If he smiles, then gently say:
‘What harm would it do were you to grant him union?
His love for you is passionate, as it should be;
His eyes are sleepless and he weeps and wails.
If he is pleased to consent, this is my object and my aim,
But if he shows an angry face,
Deceive him, saying: ‘We do not know of him.’
I said to myself: ‘This singer must be a person of wit, to combine elegance and eloquence with a beautiful voice.’ So I went up to the door and started to raise the curtain bit by bit. There I saw a girl white as a fourteen-night-old moon, with joining eyebrows and languorous eyelids. Her breasts were like twin pomegranates; her tender lips were like camomiles; she had a mouth like the ring of Solomon; and her teeth, regularly spaced, were enough to distract the minds of all who might try to describe them in verse or prose. As the poet has said:
Pearly teeth of the beloved, who set you in order
And stored both wine and camomiles within your mouth?
Who lent the dawn your smile,
And sealed you with a lock made of carnelian?
All those who see you are so moved with joy,
They swagger with pride, so how of those you kiss?
Another poet said:
Pearly teeth of the beloved, pity the carnelian;
Do not look down on it, for has it not found you are unique?
In short, this girl possessed all possible aspects of beauty; she was a temptation for men and women alike; no one could grow tired of looking at her beauty and she fitted the description of the poet:
If she advances, she kills, and when she turns her back,
She fills all of mankind with love for her.
Her beauty is that of both sun and moon;
Harshness and aversion are not in her nature.
Her gown opens on the garden of Eden,
And the full moon orbits above her collar.
While I was looking at her through the curtain, she turned and saw me standing by the door. She told her maid to see who was there and the maid got up and came to me. ‘Old man,’ she said, ‘have you no shame and do grey hairs and disgrace go together?’ ‘My lady,’ I said, ‘I admit to my grey hairs, but as for disgrace, I don’t think that I have done anything disgraceful.’ The lady of the house said: ‘What disgrace can be greater than your invasion of a house that does not belong to you and the fact that you have been looking at women who are not yours?’ ‘I have an excuse for this, my lady,’ I told her and when she asked me what it might be, I said: ‘I am a stranger and am dying of thirst.’ ‘I accept your excuse,’ she replied.
Morning now dawned and Shahrazad broke off from what she had been allowed to say. Then, when it was the three hundred and twenty-ninth night, SHE CONTINUED:
I have heard, O fortunate king, that she said: ‘I accept your excuse.’ ‘ALI WENT ON:
She then called to one of her slave girls and said: ‘Lutf, give this man a drink from the golden jug.’ The girl fetched me a jug of red gold studded with pearls and precious stones, filled with water that had been mixed with pungent musk and covered with a kerchief of green silk. I began to drink, but took my time about it, as I stole glances at the lady. After I had been there for some time I handed the jug back to the girl, but when I still stood there the lady said: ‘Go on your way, old man.’ ‘My lady,’ I replied, ‘I am filled with anxiety.’ ‘About what?’ she asked. ‘About the changes and vicissitudes of Time,’ I told her. She said: ‘You do well to be anxious, for Time is full of wonders, but which of these have you seen that so concerns you?’ ‘I am thinking about the owner of this house,’ I said, ‘who, while he was alive, was a friend of mine.’ She asked me the man’s name and I said: ‘He was Muhammad ibn ‘Ali, the jeweller, a man of great wealth.’ Then I asked whether he had left any children. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘he left one girl called Budur, who inherited all his wealth.’ I asked whether perhaps she herself was his daughter. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said with a laugh, but then she added: ‘You have been talking for too long, old man, so go off on your way.’ ‘I must certainly leave,’ I told her, ‘but I see that your beauty has been dimmed, so tell me about yourself, as it may be that God will use me to bring you relief.’
‘Old man,’ the lady said, ‘if you are someone who can keep a secret, I will tell you mine, but tell me who you are so that I may see whether you are worthy to hear it or not. For the poet has said:
It is only the trustworthy who keep secrets;
Only the best of people keep them hidden.
My secret is guarded in a locked room;
The key is lost and now the door is sealed.’
‘My lady,’ I told her, ‘if you want to know who I am, I am ‘Ali ibn Mansur, the witty Damascene, the drinking companion of the Commander of the Faithful, Harun al-Rashid.’ On hearing my name, she came down from her chair and greeted me with a welcome, adding: ‘Now I shall tell you my story and entrust you with my secret. I am a lover parted from my beloved.’ ‘My lady,’ I replied, ‘you are beautiful and the man whom you love must be handsome, so who is he?’ ‘He is Jubair ibn ‘Umair al-Shaibani,’ she told me, ‘the emir of the Banu Shaiban,’ and she went on to describe for me the most handsome young man in Basra. I asked her if they had met or corresponded. ‘Yes,’ she told me, ‘but our love was a matter of words and did not come from the heart or the soul, for he did not keep his promises or fulfil his pledges.’ I then asked her what had led them to part and she said: ‘The reason for this was that one day I was sitting as a maid of mine combed my hair. When she had finished, she twisted the locks into plaits and my beauty made such an impression on her that she lent over me and kissed my cheek. At that moment Jubair came in unexpectedly. He saw the girl kissing my cheek, and at once he angrily turned on his heel and left, intending to part from me for ever, reciting these lines:
If my love is shared with someone else,
I shall leave her and live alone.
No good is to be found in the love of such a one.
From the time that he turned away from me and left until now I have had no message from him and no answer.’
I then asked her what it was that she wanted and she told me: ‘I want you to take a letter to him from me. If you bring me a reply, I shall give you five hundred dinars, and if you don’t, I shall pay you a hundred dinars as compensation for your journey.’ ‘Do as you want,’ I told her and, after saying: ‘To hear is to obey,’ she summoned a slave girl and told her to fetch paper and an inkstand. When these were brought she wrote the following lines:
My darling, why shun me in loathing?
Where is the forbearance and sympathy we should have?
Why do you turn away and abandon me?
Your face is not the face I used to know.
Yes, the slanderers spread a false report about me.
You paid attention to their words and they said more and more.
God forbid that you believe what they have said;
Your good judgement knows better than that.
I implore you, tell me what it was that you heard;
You know what is said, and you act with fairness.
If it is true that this is because of my words,
Words can be interpreted and changed.
The Torah was revealed as the word of God,
But people altered and distorted it.
Before now, false reports were spread abroad;
In Jacob’s presence, Joseph was blamed.
For all of us, me, the slanderer and you,
The Day of Judgement will be one of fear.
Budur then sealed her letter and gave it to me. I took it and went off to Jubair’s house, but finding that he was out hunting, I sat down to wait for him. I was still sitting there when he came back, and when I saw him on his horse I was bewildered by his beauty and grace. He turned and saw me sitting by the door and so he dismounted and, on coming up to me, he embraced me and gree
ted me, leading me to think that it was the world and everything in it that I had embraced. He then took me into his house, sat me on his own couch and ordered a table to be brought in. One was fetched that was made out of Khurasanian khalanj wood with golden legs, and on it were dishes of all kinds of foods, with fried and roasted meats and so on. When I took my seat there, I looked hard at it and found inscribed on it the following verses…
Morning now dawned and Shahrazad broke off from what she had been allowed to say. Then, when it was the three hundred and thirtieth night, SHE CONTINUED:
I have heard, O fortunate king, that ‘ALI SAID:
When I sat down at the table of Jubair ibn ‘Umair al-Shaibani, I looked hard at it and found inscribed on it the following verses:
Turn aside your storks* to the spring camp of the sauce bowls,
And halt at the tribe of the fries and stews.
Mourn the daughters of the sandgrouse, for whom I ceaselessly lament,
Along with what is roasted inside the chicken pie.
My heart is sore for the two types of fish,
On pyramids of fresh bread.
By God, how fine a thing is supper,
With vegetables dipped in vinegar from little jars,
And also rice steeped here in buffalo milk,
In which women’s hands have plunged up to their bracelets.
Be patient, my soul, for God is generous
And though your means be straitened, He will bring relief.
‘Stretch out your hand to the food,’ Jubair told me, ‘and console yourself by eating what we provide.’ ‘By God,’ I said to him, ‘I shall not eat a single mouthful of your food until you do what I’ve come for.’ ‘And what is that?’ he asked. So I produced Budur’s letter for him, but when he had read it and grasped its contents, he tore it up and threw it down on the ground. ‘Ibn Mansur,’ he said to me, ‘whatever other needs you have I shall fulfil, but not what has anything to do with the writer of this letter, for I shall not reply to it.’ I got up to leave him angrily, but he caught hold of the skirts of my gown and said: ‘Ibn Mansur, although I wasn’t there with you, I can tell you what she said to you.’ I asked him what this was and he said: ‘Didn’t the writer of the letter tell you that if you brought her a reply she would give you five hundred dinars, and if you did not, she would pay you a hundred dinars as compensation for your journey?’ I agreed that this was so and he said: ‘Sit with me today; eat, drink, have pleasure and enjoy yourself, after which you can take five hundred dinars for yourself.’
Accordingly, I sat with him, ate, drank and enjoyed myself pleasurably, spending the evening in conversation with him, and then I asked him if there was no music in his house. ‘For a long time now we have been drinking without music,’ he told me and then he called one of his slave girls, Shajarat al-Durr. She answered his summons and came to him from her apartment, bringing with her a lute of Indian manufacture wrapped up in a silken bag. She sat down, placed the lute on her lap and, after playing twenty-one different variations, she returned to the first and, accompanying herself on her lute, she recited these lines:
He who has not tasted the sweets of passion and its bitterness
Cannot distinguish union with the beloved from parting.
So it is that whoever turns from the path of love
Cannot tell which part of the road is smooth and which is rough.
I always used to find myself protesting against lovers
Until I was afflicted by love’s sweetness and its bitterness.
I then gulped down its bitter cup,
And humbled myself before its slaves and its freemen.
How many a night has the beloved spent drinking with me,
Who sipped the sweet saliva from his lips!
How short-lived was the night of our union,
Where evening came at the same time as dawn.
Time vowed to part us,
And now Time has fulfilled its vow.
It passed its sentence, which cannot be revoked;
Who can oppose the orders of a master?
When the girl had finished these lines her master gave a great cry and fell down in a faint. ‘I hope that God will not punish you, old man,’ exclaimed the girl, ‘but it is because we feared that he might suffer this kind of fit that for a long time now we have not had music as we drank. Go off now to that apartment and sleep there.’ I went where she directed me and slept until dawn, when a servant came to me carrying a purse containing five hundred dinars. ‘This is what my master promised you,’ he said, ‘but don’t go back to the girl who sent you here, and instead pretend that neither you nor we have heard anything about this affair.’ ‘To hear is to obey,’ I said and, taking the purse, I went on my way, but I said to myself: ‘The girl has been waiting for me since yesterday and, by God, I must go back to her and tell her what happened between me and Jubair. If I don’t return, she may heap abuse on me and on all my fellow countrymen.’
I went back and found her standing behind the door. When she saw me she said: ‘Ibn Mansur, you have not succeeded in doing what I wanted.’ ‘Who told you that?’ I asked. ‘I can tell you something else,’ she continued: ‘When you gave him my note, he tore it up and threw it away, saying: “Ibn Mansur, whatever other needs you have I shall fulfil, but not what has anything to do with the writer of this letter, for I shall not reply to her.” Then you got up angrily and he clutched at the edge of your gown and asked you to sit with him for that day, adding: “You are my guest; eat, drink, have pleasure and enjoy yourself, and then take five hundred dinars.” So you sat with him, ate, drank and enjoyed yourself, spending the evening in conversation with him. Then a slave girl sang such-and-such verses to such-and-such an air and he fell down in a faint.’ ‘Were you there with us?’ I asked her and she said: ‘Ibn Mansur, have you not heard the poet’s line:
Lovers’ hearts have eyes that see what watchers cannot see?
But the sequence of nights and days changes everything that lies in its path.’
Morning now dawned and Shahrazad broke off from what she had been allowed to say. Then, when it was the three hundred and thirty-first night, SHE CONTINUED:
I have heard, O fortunate king, that Budur said: ‘The sequence of nights and days changes everything that lies in its path.’ ‘ALI WENT ON:
Budur then lifted her eyes to the sky and said: ‘My God, my Lord and my Master, as you have afflicted me with love for Jubair ibn ‘Umair, afflict him with love for me and transfer this love from my heart to his.’ She gave me a hundred dinars by way of compensation for my journey and, after taking these, I went to the sultan of Basra, whom I found coming back from hunting. He paid me my allowance and I went back to Baghdad.
The following year I set off again for Basra to collect this allowance as usual and was again given it by the sultan. I was about to start back to Baghdad when I began to think about Budur and I said to myself: ‘By God, I must go to visit her and find out what has happened between her and Jubair.’ When I got there I found that the space in front of her door had been swept clean and sprinkled with water and that it was occupied by eunuchs, servants and pages. So I said: ‘It may be that the girl died because of the grief that flooded her heart, and some emir or other has come to live in her house.’ I left the place and went to Jubair’s house, but here I found that the stone benches had been smashed and that there were no pages standing by the door as had been the custom. ‘He may have died,’ I told myself and I stood by the door, shedding tears and reciting these lines:
The masters have gone and my heart pursues them.
Come home, so your return may bring back my days of joy.
I stood by your house lamenting the place where you lived.
My tears poured down, while my eyelids quivered.
As the deserted ruins weep, I ask the house:
‘Where is the giver of those generous gifts?’
‘Go on your way,’ it said, ‘for those dear ones have gone,
; Leaving the spring camps; they now lie buried under earth.’
May God not take from us the vision of their splendours
Throughout the land, and may their good qualities not be lost.
While I was reciting these lines in mourning for the people of the house, a black slave came out of it and, going up to me, he cursed me and told me to stop, saying: ‘What are you doing reciting this lament here?’ I told him that the house had belonged to a friend of mine. ‘What was his name?’ the man asked, and I told him: ‘Jubair ibn ‘Umair al-Shaibani.’ ‘What’s supposed to have happened to him?’ he asked. ‘He still has his riches, fortune and possessions, but God has afflicted him with love for a girl called the Lady Budur. He is obsessed by his love for her, and because of the violence of this passion he’s like a rock that’s been thrown down. If he is hungry he won’t ask for food, and if he thirsts he doesn’t ask for drink.’ I told him to get permission for me to go in to see him and he asked: ‘Do you want to see him if he is in a rational mood or even if he’s not?’ ‘Whatever the case,’ I replied, ‘I have to go to him.’
The slave went into the house to ask permission and then returned to say that I might go in. When I came into Jubair’s presence I found him prostrate like a stone, unable to understand anything, however expressed, either allusively or in clear speech. When I spoke to him he made no reply, but one of his attendants said: ‘Sir, if you know any poetry, recite it to him and raise your voice, as that will rouse him and he will speak to you.’ So I recited these lines:
Have you forgotten your love for Budur or steeled yourself against it?
Do you spend the night awake or do your eyelids close in sleep?
Even if your tears pour down in floods,
Know you will have eternal life in Paradise.
When he heard this, he opened his eyes and said: ‘Welcome, Ibn Mansur. What was a joke is now in earnest.’ I asked whether there was anything that I could do for him and he said: ‘Yes. I want to write her a letter and get you to take it to her. If you bring me a reply from her, I’ll give you a thousand dinars, and if not, I shall pay you two hundred as compensation for your journey.’ ‘Do as you please,’ I replied…
The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1,001 Nights Page 11