And how much food have I brought for its monks.
For there there was a flautist who could play
The sweetest notes to sound in the dark night.
I say, though men may be dead drunk,
Glory to God Who brings the dead to life.
The girls sat down, and after ‘Umair had taken a glass of wine the one with the lute tuned her instrument and sang:
Do you suppose a slip has made me tire my heart
For you until it weakens more than can be thought?
I swear by your face, like a rising moon,
And by your black hair, which is a dark night,
You are my heart’s blood and through this I live,
So how should it be this that angers me?
With my own life I guard you from all harm;
With you I am content and it is I who sinned.
“That is good, by God!” cried ‘Umair, clapping his hands, but the tambourine player reacted with an exclamation, adding: “Do you sing a song like this in a room like this?” “How should I sing, sister?” asked the other, and the tambourine player began:
You wretched ones reproaching their lovers,
This is not something we deserve from you.
Treat us with gentleness for we are weak;
Masters of noble stock, do not kill us.
I have outgrown all that I used to like,
Except for listening to lovers’ tales,
For we have shared our feelings and our sufferings.
No noble man has been found to help me,
Although I am a helper of the sad.
Those who complain of love find that I share their pain,
And my sincere Amen follows their tears.
“Listen to this song, sister,” said the lute player, and she started to sing these lines:
Love for you has me in its debt till death,
And passion for you rules my every move.
When you have gone my patience falls short and abandons me
To find my help in tears and lengthy cares.
When you are distant all my happiness has gone;
You leave, and so do all my happy joys.
The course of fate employs you against me,
And how can I oppose a hostile fate?
‘ ‘Umair gave a loud cry and tore his clothes, before collapsing unconscious. One of the girls went up to him and then said to me: “My master is asleep so go and sleep yourself.” I got up and went to a room which had been cleared for me and furnished with splendid bedding and perfumed with aloes wood, nadd and amber. I lay down with my feet being massaged until I was overcome by sleep. Then in the morning, when I got up to dress, I discovered beneath my clothes five hundred Umaiyad dinars. I took these and left, telling myself that there would be no harm in going to Budur to let her know that ‘Umair had not read her letter or arranged to send a reply and get a hundred dinars from her to complete the deal.
‘I went to her house and found her repeating these lines from behind the door:
Messenger from the beloved, tell me your news.
The watcher is not paying heed; use this and win my thanks.
Make my excuse gently to the beloved,
For this he might be willing to accept.
Then in humility ask him from me,
What wrong did I commit that he abandoned me?
You show a lack of justice in your love,
Matched by a lack of patience on my part.
From day to day I feared that we might part,
But now that fear extends from month to month.
When she saw me she said: “Shaikh, when you went you found that he was out riding and so you sat down to wait for him. When he came you met him and he welcomed you and took you with him into his villa. When you were inside, a table of food was produced, but you refused to eat until he had done what you had come for. He then told you to bring out my letter, which was in the folds of your turban, and when you handed it to him he took it and threw it away, treating it in such-and-such a way. You became angry and when he could see this in your face he told you to sit and drink, promising you the five hundred dinars which I was going to give you if you brought back a reply. You sat and ate, after which you moved to the parlour” – a room which she then described, together with the wine jugs and glasses – “and after you had drunk and night had fallen he told you that in similar circumstances the caliph Harun al-Rashid would say that to drink without listening to music is something a wine jug could do better. When you agreed he clapped his hands and three girls” – whom she described – “came in and each sang a song. When the first sang again he gave a cry, tore his clothes and fainted. The girls told you that he was drunk and you should go to bed, which you did. In the morning, when you came to put your turban on, you found beneath it a kerchief, in which were the five hundred dinars. You took these and came on to tell me.” “Who told you this, lady?” I asked and she said: “Haven’t you heard the line:
The eyes of lovers see what other eyes do not?
Take these hundred dinars, Abu’l-Hasan, and God be with you as you go off, for no single thing stays the same for one whole day and night.”
‘I left her and returned to the house of the emir Muhammad son of Sulaiman, who had come back from hunting. I stayed there for some days, spending the evenings talking with him, and then I took the grant that he made me and came back to present my services to the caliph.
‘After a full year I went back as usual to Basra, where I told myself that I would not go to the emir Muhammad until I had met ‘Umair and had the pleasure of looking at his face while spending a night drinking with him. When I came to his house I found that things had changed. The benches were ruined, and spiders had spun their webs over the door. I stood thinking of what time must have done to the man who lived there and I began to recite to myself:
This is the house, so let the riders halt.
Dismount, for both longing and memory have shaken me.
Here are the traces of loved ones, which sadden me;
Now they are absent, fire consumes my heart.
Alas for those friends whom I used to have;
It looks as though this never was their home.
‘While I was reciting this a little servant came out of the house and said: “Who is this who is lamenting our house and weeping over its ruins? Don’t we have enough worries without you coming to add to them?” “How can I not lament the owner of this house, who used to be my dearest friend?” “Who was that?” the boy asked, and I told him that it was ‘Umair son of Jubair al-Shaibani. “This is his house,” the boy said. “Is he still alive?” I asked, and the boy told me: “Yes, he is alive, but he would rather be dead.” I asked what was wrong with him and he said: “He is on the point of death and wants to die but cannot and is alive but does not live.” “Take me to him,” I told him, and he asked: “Who shall I say?” I said tell him that Shaikh Abu’l-Hasan, the story-teller, is at the door. He went off to his master and then came back to invite me in. I went in and found ‘Umair as ill as Budur had been when I first met her. There was a doctor standing over him, who was saying: “Sir, your pulse is normal; you have no internal disturbance; you are neither chilled nor feverishly hot and you are not suffering from palpitations. The only thing you complain of is sleeplessness and your floods of tears, and so it may be that you are under a spell,” and he recited:
The doctor saw me and then told my folk:
“I swear that your young man has been bewitched.”
I told him: You have come near to the truth,
But you should say “forsaken” not “bewitched”.
I said: “Emir, may God Almighty not expose you to grief,” and then I recited:
Seeing you sad and ill, I wished that I were dead.
When I heard you were sick, I could not sleep,
And I would rescue you from sickness and from pain.
I went on: “May God not expose you to misfortune! Why are you so emaciated?” He
said: “Budur has abandoned me, and that is my only sickness, while to be united with her is my only cure.” “The one who seeks is sought,” I told him, adding: “Is it love for her that has brought you to this extreme?” “By God, it will take me further than this,” he said, “and if you take a letter from me and bring back no reply, know that I shall certainly die.”
‘ “When I left you last year,” I told him, “I had found her dying of love for you, and whenever she sent you a message, you persisted in treating her harshly.” He said: “Abu’l-Hasan, the love that she felt transferred itself to me, and my harshness went to her.” “What is the reason for this change that I can see in you?” I asked and he said: “Some days after you left I felt the urge to drink on the Tigris and so I went on a barge with a number of girls. The lamps were lit with candles; herbs were set out together with beautiful flowers and I began to eat and drink. When I was in the middle of the Tigris I heard the sound of strings and when I looked I could see another barge throbbing with musical instruments and illumined by candles. There in the middle of it was Budur, who was living up to the full moon in her name. I looked at her and became as the poet has said:
You took my inmost soul and then left me;
May God preserve you, what was this you did?
The young gazelle is jealous of her neck,
And for a face she has a crescent moon.
Her maids were sitting in front of her with various musical instruments. When I set eyes on her I became unable to rest and lost my powers of endurance, but in my conceit I thought that she loved me. I tossed an orange towards her in order to attract her attention and she looked up and saw me. She said to her maids: “The twitching of my eye tells me that I can see the man who caused me distress. What has brought this boor here tonight to disturb us? Take me back to spend the rest of the night in the city.” On her orders the sailors took her back and I felt as though the breath of life had left my body and I began to recite:
What has the time of parting done to me,
For it was parting that betrayed my hopes?
Now the more beautiful that you become,
The more I sorrowfully blame myself.
I went back and tried to compose myself, saying that tomorrow, when she was alone, I would send one of my servants to pass by her door. When she saw how magnificent he looked she would write to ask me to send her someone who could reconcile us. The night passed, and then the next day, and then a third, until I had to endure for ten days with no messenger or any news coming from her. She paid no attention to those I sent past her house to remind her of me, and when things had been going on for too long I got a number of people whom she knew to take her a letter. Then I sent her the emirs and leading citizens of Basra, asking her to read what I had written or to send me a letter of her own. All she did was to become harsher than ever, and I am left to rely on God and on you if you will take a letter to her for me. If you bring me a reply I shall give you a thousand dinars and if she does not answer I shall give you five hundred, and you will lose nothing. “Write your letter,” I told him, “for I shall be glad to go.”
‘ ‘Umair took an ink-well and paper and wrote: “In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful:
This letter comes to you from hope
That lodges in my ribs and does not leave,
From sleep, which now I seldom taste,
And from a heart not occupied with blame.
I am consumed with passion and with love,
And one of these alone would leave me dead.
By God, if passion could send messengers,
These messengers would be my heartfelt sighs.
This letter comes from one who cannot rest and has no more endurance, who spends sleepless nights and days filled with cares. He is tearful and emaciated; harshness itself laments him; he can find no patience nor any place of refuge, for the world is too small for him. This letter is addressed to the moon of darkness and the sun of the forenoon, the mistress of the hearts of mankind, the most beautiful of all on earth or in heaven. Your slave kisses the ground before you and asks for the favour of your approval. Tears have exposed my secret, and, after God, it is to you that I complain, and the fire of passionate longing leads me to recite:
I asked the paper to carry some of my feelings for me,
But all it did was to add to my sleeplessness.
It thundered in my hand and made me think
That she whom I loved was in love herself.
When it hears my complaint it bewails me
With pity, and would speak if I called it.
Were it to know the longing that my hands
Have written on it, it would be burned up.
Whenever critics blame me harshly for my love for you, I answer with a sorrowing heart and say: ‘I know what you do not.’
‘ “Peace be on you. I long for you as much as a stranger longs for his homeland, as long as music sounds, the dove sings or the pigeon coos on the bough. May God show mercy to the reader of this letter, if she is disposed to answer it. I say:
From the despairing lover who has fallen sick.
To the full moon of beauty this is sent,
A letter from one whose love is sincere,
Unbroken, and whose covenants are kept.
Love’s precious rights win the respect of noble men.
I do your bidding and am called your slave.
I cannot enjoy sleep till you remove your veil.
Promise your favour and grant me your love,
For every word of yours must be obeyed.
The moment when a lover has to part
Is longer than his union by a thousand years.
Peace be to you. Do not be miserly
In sending back this greeting to the one who loves.”
He took the letter, sealed it and gave it to me. I took it but when I came to Budur’s house and wanted to go in the doorkeeper stopped me and said: “Is this a khan? No one can go in without permission.” I told him to go to his mistress and tell her that the shaikh Abu’l-Hasan was at the door. He went off and when he returned he invited me in. As I went in I could hear her reciting:
I must endure the outrages of time
Until you come back as a messenger.
Then she said: “Abu’l-Hasan, you went to the house of the emir ‘Umair before me, but, while everything new is pleasant, everything old commands affection.”
‘Then she told her maids to spread out a mat for me at the edge of the hall. It was summer, and she and her maids were playing in the pool. She was wearing a short sleeveless tunic of satin, and when she took this off I could see that underneath it she was wearing an embroidered garment of white dabiqi linen, on whose edge was written:
She came out in a white chemise,
Glancing through languorous lids.
I said: “You passed by without greeting me,
Though I would be content with a greeting.
Blessed is He who clothed your cheeks in loveliness.
Your shape is like the boughs of garden trees,
While what I wear is like my fortune and my [lac.]
White upon white on white.”
‘She washed and then [dried herself] with a towel of Rumi velvet [lac.] and round her waist was a green cloth with gold embroidery, on which was written:
Clever and taught by cleverness itself,
The rose gleams with her borrowed loveliness.
She wore a green dress when she came,
As leaves conceal the pomegranate blooms.
I asked her what the dress was called,
And she gave me a courteous reply:
“I call it ‘Heart-breaker,’ for this is what it does.”
It had a silk waist-band with a golden tassel, and written on it were the lines:
I am the lock of a protected place,
Which fingers have filled up with artistry,
And when a heavy buttock lies within,
I watch to see there is no tr
eachery.
On her head she wore a blue cap with a white veil inscribed with the lines:
Do you not see my lady’s grace shown by her veil,
And how it shines, a full moon in the dark.
‘When she had finished dressing I handed her the letter, which she opened and read before throwing it away. “Don’t do that, lady,” I said. “Is there nothing left between the two of you but that I should go to him without a reply, which will certainly lead to his death?” I then played lightly on her feelings for some time until I noticed that she was softening, and I then swore to her that she should write a reply for me. She could not disobey me and so she called for an ink-stand and paper and wrote: “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful:
You wrote complaining of the sorrows Fate has brought,
And of your illnesses that find no end in time,
Caused by your love and your abandonment,
But harshness came from you and not from me.
Pleasure and love accompanied your sleep,
While my couch housed humility and tears.
Were you prepared to help me for one day,
The Day of Judgement will see me help you.
So live in love and die of grief,
For one soul is the payment for another.”
“By God, lady,” I said, “it would be better to abandon this letter. Have you no fear of God here?” “Are you a messenger or a busy-body?” she asked, and I told her: “Both, and I urge you for God’s sake not to destroy that beautiful young man but to have pity on him.” “What is all this, Abu’l-Hasan?” she asked. “By God,” I said, “I can describe no more than a tenth of his sufferings.” “Is this all for my sake?” she said, and when I said it was, she asked what had caused his harshness and hatred to change to love and humility. I told her: “Lady, Time suffers change, and whoever trusts in it is put to shame and no longer remains the same. Yesterday he was loved and then he became a lover, while the emir becomes a captive. You were gripped by love for him and now he suffers the pain of your harshness.” “Abu’l-Hasan,” she told me, “by the Great God, for every grain of longing you talk about, I have much more. While he was inflicting lengthy sufferings on me he became harsher and harsher, while I had to endure. Then I got the upper hand, but I swear that his situation hurts me, and I would ransom my darling with my life.”
Tales of the Marvellous and News of the Strange (Hardcover Classics) Page 28