_A Persian Tale. From the French._
(_From a Correspondent._)
A worthy old Persian having arrived at the end of an irreproachable
life, experienced in his last moments the greatest uneasiness for the
fate of his two sons, whom he was about to leave without fortune,
without a livelihood, and without a prospect. The elder called Osmyn,
was twenty years of age, and the younger, eighteen, bore the name of
Zambri.
As the old man drew near his last hour, he thought much less of his own
sufferings than of the fate of his children, when his ear was agreeably
struck with a soft and melodious voice, which said to him, "Fear
nothing, old man, I will watch over your children; die in peace as thou
hast lived. I bring a present for each of your sons; let them make good
use of it, and one day perhaps they may be re-united, and live in
happiness."
At these words a balsamic odour spread itself in the cottage, and a
bright light discovered to the view of the astonished Persian, the
features of a young man, whose expressive countenance had in it
something celestial. It was a beneficent genius, who after having
deposited his presents on the bed of the old man, vanished like
lightning. The old man called his two sons, they ran eagerly towards him
with a light, and approached the bed of their father, who related to
them the visit he had been honoured with, and showed them the presents
of the genius. On one side was a small box covered with brilliant
spangles; on the other a sheet of paper carefully sealed. "Come Osmyn,"
said the old man, "you are the eldest, it is for you to choose."
Osmyn attracted by the richness of the box, chose it with eagerness, and
poor Zambri was obliged to be contented with the humble envelope. The
old man embraced them, blessed them, and died as one resigning himself
to the arms of hope. After having wept sincerely the death of so good a
father, and having rendered the last offices to his remains, the two
brothers were anxious to know what aid they should find in the presents
of the genius. Osmyn opened his little box and found it filled with
pastilles of divers forms and colours. He was almost tempted to laugh at
the meanness of such a gift, when he perceived these words written on
the lid of the box--"_Each time that thou eatest one of these pastilles,
thine imagination will bring forth a poem perfect in all its parts,
sublime and delicate in its details, such in short as will surpass the
ablest works of the best Persian poets._"
Osmyn did not want vanity; the possession of so fine a secret failed not
to turn his young brain, and a hundred illusions of fortune and glory
presented themselves at once to his imagination.
From the value of the present given by the genius to his brother, Zambri
doubted not that his paper contained also some marvellous secret. He
opened it and read with as much surprise as sorrow--"_A new Receipt for
preparing Sherbet._" Some lines pointed out the method of composing a
liquor, of which one drop only being infused in a bowl of Sherbet, would
give it a taste and perfume hitherto unknown to the most voluptuous
Asiatics.
Osmyn was overjoyed, and Zambri was in despair; Osmyn wished not to quit
his brother, but the orders of the genius were imperative. The two
brothers embraced each other tenderly, shed tears, and separated. The
eldest took the road to Bagdad, where all the learned, and all the poets
of Asia were assembled to attend the court of the Caliph. As to poor
Zambri, he quitted the cottage of his father, carrying nothing with him
but _the humble receipt for preparing Sherbet_, and leaving to chance
the direction of his course.
Before his arrival at Bagdad, Osmyn had already eaten half-a-dozen of
the pastilles, and consequently carried with him half-a-dozen poems,
beside which were to fade the productions of the greatest Eastern poets.
But he soon found that pretenders to talent often succeed better than
those who really possess it. He felt the necessity of connecting himself
with literary men, and men of the world; but he only found them occupied
with their business, their pleasures, or their own pretensions. Under
what title could he present himself? Under that of a poet? The court and
the city overflowed with them; they had already filled every avenue. To
consult his fellows would be to consult his rivals; to ask their praises
would be to ask a miser for his treasures. Besides, so many books
appeared, that people did not care to read. However, Osmyn's works were
published, but they were not even noticed in the multitude of similar
productions.
After having vegetated four or five years at Bagdad, without obtaining
anything but weak encouragement given by wise men, (who are without
influence because they are wise,) poor Osmyn began to lose the brilliant
hopes that formerly had dazzled him. However, by dint of eating the
pastilles, he at last attracted some notice. If it requires time for
genius to emerge from obscurity, no sooner is it known than recompense
is made for slow injustice. It is sought after not for itself, but for
the sake of vanity. Envy often avails itself of it as a fit instrument
subservient to its own purposes. Soon, in fact, the works of Osmyn only
were spoken of, and after languishing a long time unnoticed, he saw
himself at once raised to the pinnacle, without having passed the steps
which lead from misery to fortune, from obscurity to glory.
The Caliph desired to see so great a genius, and to possess him at his
court. Osmyn was overwhelmed with favours; he sung the praises of the
Caliph with a delicacy that other poets were far from being able to
imitate. The Caliph admired delicate praise the more because it is rare
at court.
So much merit and favour besides, soon created the jealousy of other
poets, and likewise of the courtiers. Even those, who had showed
themselves the most enthusiastic admirers of Osmyn's talents, feared to
see themselves eclipsed by this new comer, and resolved to destroy the
idol they had raised so much higher than they wished.
One of the poets, Osmyn's enemy, was employed to compose a satire
against the Caliph, and it was agreed that this should be circulated
under the favourite's name. From that time the avenger of the common
cause never quitted Osmyn, nor ceased to load him with praises and
caresses.
One day when Osmyn delivered an extempore poem before the Caliph, his
rival, after having warmly applauded him, cast down his eyes by
accident, and saw shining on the floor one of the pastilles that Osmyn,
who was led away by the vivacity of his declamation, had let fall by
mistake. The traitor snatched it up, and put it mechanically in his
mouth.
The pastille produced its effect; the poet felt a sudden inspiration,
left the hall and flew to compose the projected satire. He was surprised
at his own aptitude; the verses cost him no trouble, but flowed of
themselves. The bitterest expressions escaped from his pen without his
seeking for them. In short, in an instant, he brought forth a true
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of malice.
He continued some moments in ecstacy with his work, and carried it in
triumph to his friends--or rather to his accomplices. The satire was
received with the liveliest applause: it was the pure and vigorous style
of Osmyn. The writer had imitated his handwriting; and soon the libel
was spread about in his name.
Murmurs arose on all sides against the ingratitude of Osmyn. The satire
fell into the hands of the Caliph, who in his rage ordered the
unfortunate Osmyn to be stript of all his property, and driven from
Bagdad. Osmyn, overpowered by the blow, could not defend himself;
besides, how could he make his innocence heard amidst the cries of his
calumniators.
After having wandered a long time, every where imploring pity--sometimes
meeting with kindness, but oftener repulsed with selfishness--he
arrived, at nightfall, before a superb country house, magnificently
illuminated. He heard the accents of joy mingled with the sounds of a
brilliant concert of music, and saw all the signs of a splendid fête.
However, the thunder began to roll, the sky was obscured by heavy
clouds, and Osmyn's miserable clothing was soon drenched by the rain.
He approached this beautiful house, in hopes to find there, if not
hospitality for the night, at least an asylum for some minutes. The
slaves perceived him, and said to him harshly--"What do you ask,
beggar?"
"A humble shelter from the storm, a morsel of bread to appease my
hunger, and a little straw to rest my body on, borne down by fatigue."
"Thou shalt have none of these."
"For pity--"
"Begone!"
"See how it rains!--Hear how it thunders!"
"Go elsewhere, and come not to disturb by thy presence the pleasures of
our master."
Osmyn was on the point of obeying this order, when the master of the
house, who had witnessed this scene from a window, came down, called his
slaves, and ordered them to receive the unfortunate man, to procure him
clothes, a bed, and all he was in need of. "Misery," said he, "misery is
for him who revels in the presence of the poor, and suffers them to
plead for assistance in vain; and misfortune for the rich who, cloyed
with luxuries, refuse a morsel of bread to a famishing stranger. Poor
traveller, go and repose thyself, and may the Prophet send thee
refreshing slumbers, that thou mayst for a time forget thy sufferings."
"Oh Heaven!" cried Osmyn, "what voice strikes my ear? It is the
voice--the voice of Zambri!"
"Zambri! what! do you know him?"
"Heavens! do I know him?--Do I know my brother?"
"You my brother!" cried Zambri in his turn. "Can it be? That voice--those
features, disfigured by poverty and misery. Ah! I recognise you, my dear
Osmyn!"
No more need be said: he flew to embrace his brother; but Osmyn,
overcome by the excess of his joy, fell senseless at his feet.
He was conveyed into the finest apartment of the villa, every assistance
was afforded him, and he was soon restored. Zambri ordered him
magnificent apparel, and taking him by the hand, conducted him to the
banquet, and presented him to his friends. After the repast, Osmyn
related all the vicissitudes of his fortune, his long suffering, his
rapid glory, the jealousy and perfidy of his enemies, "But thou," added
he, "my dear Zambri, by what good fortune do I find you in such an
enviable situation? What! this beautiful house, this crowd of slaves,
these sumptuous ornaments!--to what dost thou owe them?"
"_To the receipt for preparing Sherbet,_" said Zambri, smiling. "Listen
to my story, it is very simple. Soon after we parted, I directed my
steps towards Teflis, where I sought only to gain a livelihood. On my
arrival, I went into the public places where the opulent people
assemble, to refresh themselves with ices and sherbet. I solicited
employment there, but was refused, and harshly sent away. Not knowing
what to do, and not having money to procure a subsistence, I went at
length to one of the obscure cafés, frequented by the lowest people. The
master of this wretched place, who was named Mehdad, agreed to accept my
services. I prepared a bottle of the liquor for which the good genius
had given me the receipt, but the ingredients of which, although cheap,
I had not before been able to purchase, and soon I found an immense
company crowding to Mehdad's café. The rich people also would take no
other; and Mehdad soon had before him the prospect of becoming opulent.
"He had a daughter; she was young and beautiful; I became enamoured of
her, and ventured to ask her hand. I had preserved the secret of my
receipt. Mehdad was ignorant that he owed his good fortune to me, and
believed that it was through his own talent. He rejected my offer with
disdain, and drove me from his house. Poor fellow! he was not the first
who, without knowing it, had driven good luck from his home.
"I had gained some money in his service; and I employed the fruit of my
economy in forming for myself an establishment in one of the public
gardens of Teflis, on the banks of the charming river Khur. Here I
erected a small, but elegant pavilion, and I sold my Sherbet to all the
promenaders of the garden. In a short time Mehdad, and all the cafés of
Teflis, were abandoned for my little pavilion. Zambri's Sherbet was
alone in demand: it was spoken of in all companies--it was taken at all
festivals. The garden of Zambri was crowded from morning till night. The
multitude was attracted towards my pavilion like swarms of flies towards
a honey-comb. I was compelled to erect a pavilion ten times larger than
the former, and I decorated it magnificently.
"A year had scarcely elapsed before I had acquired a considerable
fortune. I quitted my new establishment, returned to the city, and
purchased merchandize of all descriptions. I prepared a great quantity
of this favourite liquor, to which I owe all my wealth. I sent it to all
the cities of Persia, and into the most distant countries. Heaven seemed
to smile on my exertions. A beautiful widow, aged twenty years, saw and
loved me; I was not insensible to her charms. We made mutual vows of
attachment, and marriage crowned my happiness.
"We have acquired this charming retreat, and reside here during the most
beautiful season of the year, amongst our good friends, who, in
partaking our pleasures, add to them the charms of their society.
"How many times, dear Osmyn, have my thoughts been occupied with thee!
Often have I said, in the midst of my prosperity, Where is my
brother?--where dwells Osmyn? No doubt the invaluable secret he
possesses has gained him an immense fortune, and raised him to the
pinnacle of honour. But I see that in these times happiness,
tranquillity, and perhaps riches, are more easily obtained by humble and
modest employment, than by splendid abilities. In the course of my
transactions, I have met with vexations and disappointments. Sometimes
my Sherbet has been imitated; but the fraud has always been discovered,
and the intrigues of my rivals have added to my reputation. At length I
have found that it is easier to satisfy the caprice than the judgment of
mankind, and that those who could not understand the merits of a clever
work, would readily agree upon the subject of a delicious and agreeable
beverage."
Thus spoke the good Zambri: he strove affectionately to console Osmyn.
The two brothers separated no more; and, thanks to the _receipt for
preparing_ _Sherbet_, they lived long together amidst the pleasures
that wealth commands, and the still more true and solid happiness
procured by peace and friendship.
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