Let us praise Woman-Mother, the inexhaustible source of all-conquering
life!
Here we shall tell of the Iron Timur-Lenk, the Lame Lynx--of
Sahib-Kiran, the lucky conqueror--of Tamerlane, as the Infidels have
named him--of the man who sought to destroy the whole world.
For fifty years he scoured the earth, his iron heel crushing towns and
states as an elephant's foot crushes ant-hills. Red rivers of blood
flowed in his tracks wherever he went. He built high towers of the
bones of conquered peoples; he destroyed Life, vying with the might
of Death, on whom he took revenge for having robbed him of his son
Jihangir. He was a terrible man, for he wanted to deprive Death of all
his victims; to leave Death to die of hunger and ennui!
From the day on which his son Jihangir died and the people of
Samarcand, clothed in black and light blue, their heads covered with
dust and ashes, met the conqueror of the cruel Getes, from that day
until the hour when Death met him in Otrar, and overcame him--for
thirty years Timur did not smile. He lived with lips compressed, bowing
his head to no one, and his heart was closed to compassion for thirty
years.
Let us praise Woman-Mother, the only power to which Death humbly
submits. Here we shall tell the true tale of a mother, how Iron
Tamerlane, the servant and slave of Death, and the bloody scourge of
the earth, bowed down before her.
This is how it came to pass. Timur-Bek was feasting in the beautiful
valley of Canigula which is covered with clouds of roses and jasmine,
in the valley called "Love of Flowers" by the poets of Samarcand, from
which one can see the light blue minarets of the great town, and the
blue cupolas of the mosques.
Fifteen hundred round tents were spread out fan-wise in the valley,
looking like so many tulips. Above them hundreds of silk flags were
gently swaying, like living flowers.
In their midst, like a queen among her subjects, was the tent of
Gurgan-Timur. The tent had four sides, each measuring one hundred
paces, three spears' length in height; its roof rested on twelve
golden columns as thick as the body of a man. The tent was made of
silk, striped in black, yellow and light blue; five hundred red cords
fastened it to the ground. There was a silver eagle at each of the
four corners, and under the blue cupola, on a dais in the middle of
the tent, was seated a fifth eagle--the all-conquering Timur-Gurgan
himself, the King of Kings.
He wore a loose robe of light blue silk covered with no fewer than five
thousand large pearls. On his grey head, which was terrible to look
upon, was a white cap with a ruby on the sharp point. The ruby swayed
backwards and forwards; it glistened like a fiery eye surveying the
world.
The face of the Lame One was like a broad knife covered with rust from
the blood into which it had been plunged thousands of times. His eyes
were narrow and small but they saw everything; their gleam resembled
the cold gleam of "Tsaramut," the favourite stone of the Arabs, which
the infidels call emerald, and by means of which epilepsy can be cured.
The king wore earrings of rubies from Ceylon which resembled in colour
a pretty girl's lips.
On the ground, on carpets that could not be matched, were three hundred
golden pitchers of wine and everything needed for the royal banquet.
Behind Timur stood the musicians; at his feet were his kindred: kings
and princes and the commanders of his troops; by his side was no one.
Nearest of all to him was the tipsy poet Kermani, he who once to the
question of the destroyer of the world, "Kermani, how much would you
give for me if I were to be sold?" replied to the sower of death and
terror:
"Twenty-five askers."
"But that is the value of my belt alone!" exclaimed Timur, surprised.
"I was only thinking of the belt," replied Kermani, "only of the belt;
because you yourself are not worth a farthing!"
Thus spake the poet Kermani to the King of Kings, to the man of evil
and terror. Let us therefore value the fame of the poet, the friend of
truth, always higher than the fame of Timur. Let us praise poets who
have only one God--the beautifully spoken, fearless word of truth--that
which is their god for ever!
It was an hour of mirth, carousal and proud reminiscences of battles
and victories. Amid the sounds of music and popular games, warriors
were fencing before the tent of the king, and endeavouring to show
their prowess in killing. A number of motley-coloured clowns were
tumbling about, strong men were wrestling, acrobats were performing as
though they had no bones in their bodies. A performance of elephants
was also in progress; they were painted red and green, which made
some of them look ludicrous, others terrible. At this hour of joy,
when Timur's men were intoxicated with fear before him, with pride in
his fame, with the fatigue of battles, with wine and koumiss--at this
mad hour, suddenly through the noise, like lightning through a cloud,
the cry of a woman reached the ears of the conqueror of the Sultan
Bayazet, the cry of a proud eagle, a sound familiar and attuned to his
afflicted soul--afflicted by Death, and therefore so cruel to mankind
and to life.
He gave orders to inquire who had cried out in this voice devoid of
joy. He was told that a woman had come, all in rags and covered with
dust; she seemed crazy, and speaking Arabic demanded--she demanded--to
see the master of three parts of the world.
"Lead her in!" said the king.
Before him stood a woman, barefooted, in rags faded by the sun. Her
black hair hung loose, covering her naked breast, and her face was of
the colour of bronze. Her eyes expressed command and her tawny hand did
not shake as she pointed it at the "Lame One."
"Are you he that defeated Sultan Bayazet?" she asked.
"Yes, I am he. I have conquered many and am not yet tired of victories.
What have you to tell me about yourself, woman?"
"Listen," she said. "Whatever you may have done, you are only a man,
but I am a mother. You serve Death--I serve Life. You are guilty before
me and I am come to demand that you atone for your guilt. They tell me
that your watchword is 'Justice is Power.' I do not believe it, but you
must be just to me because I am a mother."
The king was wise enough to overlook the insult and felt the force of
the words behind it. He said:
"Sit down and speak. I will listen to you."
She settled herself comfortably on a carpet in the narrow circle of
kings and related as follows:--
"I have come from near Salerno. It is in far-off Italy--you would not
know it. My father was a fisherman, my husband also; he was as handsome
as he was happy. It was I who made him happy. I also had a son who was
the finest boy in the world----"
"Like my Jihangir," said the old warrior quietly.
"My son was the finest and cleverest boy. He was six years old when
Saracen pirates came to our shore. They killed my father and my
husband, and many others. They kidnapped my son and for four years I
have searched for him all over the earth. He must be with you now; I
know it, because Bayazet's warriors captured the pirates; you defeated
Bayazet and took away all he had; therefore you must know where my son
is, you must give him back to me!"
"She is insane," said the kings and friends of Timur, his princes and
marshals; and they all laughed, for kings always account themselves
wise.
But Kermani looked seriously at the woman, and Tamerlane seemed greatly
astonished.
"She is as insane as a mother," quietly said the poet Kermani; but the
king--the enemy of the world--replied:
"Woman, how came you from that unknown country, across the seas, across
rivers and mountains, through the forests? How is it that wild beasts,
and men, who are often more ferocious than the wildest of beasts, did
not harm you? You came even without a weapon, the only friend of the
defenceless that does not betray them as long as they have strength in
their arms. I must know it all in order that I may believe you and in
order that my astonishment may not prevent me from understanding you."
Let us praise Woman-Mother, whose love knows no bounds, by whose breast
the whole world has been nourished. Everything that is beautiful in man
comes from the rays of the sun and from mother's milk; these are the
sources of our love of life.
The woman replied to Timur-Lenk:
"I came across one sea only, a sea with many islands, where I found
fishermen's boats. When one is seeking what one loves the wind is
always favourable. For one who has been born and bred by the seashore
it is easy to swim across rivers. Mountains? I saw no mountains."
"A mountain becomes a valley when one loves!" interjected smilingly the
poet Kermani.
"True, there were forests on the way. There were wild boars,
bears, lynxes and terrible-looking bulls that lowered their heads
threateningly; twice lynxes stared at me with eyes like yours. But
every beast has a heart. I talked to them as I talk to you. They
believed me that I was a mother and went away sighing. They pitied me.
Know you not that beasts also love their young, and will fight for the
life and freedom of those they love as valiantly as men?"
"That is true, woman," said Timur. "Very often, I know, their love is
stronger and they fight harder than men."
"Men," she continued like a child, for every mother is a hundred times
a child in her soul, "men are always children of their mothers, for
everyone has a mother, everyone is somebody's son, even you, old man; a
woman bore you. You may renounce God, but that you cannot renounce, old
man."
"That is true, woman," exclaimed Kermani, the fearless poet. "You can
have no calves from a herd of bulls, no flowers bloom without the sun,
there is no happiness without love. There is no love without woman.
There is no poet or hero without a mother."
And the woman said:
"Give me back my child, because I am a mother and I love him!"
Let us bow down before Woman--she gave birth to Moses, Mahomet, and
the Great Prophet Jesus who was murdered by the wicked, but who, as
Sherif-eddin said, "will rise and come to judge the living and the
dead. It will happen in Damascus."
Let us bow down before her who through the centuries gives birth to
great men. Aristotle was her son, and Firdousi, and honey-sweet Saadi,
and Omar Khayyam that is like wine mixed with poison, Iscander and
blind Homer. All these are her children, they all have drunk her milk
and every one of them was led into the world by her hand--when they
were no taller than a tulip. All the pride of the world is due to
mothers.
And the grey destroyer of towns, the lame tiger Timur-Gurgan, grew
thoughtful and for a long time was silent. Then to all present he said:
"Men Tangri Kuli, Timur (I, Timur, a servant of God) say what I must
say. I have lived for many years and the earth groans under me. For
thirty years, with this hand of mine, I have been destroying the
harvest of Death, I have been taking revenge upon Death because Death
put out the sun of my heart--robbed me of my Jihangir. Others have
struggled for cities and for kingdoms, but none has so striven for a
man. Men had no value in my eyes; I cared not who they were nor why
they were in my way. It was I, Timur, who said to Bayazet when I had
defeated him: 'O Bayazet, it seems that kingdoms are nothing before
God; you see that He gives them into the hands of people like us--you
who are a cripple and me who am lame!' I said this to him when he was
led up to me in chains, groaning under their weight. I looked upon his
misfortune and felt that love was bitter as wormwood, the weed that
grows on ruins.
"A servant of God, I say what I must. A woman sits before me, her
number is legion and she has awakened in my soul feelings hitherto
unknown to me. As an equal she speaks to me and she does not ask, she
demands. I see and understand why this woman is so powerful: she loves
and love helped her to recognise that her child is the spark of life
from which a flame may spring that will burn for many centuries. Have
not all prophets been children, and all heroes been weak? O Jihangir,
the light of my eyes, perhaps it was thy lot to warm the earth, to sow
happiness on it: I have covered it well with blood and made it fertile."
Again the Scourge of Nations pondered long. At last he said:
"I, Timur, slave of God, say what I must. Let three hundred horsemen go
to all the four corners of my kingdom and let them find this woman's
son. She shall wait here and I will wait with her. Happy shall he be
who returns with the child on his saddle. Woman, is that right?"
She tossed her black hair from her face, smiled at him and, nodding,
answered:
"Quite right, O king!"
Then the terrible old man rose and bowed to her in silence, but the
merry poet Kermani sang joyfully like a child:
"What is more delightful than a song of flowers and stars?
Everyone will say: a song of love.
What is more enchanting than the midday sun in May?
A lover will reply: she whom I love.
Ah, I know the stars are splendid in the sky at depth of night,
And I know the sun is gorgeous on a dazzling summer's day,
But the eyes of my beloved out-rival all the flowers,
And her smile is more entrancing than the sun in May.
But no one yet has sung the best, most charming song of all;
Tis the song of all beginnings, of the heart of all the world,