The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1,001 Nights: Volume 1
Page 37
Morning now dawned and Shahrazad broke off from what she had been allowed to say. Then, when it was the thirty-seventh night, SHE CONTINUED:
I have heard, O auspicious king, that Nur al-Din sat up and said: ‘What is this, Shaikh Ibrahim? Didn’t I press you to drink some time ago only for you to refuse, saying that you hadn’t drunk for thirteen years?’ Ibrahim was ashamed and said: ‘By God, it wasn’t my fault. It was she who told me to do it.’ Nur al-Din laughed and they all sat down to drink together. Anis al-Jalis then turned and whispered privately to her master: ‘Drink up but don’t press the shaikh, and I’ll show you what he does.’ So she started to fill Nur al-Din’s glass and gave it to him to drink, while he did the same for her. They did this time after time until Ibrahim looked at them and said: ‘What kind of good fellowship is this? God curse the greedy! You don’t pour me a drink, brother, when it is my turn. What is all this, bless you?’ Nur al-Din and Anis al-Jalis laughed until they fell over, and they then drank up and poured wine for Ibrahim.
They went on drinking together until a third of the night had passed. Then Anis al-Jalis asked Ibrahim: ‘Have I your permission to get up and light one of this row of candles?’ ‘Get up,’ he said, ‘but only light a single one of them.’ She got to her feet and, beginning with the first, she lit all eighty candles in the row before sitting down again. Nur al-Din then asked the shaikh: ‘What share are you going to allow me? Won’t you let me light one of these lamps?’ ‘Get up and light one,’ said Ibrahim, ‘but don’t you make trouble, too.’ So Nur al-Din got up and, beginning with the first, he lit all eighty lamps, until the place danced with light. ‘You two are bolder than I am,’ said Ibrahim, who was under the influence of drink. He got to his feet, opened all the windows, and then took his place with his guests, after which they sat drinking together and exchanging lines of verse, while the house was filled with flickering light.
As had been decreed by God Almighty, Who assigns to everything a cause, the caliph was looking out in the moonlight towards one of the windows on the Tigris side, and he saw the lights of the lamps and the candles reflected in the river. On seeing the garden palace flickering with light, he ordered Ja‘far the Barmecide to be brought to him. He came immediately, and the caliph said: ‘Dog of a vizier, are you taking the city of Baghdad from me without saying?’ When Ja‘far asked him what he was talking about, he said: ‘Unless the city had been taken from me, the Palace of Statues would not be lit by lamps and candles, with all the windows open. Who would dare to do this had I not been stripped of the caliphate?’ In fear and trembling, Ja‘far asked: ‘Who told you that lights were lit in the Palace of Statues and that its windows were open?’ ‘Come over here,’ said the caliph, ‘and look out.’
When Ja‘far looked out towards the garden, he found that lights from the garden palace were illumining the darkness. He wanted to find an excuse for the gardener, Shaikh Ibrahim, thinking that perhaps this had been done with his permission for what he had thought to be a good reason. So he said: ‘Commander of the Faithful, last Friday Shaikh Ibrahim told me that he wanted to hold a party for his sons during the lifetime of the Commander of the Faithful and my own life. “What do you need?” I asked him. “I want you to get me an order from the caliph,” he replied, “allowing me to circumcise my sons in the palace.” “Go ahead and arrange this,” I said, “and I shall approach the caliph and tell him about it.” So he left me, and I forgot to tell you.’ ‘You were guilty of one offence against me, Ja‘far, and then it became two. Of your two mistakes, the first was that you failed to tell me about this, and the second was that you did not give Shaikh Ibrahim what he wanted. He only approached you and said what he said as a hint that he was in need of money. You neither gave him anything nor did you tell me.’ ‘I forgot, Commander of the Faithful,’ said Ja‘far. ‘I swear by my fathers and my forefathers,’ said the caliph, ‘that I shall not spend the rest of the night anywhere else but with him. He is a good man who entertains shaikhs and faqirs, and as they are gathered at his home, it may be that one of them may give us a blessing that will help us, both in this world and the next. Some good may come if I visit him and I may give him pleasure.’ ‘Commander of the Faithful,’ said Ja‘far, ‘it is late and they must be nearly finished.’ The caliph, however, insisted on going, and Ja‘far kept silent, being at a loss and not knowing what to do.
So the caliph got up, and with Ja‘far going on ahead and accompanied by Masrur, the eunuch, all disguised as merchants, he walked from the royal palace through the lanes until they came to the garden gate. When the caliph went up to it, he was surprised to find it open. ‘See how Shaikh Ibrahim has left the gate open and at such a late hour,’ he said to Ja‘far, adding: ‘He is not in the habit of doing this.’ They entered and, on reaching the end of the garden, they stood beneath the palace wall. ‘I want to spy out the ground,’ said the caliph, ‘before I show myself to them, so that I can see what they are doing and take a look at the shaikhs. For up till now I have not heard any sound from them, or from any faqir reciting the Name of God.’ He then noticed a high walnut tree and said: ‘Ja‘far, I shall climb this tree, as its branches are near the windows and I can look in at the company.’
Up he went, and he went on climbing from one branch to the next until he reached one opposite a window. Looking through the window, he saw a girl and a young man, radiant as moons – praise be to Him Who created them and formed them! He saw Shaikh Ibrahim sitting glass in hand and heard him saying: ‘Queen of the beauties, it is no good drinking without music. I have heard that the poet says:
Pass round the glasses, great and small;
Take them from the hand of a resplendent moon,
But do not drink without music.
A horse will only drink when whistled to.’
When the caliph saw what Shaikh Ibrahim was doing, the vein of anger rose between his eyes. He climbed down the tree and told Ja‘far: ‘I have never seen pious men behaving like this, so climb the tree yourself and have a look, in case you lose the benefit of the blessings of the pious.’ Ja‘far was taken aback by this, but he climbed to the top of the tree and, looking in, he saw Nur al-Din, Shaikh Ibrahim and the girl. The shaikh was holding a glass in his hand, and when Ja‘far saw this, he was certain that death awaited him. He climbed down and stood before the caliph, who said to him: ‘Praise be to God Who has placed us among those who follow the literal meaning of the revealed law!’ As Ja‘far was too abashed to speak, he went on: ‘Who do you suppose brought these people here and who took them into my palace?’ and he added: ‘But I have never seen beauty like that of this young man and this girl.’
Ja‘far, hoping to placate the caliph, agreed with him, and the caliph told him to climb up with him to the branch opposite the window to get a view of what was going on. The two climbed up the tree, and when they looked through the window, they heard Ibrahim saying: ‘I have abandoned my dignity by drinking wine, but it only becomes pleasant when it is accompanied by music.’ ‘Shaikh Ibrahim,’ said Anis al-Jalis, ‘if we had with us any musical instrument, then our pleasure would indeed be complete.’ Ibrahim got up when he heard this. ‘What do you suppose he is going to do?’ the caliph asked Ja‘far. ‘I don’t know,’ replied Ja‘far, but when Ibrahim left and then came back with a lute, the caliph recognized it as belonging to his boon companion, Abu Ishaq. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘if this girl sings badly, I will crucify you all, and if she sings well, I will only crucify you.’ ‘May God make her sing badly!’ exclaimed Ja‘far. ‘Why?’ asked the caliph. ‘So that, if you crucify us all, we can keep each other company,’ Ja‘far replied, at which the caliph laughed.
Anis al-Jalis then took the lute, inspected it, tuned the strings and struck up a strain that moved hearts with longing. Then she recited the lines:
You who bring poor lovers aid,
The fires of love and longing consume me.
Whatever you may do, this I deserve.
You are my refuge; do not laugh at my mi
sfortune.
I am abashed and wretched; do what you want with me.
It is no cause for pride to kill me in your camp;
My fear is that you sin by killing me.
‘Excellent, by God, Ja‘far,’ said the caliph. ‘Never in my life have I heard a voice as delightful as this.’ Ja‘far then asked whether his anger had left him. ‘Yes, it has gone,’ he replied, after which the two of them climbed down from the tree. The caliph then said to Ja‘far: ‘I want to go and sit with them and listen to the girl singing in front of me.’ ‘If you do,’ said Ja‘far, ‘it may disturb them, while as for Shaikh Ibrahim, he will die of fear.’ ‘Then, Ja‘far,’ said the caliph, ‘you must teach me how to trick them, so that I can meet them without their knowing who I am.’
As the two of them went towards the Tigris, thinking over the problem, they came across a fisherman, who was casting his net beneath the palace windows. Some time earlier, the caliph had called to Ibrahim to ask him what the noises were that he could hear beneath the windows of his palace. On being told that these were the voices of fishermen, he had told Ibrahim to go down and stop them fishing there, and as a result, fishermen had been ordered to keep away. That night, however, one of them, called Karim, had come and found the garden gate open. He had said to himself that somebody must have been careless and that it was time to take advantage of it. He had taken his net and cast it into the river, but then all of a sudden he saw the caliph standing beside him.
The caliph had recognized him and addressed him by name. On hearing himself being addressed as ‘Karim’, the fisherman had turned, and at the sight of the caliph, he began to tremble. ‘Commander of the Faithful,’ he said, ‘I have not done this out of disrespect for your orders, but poverty and the needs of my family have led me to do what you see me doing.’ ‘Try a cast in my name,’ said the caliph, and the fisherman came up joyfully, cast his net and waited until it had opened to its fullest extent and settled on the bottom, before drawing it in. It turned out to be filled with all kinds of fish, which pleased the caliph. He then told Karim to take off his clothes, a smock with a hundred patches of rough wool, full of long-tailed lice, and on his head a turban that he had not unwound for three years and on to which he had sewn every rag that he could find. The caliph then stripped off two robes of Alexandrian and Baalbaki silk, as well as an over-mantle and a mantle. He told Karim to take these and put them on, while he in turn put on Karim’s smock and turban, veiling the lower part of his face. ‘Now go about your business,’ he told Karim, who kissed his foot, thanked him and started to recite:
You have granted favours, for which I proclaim my gratitude,
And you have aided me in all affairs of mine.
Throughout my life I shall give you thanks, and if I die
My bones will proclaim their gratitude from my grave.
Before the fisherman had finished his poem, the lice started crawling over the caliph’s skin and he had to use both hands to pull them off his neck and throw them away. ‘You wretched fisherman,’ he exclaimed, ‘there are swarms of lice in this smock!’ ‘They may annoy you just now, master,’ said Karim, ‘but after a week you won’t notice them or think about them.’ The caliph laughed and said: ‘Am I to go on wearing this smock?’ ‘I would like to say something,’ said Karim. ‘Say on,’ replied the caliph. ‘It has struck me, Commander of the Faithful,’ said Karim, ‘that if you want to learn how to fish so as to be master of a useful trade, this smock will suit you.’ The caliph laughed at this and the fisherman went on his way.
The caliph then picked up the basket of fish, placed a few green leaves on top of it and approached Ja‘far. When he stood before him, Ja‘far believed that he was Karim the fisherman and was afraid for the man’s safety. ‘Karim,’ he said, ‘what has brought you here? Save yourself, for the caliph is in the garden tonight, and if he sees you, you will lose your life.’ On hearing this, the caliph laughed, and Ja‘far, recognizing him by his laugh, said: ‘Perhaps you are the caliph, our master?’ ‘Yes, Ja‘far,’ he replied, ‘and you are my vizier. You and I came here together and yet you didn’t recognize me, so how is Shaikh Ibrahim going to recognize me when he is drunk? Stay here until I come back to you.’ ‘To hear is to obey,’ said Ja‘far.
The caliph then went to the door of the garden palace and knocked on it softly. ‘Somebody is knocking on the door,’ said Nur al-Din to Ibrahim. ‘Who is there?’ asked Ibrahim. ‘It is I, Shaikh Ibrahim,’ answered the caliph. ‘Who are you?’ repeated Ibrahim, and the caliph told him: ‘Karim, the fisherman,’ adding: ‘I heard that you have guests, so I have brought you some fresh fish.’ When Nur al-Din heard him say ‘fish’, both he and Anis al-Jalis were delighted and they asked Ibrahim to open the door and let the man in. Ibrahim did that and the caliph, in his disguise as a fisherman, came in and began by greeting them. ‘Welcome to the thief, the robber, the gambler,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Come and show us what fish you have.’ The fish the caliph showed them were still alive and wriggling, and Anis al-Jalis said: ‘Sir, these are fine fish, but I wish they were fried.’ ‘You’re right, lady,’ said Ibrahim, and he then asked the caliph: ‘Why didn’t you bring these fish fried? Go off at once, fry them and then fetch them back to us.’ ‘At your command,’ said the caliph. ‘I’ll fry them for you and then bring them back.’ ‘Get on with it,’ they told him, so he ran off until he reached Ja‘far.
‘Ja‘far,’ he called. ‘Yes, Commander of the Faithful,’ said the vizier, ‘is everything all right?’ ‘They have asked for the fish to be fried,’ replied the caliph. ‘Hand them over, Commander of the Faithful,’ said Ja‘far, ‘and I shall do the frying for them.’ ‘By the graves of my fathers and my forefathers,’ swore the caliph, ‘no one else is going to fry these fish. I shall do it with my own hand.’ He then went to the gardener’s hut, and after rummaging through it, he found everything that he needed, including salt, saffron, thyme and other seasonings. He went to the brazier, set the frying pan on it and fried the fish nicely. When they were ready, he put them on a banana leaf, and after collecting some windfalls and some lemons from the garden, he took the fish and presented them to the three in the palace.
All three came forward and ate, and when they had finished and had washed their hands, Nur al-Din said: ‘Fisherman, this is a very good turn you have done us tonight.’ He put his hand in his pocket and brought out three of the dinars that Sanjar had given him when he left on his travels. ‘Excuse me, fisherman,’ he said, ‘for, by God, had you known me before I fell from fortune, I would have removed the bitterness of poverty from your heart, but take what matches my present state.’ He then threw the coins towards the caliph, who took them, kissed them and put them away.
What the caliph had wanted, by doing this, was to hear Anis al-Jalis sing. So he said: ‘You have bestowed a generous favour on me, but what I want from your all-embracing bounty is to hear this girl sing a song for us.’ ‘Anis al-Jalis,’ called Nur al-Din, and when she answered, he asked her: ‘Sing something to please this fisherman, for he wants to listen to you.’ On hearing this, Anis al-Jalis took the lute, tuned the strings, struck up a melody and sang:
There is many a girl whose fingers have held the lute,
Stealing away men’s souls as she touched the strings.
As she sang, her singing cured the deaf,
While the dumb cried out: ‘Well done, indeed!’
She then began a remarkable and bewitching strain, to which she sang:
We are honoured that you have visited our land,
And your splendour has driven away our gloomy dark.
It is only right I should perfume my house
With camphor, musk and rosewater.
The caliph was moved and overcome by emotion, so much so that in his delight he could not control himself. ‘Good, by God! Good, by God! Good, by God!’ he kept saying. ‘Does the girl please you, fisherman?’ asked Nur al-Din. ‘Yes, by God,’ replied the caliph. ‘Then she is a present to you from me,’ said N
ur al-Din, ‘the gift of a generous man who does not reclaim or take back what he gives.’ He then got to his feet, took an over-mantle and threw it round the fisherman, telling him to go off with the girl. Anis al-Jalis looked at him and said: ‘Master, are you going without saying goodbye? If this has to be, stay until I take my leave of you and find relief.’ Then she started to recite these lines:
I suffer longing, memories and sorrow,
That make my wasted body like a ghost.
Beloved, do not say I shall forget;
Despair comes from despair and my grief will not cease.
If anyone could swim in his own tears,
The first to do so would be I.
Your love holds sway within my heart
As water and wine are mixed in the same glass.
This is the separation which I feared,
O you, whose love is in my inmost heart.
O Ibn Khaqan, you are my wish and hope;
Your love can never leave my heart.
It was because of me that our sultan
Became your enemy and you were driven out.
May God not cause you to regret my loss.
You have given me to a generous man who earns our praise.
When she had finished, Nur al-Din replied to her with the lines:
She took her leave of me the day we parted;
The pangs of longing made her weep and say:
‘What will you find to do when I have gone?’
I said: ‘Say this to one who stays alive.’
When the caliph heard Anis al-Jalis say: ‘You have given me to a generous man,’ his desire for her increased, but he found it hard to think of parting the two. So he said to Nur al-Din: ‘Sir, in her verses this girl said that you had made an enemy of her master and owner. Tell me, who is this enemy of yours and who has a claim against you?’ ‘By God, fisherman,’ answered Nur al-Din, ‘this girl and I share a strange and remarkable story which, were it written with needles on the corners of the eyes, would serve as a lesson for those who can learn.’ ‘Please tell me what happened to you and let me know your story,’ said the caliph. ‘It may be that you will find relief from your plight, as relief sent by God is close at hand.’