inquired as
to what they had seen. ‘We saw none,’ said the chief of the guard,
‘save an old woman so poor that she wept for the breaking of a bowl!’
‘Dolts!’ cried the master thief. ‘Pigs! Did I not say take any who
came to mourn? She is the widow of the thief. Try again. Scatter gold
pieces under the gibbet and take any that touch them.’
“The guards scattered gold, as was commanded, and took their positions.
Abou, pleased that the widow had been able to mourn and yet not be
taken, came now to see what more might be done by the caliph. Seeing
the gold he said: ‘It is with that he wishes to tempt.’ At once his
pride in his skill was aroused and he determined to take some of the
gold and yet not be taken. To this end he disguised himself as a
ragged young beggar and one weak of wit, and with the aid of an urchin
younger than himself and as wretched he began to play about the square,
running here and there as if in some game. But before doing this he
had fastened to the sole of his shoes a thick gum so that the gold
might stick. The guards, deceived by the seeming youth and foolishness
of Abou and his friend, said: ‘These are but a child and a fool. They
take no gold.’ But by night, coming to count the gold, there were many
pieces missing and they were sore afraid. When they reported to the
caliph that night he had them flogged and new guards placed in their
stead. Yet again he consulted with the master thief, who advised him to
load a camel with enticing riches and have it led through the streets
of the city by seeming strangers who were the worse for wine. ‘This
thief who eludes thee will be tempted by these riches and seek to rob
them.’
“Soon after it was Abou, who, prowling about the market-place, noticed
this camel laden with great wealth and led by seeming strangers. But
because it was led to no particular market he thought that it must be
of the caliph. He decided to take this also, for there was in his blood
that which sought contest, and by now he wished the caliph, because of
Yanee, to fix his thought upon him. He filled a skin with the best of
wine, into which he placed a drug of the dead Yussuf’s devising, and
dressing himself as a shabby vendor, set forth. When he came to the
street in which was the camel and saw how the drivers idled and gaped,
he began to cry, ‘Wine for a para! A drink of wine for a para!’ The
drivers drank and found it good, following Abou as he walked, drinking
and chaffering with him and laughing at his dumbness, until they were
within a door of the house of Mirza, the wife of the dead Yussuf, where
was a gate giving into a secret court. Pausing before this until the
wine should take effect, he suddenly began to gaze upward and then to
point. The drivers looked but saw nothing. And the drug taking effect
they fell down; whereupon Abou quickly led the camel into the court
and closed the gate. When he returned and found the drivers still
asleep he shaved off half the hair of their heads and their beards,
then disappeared and changed his dress and joined those who were now
laughing at the strangers in their plight, for they had awakened and
were running here and there in search of a camel and its load and
unaware of their grotesque appearance. Mirza, in order to remove all
traces, had the camel killed and the goods distributed. A careful woman
and housewifely, she had caused all the fat to be boiled from the meat
and preserved in jars, it having a medicinal value. The caliph, having
learned how it had gone with his camel, now meditated anew on how this
great thief, who mocked him and who was of great wit, might be taken.
Calling the master thief and others in council he recited the entire
tale and asked how this prince of thieves might be caught. ‘Try but one
more ruse, O master,’ said the master thief, who was now greatly shaken
and feared for his life. ‘Do thou send an old woman from house to house
asking for camel’s grease. Let her plead that it is for one who is ill.
It may be that, fearing detection, the camel has been slain and the fat
preserved. If any is found, mark the door of that house with grease and
take all within.’
“Accordingly an old woman was sent forth chaffering of pain. In due
time she came to the house of Mirza, who gave her of the grease, and
when she left she made a cross upon the door. When she returned to the
caliph he called his officers and guards and all proceeded toward the
marked door. In the meantime Abou, having returned and seen the mark,
inquired of Mirza as to what it meant. When told of the old woman’s
visit he called for a bowl of the camel’s grease and marked the doors
in all the nearest streets. The caliph, coming into the street and
seeing the marks, was both enraged and filled with awe and admiration
for of such wisdom he had never known. ‘I give thee thy life,’ he said
to the master thief, ‘for now I see that thou art as nothing to this
one. He is shrewd beyond the wisdom of caliphs and thieves. Let us
return,’ and he retraced his steps to the palace, curious as to the
nature and soul of this one who could so easily outwit him.
“Time went on and the caliph one day said to his vizier: ‘I have been
thinking of the one who robbed the treasury and my camel and the gold
from under the gibbet. Such an one is wise above his day and generation
and worthy of a better task. What think you? Shall I offer him a full
pardon so that he may appear and be taken—or think you he will appear?’
‘Do but try it, O Commander of the Faithful,’ said the vizier. A
proclamation was prepared and given to the criers, who announced that
it was commanded by the caliph that, should the great thief appear on
the market-place at a given hour and yield himself up, a pardon full
and free would be granted him and gifts of rare value heaped upon him.
Yet it was not thus that the caliph intended to do.
“Now, Abou, hearing of this and being despondent over his life and
the loss of Yanee and the death of Yussuf and wishing to advantage
himself in some way other than by thievery, bethought him how he
might accept this offer of the caliph and declare himself and yet,
supposing it were a trap to seize him, escape. Accordingly he awaited
the time prescribed, and when the public square was filled with guards
instructed to seize him if he appeared he donned the costume of a guard
and appeared among the soldiers dressed as all the others. The caliph
was present to witness the taking, and when the criers surrounding him
begged the thief to appear and be pardoned, Abou called out from the
thick of the throng: ‘Here I am, O Caliph! Amnesty!’ Whereupon the
caliph, thinking that now surely he would be taken, cried: ‘Seize him!
Seize him!’ But Abou, mingling with the others, also cried: ‘Seize him!
Seize him!’ and looked here and there as did the others. The guards,
thinking him a guard, allowed him to escape, and the caliph, once more
enraged and chagrined, retired. Once within his chambers he called to
him his chief advisers and had prepared the following proclamation:
“‘BE IT KNOWN TO ALL
“‘Since within the boundaries of our realm there exists one so wise
that despite our commands and best efforts he is still able to work
his will against ours and to elude our every effort to detect him, be
it known that from having been amazed and disturbed we are now pleased
and gratified that one so skilful of wit and resourceful should exist
in our realm. To make plain that our appreciation is now sincere and
our anger allayed it is hereby covenant with him and with all our
people, to whom he may appeal if we fail in our word, that if he
will now present himself in person and recount to one whom we shall
appoint his various adventures, it will be our pleasure to signally
distinguish him above others. Upon corroboration by us of that which
he tells, he shall be given riches, our royal friendship and a
councillor’s place in our council. I have said it.
“‘YIANKO I.’
“This was signed by the caliph and cried in the public places. Abou
heard all but because of the previous treachery of the caliph he was
now unwilling to believe that this was true. At the same time he was
pleased to know that he was now held in great consideration, either for
good or ill, by the caliph and his advisers, and bethought him that if
it were for ill perhaps by continuing to outwit the caliph he might
still succeed in winning his favor and so to a further knowledge of
Yanee. To this end he prepared a reply which he posted in the public
square, reading:
“‘PROCLAMATION BY THE ONE WHOM THE CALIPH SEEKS
“‘Know, O Commander of the Faithful, that the one whom the caliph
seeks is here among his people free from harm. He respects the will
of the caliph and his good intentions, but is restrained by fear. He
therefore requests that instead of being commanded to reveal himself
the caliph devise a way and appoint a time where in darkness and
without danger to himself he may behold the face of the one to whom he
is to reveal himself. It must be that none are present to seize him.
“‘THE ONE WHOM THE CALIPH SEEKS.’
“Notice of this reply being brought to the caliph he forthwith took
counsel with his advisers and decided that since it was plain the thief
might not otherwise be taken, recourse must be had to a device that
might be depended upon to lure him. Behind a certain window in the
palace wall known as ‘The Whispering Window,’ and constantly used by
all who were in distress or had suffered a wrong which owing to the
craft of others there was no hope of righting, sat at stated times and
always at night, the caliph’s own daughter Yanee, whose tender heart
and unseeking soul were counted upon to see to it that the saddest of
stories came to the ears of the caliph. It was by this means that the
caliph now hoped to capture the thief. To insure that the thief should
come it was publicly announced that should any one that came be able to
tell how the treasury had been entered and the gold pieces taken from
under the gibbet or the camel stolen and killed, he was to be handed a
bag of many dinars and a pardon in writing; later, should he present
himself, he would be made a councillor of state.
“Struck by this new proclamation and the possibility of once more
beholding the princess, Abou decided to match his skill against
that of the caliph. He disguised himself as a vendor of tobacco and
approached the window, peered through the lattice which screened it and
said: ‘O daughter of the great caliph, behold one who is in distress.
I am he whom the caliph seeks, either to honor or slay, I know not
which. Also I am he who, on one of thy journeys to the mountain of Azol
and thy palace at Ish-Pari thou beheldest while passing the door of my
father’s rug-market, for thou didst lift the curtains of thy houdah and
also thy veil and didst deign to smile at me. And I have here,’ and he
touched his heart, ‘a faded spray of the myrtles of Ish-Pari, or so it
has been told me, over which I weep.’
“Yanee, shocked that she should be confronted with the great thief whom
her father sought and that he should claim to be the beautiful youth
she so well remembered, and yet fearing this to be some new device of
the vizier or of the women of the harem, who might have heard of her
strange love and who ever prayed evil against all who were younger or
more beautiful than they, she was at a loss how to proceed. Feeling
the need of wisdom and charity, she said: ‘How sayst thou? Thou are
the great thief whom my father seeks and yet the son of a rug-merchant
on whom I smiled? Had I ever smiled on a thief, which Allah forbid,
would I not remember it and thee? Therefore, if it be as thou sayst,
permit it that I should have a light brought that I may behold thee.
And if thou art the rug-merchant’s son or the great thief, or both,
and wishest thy pardon and the bag of dinars which here awaits thee,
thou must relate to me how it was the treasury was entered, how the
gold was taken from under the gibbet and my father’s camel from its
drivers.’ ‘Readily enough, O Princess,’ replied Abou, ‘only if I am
thus to reveal myself to thee must I not know first that thou art the
maiden whom I saw? For she was kind as she was fair and would do no man
an ill. Therefore if thou wilt lower thy veil, as thou didst on the day
of thy departure, so that I may see, I will lift my hood so that thou
mayst know that I lie not.’
“The princess, troubled to think that the one whom she had so much
admired might indeed be the great thief whose life her father sought,
and yet wavering between duty to her father and loyalty to her ideal,
replied: ‘So will I, but upon one condition: should it be that thou
art he upon whom thou sayst I looked with favor and yet he who also
has committed these great crimes in my father’s kingdom, know that
thou mayst take thy pardon and thy gold and depart; but only upon the
condition that never more wilt thou trouble either me or my father.
For I cannot bear to think that I have looked with favor upon one who,
however fair, is yet a thief.’
“At this Abou shrank inwardly and a great sorrow fell upon him; for
now, as at the death of Yussuf, he saw again the horror of his way.
Yet feeling the justice of that which was said, he answered: ‘Yea, O
Princess, so will I, for I have long since resolved to be done with
evil, which was not of my own making, and will trouble thee no more.
Should this one glance show me that beloved face over which I have
dreamed, I will pass hence, never more to return, for I will not dwell
in a realm where another may dwell with thee in love. I am, alas, the
great thief and will tell thee how I came by the gold under the gibbet
and in thy father’s treasury; but I will not take his gold. Only will I
accept his pardon sure and true. For though born a thief I am no longer
one.’ The princess, struck by the nobility of these words as well as by
his manner, said sadly, fearing the light would reveal the end of her
dreams: ‘Be it so. But if thou art indeed he thou wilt tell me how thou
camest to be a thief, for I cannot believe that one of whom I thought
so well can do so ill.’
“Abou, sadly punished for his deeds, promised, and when the torch was
brought the princess lifted her veil. Then it was that Abou again
saw the face upon which his soul had dwelt and which had caused him
so much unrest. He was now so moved that he could not speak. He drew
from his face its disguise and confronted her. And Yanee, seeing for
the second time the face of the youth upon whom her memory had dwelt
these many days, her heart misgave her and she dared not speak. Instead
she lowered her veil and sat in silence, the while Abou recounted the
history of his troubled life and early youth, how he could recall
nothing of it save that he had been beaten and trained in evil ways
until he knew naught else; also of how he came to rob the treasury, and
how the deeds since of which the caliph complained had been in part
due to his wish to protect the widow of Yussuf and to defeat the skill
of the caliph. The princess, admiring his skill and beauty in spite of
his deeds, was at a loss how to do. For despite his promise and his
proclamation, the caliph had exacted of her that in case Abou appeared
she was to aid in his capture, and this she could not do. At last she
said: ‘Go, and come no more, for I dare not look upon thee, and the
caliph wishes thee only ill. Yet let me tell my father that thou wilt
trouble him no more,’ to which Abou replied: ‘Know, O Princess, thus
will I do.’ Then opening the lattice, Yanee handed him the false pardon
and the gold, which Abou would not take. Instead he seized and kissed
her hand tenderly and then departed.
“Yanee returned to her father and recounted to him the story of the
robbery of the treasury and all that followed, but added that she had
not been able to obtain his hand in order to have him seized because
he refused to reach for the gold. The caliph, once more chagrined by
Abou’s cleverness in obtaining his written pardon without being taken,
now meditated anew on how he might be trapped. His daughter having
described Abou as both young and handsome, the caliph thought that
perhaps the bait of his daughter might win him to capture and now
prepared the following and last pronunciamento, to wit:
“‘TO THE PEOPLE OF BAGHDAD
“‘Having been defeated in all our contests with the one who signs
himself _The One Whom the Caliph Seeks_, and yet having extended
to him a full pardon signed by our own hand and to which has been
affixed the caliphate seal, we now deign to declare that if this
wisest of lawbreakers will now present himself in person before us
and accept of us our homage and good will, we will, assuming him to
be young and of agreeable manners, accept him as the affiant of our
daughter and prepare him by education and training for her hand; or,
failing that, and he being a man of mature years, we will publicly
accept him as councillor of state and chiefest of our advisers. To
this end, that he may have full confidence in our word, we have
ordered that the third day of the seventh moon be observed as a
holiday, that a public feast be prepared and that our people assemble
before us in our great court. Should this wisest of fugitives appear
and declare himself we will there publicly reaffirm and do as is here
written and accept him into our life and confidence. I have said it.
“‘YIANKO I.’
“The caliph showed this to his daughter and she sighed, for full well
she knew that the caliph’s plan would prove vain—for had not Abou said
that he would return no more? But the caliph proceeded, thinking this
would surely bring about Abou’s capture.
“In the meantime in the land of Yemen, of which Abou was the rightful
heir, many things had transpired. His father, Kar-Shem, having died and
the wretched pretender, Bab-el-Bar, having failed after a revolution
to attain to Kar-Shem’s seat, confessed to the adherents of Kar-Shem
the story of the Prince Hussein’s abduction and sale into slavery to a
rug-merchant in Baghdad. In consequence, heralds and a royal party were
at once sent forth to discover Hussein. They came to Baghdad and found
the widow of Yussuf, who told them of the many slaves Yussuf had owned,
among them a child named Hussein to whom they had given the name of
Abou.
“And so, upon Abou’s return from ‘The Whispering Window,’ there were
awaiting him at the house of Mirza the representatives of his own
kingdom, who, finding him young and handsome and talented, and being
convinced by close questioning that he was really Hussein, he was
apprised of his dignity and worth and honored as the successor of
Kar-Shem in the name of the people of Yemen.
“And now Hussein (once Abou), finding himself thus ennobled, bethought
him of the beautiful Yanee and her love for him and his undying love
for her. Also he felt a desire to outwit the caliph in one more
contest. To this end he ordered his present entourage to address the
caliph as an embassy fresh from Yemen, saying that having long been
in search of their prince they had now found him, and to request of
him the courtesy of his good-will and present consideration for their
lord. The caliph, who wished always to be at peace with all people,
and especially those of Yemen, who were great and powerful, was most
pleased at this and sent a company of courtiers to Hussein, who now
dwelt with his entourage at one of the great caravanseries of the
city, requesting that he come forthwith to the palace that he might be
suitably entertained. And now Abou, visiting the caliph in his true
figure, was received by him in great state, and many and long were the
public celebrations ordered in his honor.
“Among these was the holiday proclaimed by Yianko in order to entrap
Abou. And Yianko, wishing to amuse and entertain his guest, told him
the full history of the great thief and of his bootless efforts thus
far to take him. He admitted to Hussein his profound admiration for
Abou’s skill and ended by saying that should any one know how Abou
might be taken he would be willing to give to that one a place in
his council, or, supposing he were young and noble, the hand of his
daughter. At this Hussein, enticed by the thought of so winning Yanee,
declared that he himself would attempt to solve the mystery and now
prepared to appear as a fierce robber, the while he ordered one of his
followers to impersonate himself as prince for that day.
“The great day of the feast having arrived and criers having gone
through the streets of the city announcing the feast and the offer of
the caliph to Abou, there was much rejoicing. Long tables were set in
the public square, and flags and banners were strung. The beautiful
Yanee was told of her father’s vow to Hussein, but she trusted in Abou
and his word and his skill and so feared naught. At last, the multitude
having gathered and the caliph and his courtiers and the false Hussein
having taken their places at the head of the feast, the caliph raised
his hand for silence. The treasurer taking his place upon one of the
steps leading to the royal board, reread the proclamation and called
upon Abou to appear and before all the multitude receive the favor of
the caliph or be forever banned. Abou, or Hussein, who in the guise of
a fierce mountain outlaw had mingled with the crowd, now came forward
and holding aloft the pardon of the caliph announced that he was indeed
the thief and could prove it. Also, that as written he would exact
of the caliph his daughter’s hand. The caliph, astounded that one so
uncouth and fierce-seeming should be so wise as the thief had proved
or should ask of him his daughter’s hand, was puzzled and anxious for
a pretext on which he might be restrained. Yet with all the multitude
before him and his word given, he scarce knew how to proceed or what
to say. Then it was that Yanee, concealed behind a lattice, sent word
to her father that this fierce soul was not the one who had come to
her but an impostor. The caliph, now suspecting treachery and more
mischief, ordered this seeming false Abou seized and bound, whereupon
the fictitious Hussein, masquerading in Hussein’s clothes, came forward
and asked for the bandit’s release for the reason that he was not a
true bandit at all but the true prince, whom they had sought far and
wide.
“Then the true Hussein, tiring of the jest and laying aside his bandit
garb, took his place at the foot of the throne and proceeded to relate
to Yianko the story of his life. At this the caliph, remembering his
word and seeing in Abou, now that he was the Prince of Yemen, an
entirely satisfactory husband for Yanee, had her brought forward.
Yanee, astonished and confused at being thus confronted with her lost
love, now become a Prince, displayed so much trepidation and coquetry
that the caliph, interested and amused and puzzled, was anxious to
know the cause. Whereupon Hussein told how he had seen her passing his
robber father’s bazaar on her way to Ish-Pari and that he had ever
since bemoaned him that he was so low in the scale of life as not to
be able to aspire to her hand yet now rejoiced that he might make his
plea. The caliph, realizing how true a romance was here, now asked his
daughter what might be her will, to which she coyly replied that she
had never been able to forget Abou. Hussein at once reiterated his
undying passion, saying that if Yanee would accept him for her husband
and the caliph as his son he would there and then accept her as his
queen and that their nuptials should be celebrated before his return
to his kingdom. Whereupon the caliph, not to be outdone in gallantry,
declared that he would gladly accept so wise a prince, not only as
his son by marriage but as his heir, and that at his death both he
and Yanee were jointly to rule over his kingdom and their own. There
followed scenes of great rejoicing among the people, and Hussein and
Yanee rode together before them.
“And now, O my hearers,” continued Gazzar most artfully, although his
tale was done, “ye have heard how it was with Abou the unfortunate, who
came through cleverness to nothing but good—a beautiful love, honor and
wealth and the rule of two realms—whereas I, poor wanderer that I am—”
But the company, judging that he was about to plead for more anna,
and feeling, and rightly, that for so thin a tale he had been paid
enough and to spare, arose and as one man walked away. Soudi and Parfi
denounced him as a thief and a usurer; and Gazzar, counting his small
store of anna and looking betimes at the shop of Al Hadjaz, from which
still came the odors of food, and then in the direction of the caravan
where lay the camels among which he must sleep, sighed. For he saw that
for all his pains he had not more than the half of a meal and a bed and
that for the morrow there was nothing.
“By Allah,” he sighed, “what avails it if one travel the world over to
gather many strange tales and keep them fresh and add to them as if
by myrrh and incense and the color of the rose and the dawn, if by so
doing one may not come by so much as a meal or a bed? Bismillah! Were
it not for my withered arm no more would I trouble to tell a tale!” And
tucking his tambour into his rags he turned his steps wearily toward
the mosque, where before eating it was, as the Koran commanded, that he
must pray.