Classical Arabic Stories

by Salma Khadra Jayyusi

  20. For more on the Umayyad period, see my “Umayyad Poetry,” 1:387–432, and, on love literature, see pp. 419–27; see also the cogent discussion by al-Muncif al-Wahaibi, “Arab Lovers, or the Sons of the Rainbow,” in The Classical Arabic Story (forthcoming).

  21. See Geert Jan van Gelder, “Brevity and Short Stories in Classical Arabic,” and Antonella Ghersetti, “Arabic Anecdotes and Medieval Narratio Brevis,” both in ibid.

  22. Such as the following short definition by a Bedouin woman when asked to describe love: “Love is that which excites the dormant and calms down the anxious.”

  23. Such as in Ibn al-Jawzi’s book, Akhbar al-hamqa wa ʾl-mughaffalin (Stories of the Stupid and Dim-Witted) and many other similar books by him; and al-Muhassin al-Tanukhi’s (d. 384 / 994) collection Al-faraj baʿda ʾl-shidda (Relief After Affliction), full of wise advice and religious exhortations and descriptions of the repression and violence done to people by rulers and their officials. Another by al-Tanukhi is Al-mustajad min fiʿlat al-ajwad (The Admirable in the Deeds of Generous Men). A third is by al-Raqqam al-Basri (d. 321 / 933), Al-ʿafwu wa ʾl-iʿtidhar (Forgiveness and Apology), which deals mainly with various meanings of forgiveness, reprieve, and apology; it speaks of felons and how they were forgiven, giving a clear picture of the Arab personality in those times and of many of the social habits and the relation of rulers with subjects, as well as the habits of people in their quarrels and differences, depicting some of the major historic figures, such as al-Hajjaj, ruler of Basra, and the poet al-Farazdaq; and there is Ibn al-Daya’s (d. 330? / 941) charming book Al-mukafaʾa (The Recompense). With the development of city life, many books were written about sexual and sometimes illicit topics, such as books written by the encyclopedic writer Shihab al-Din al-Tifashi (580 / 1184–651 / 1253), Nuzhat al-albab fima la yujad fi kitab (A Recreation for the Mind by What Is Not to Be Found in Books), which contains details of sexual practices of his time. Another, also by al-Tifashi, Rujuʿ al-shaikh ila sibah (The Return of the Old Man to His Youth), and others.

  24. For a single example: the story of David’s trick on Uriah, when he sent him “out to fight in order that he might be killed and then marry his wife” was categorically rejected by Muslims, who regarded it as impossible to be true, because it gave such a bad example. Prophets, the new Muslims believed, should be above this. See Ibn al-Jawzi, Kitab al-qussas wa ʾl-mudhakkirin (The Book of Storytellers and Preachers), ed. and trans. Merlin Swartz (Beirut: Dar al-Machriq, 1971), p. 10 for the Arabic, p. 97 for Swartz’s translation.

  25. Ibid., 10–11.

  26. See, in my Modern Arabic Fiction, the excerpt from Jurji Zaydan’s novel, Al-Amin wa ʾl-Maʾmun, 1047–56, especially 1049–50, describing the luxurious procession of al-Amin’s mother, Queen Zubaida, the wife of Harun al-Rashid.

  27. Folk poetry also began early in both Muslim Spain and Baghdad; however, it was never recognized as genuine poetry by poets and critics but was referred to according to its genre: muwashshah, zajal, and so on.

  28. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1957); see in particular chap. 1.

  29. The Arabic language underwent many changes in the Abbasid period, with the appearance of hundreds of newly coined words and expressions and an influx of a large vocabulary introduced from other languages, particularly words pertaining to foods and dress and the new urban and civic usages arriving from the conquered urban centers of the surrounding lands.

  30. ʿImad Ismaʿil, Jalal Khayyat, and ʿAli ʿAbbas, eds., Mukhtarat min athar al-Jahiz (Selections from the Books of al-Jahiz) (Baghdad, 1980).

  31. On beggars and thieves he wrote two additional works, Hiyal al-mukaddin (The Trickery of Beggars) and Hiyal al-lusus (The Trickery of Thieves), containing many colorful situations.

  32. On the rise and evolution of humor at the end of the Umayyad period, see ʿAbd al-Karim al-Yafi, Dirasat fi ʾl-adab al-ʿArabi (Studies in Arabic Literature) (Damascus, 1963), especially the chap. “Tatawwur al-mujtamaʿ min khilal tatawwur al-fukaha” (The Development of Society [as Seen] from the Development of Humor) 489–624.

  33. A study by Hilary Kilpatrick on this topic illuminates the method and intention of these akhbar, “Context and the Enhancement of the Meaning of Akhbar in the Kitab al-Aghani,” Arabica, tome 38, 1991.

  34. A very interesting book is Al-mukafaʾa (The Recompense), by Ahmad B. Yusuf, known as Ibn al-Daya (d. 340? / 951), who lived in Egypt and was knowledgeable about many disciplines, including letters, medicine, clairvoyance, mathematics, and others. In this book, the author tries to show how people get rewarded in this life according to what they do. The writer speaks of people high and low, avoiding a highly elevated language and including many words from Persian and from the local vernacular of Egypt and other parts of the Arab domains.

  35. Excerpt from ʿAbd al-Wahid Luʾluʾa’s essay, “Echoes of Israʾ and Miʿraj in the Divine Comedy,” in my Classical Arabic Story.

  36. Ibid.

  37. Mahmoud Dhuhni presents a long discussion on this point, trying to prove, not without logic, that at least part of the book’s sections were completely the creation of Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ; see his long chapter on him in Al-Qissa fi ʾl-adab al-ʿArabi ʾlqadim (The Story in Old Arabic Literature) (Cairo: Maktabat al-Anglo ʾl-Misriyya, 1973), 150–201.

  38. As quoted by Ferial Ghazoul in her illuminating article on the fables in the Arabian Nights and in The Epistles of the Brethren of Purity (“Qisas al-hayawan baina mawruthina al-shaʿbi wa turathina ʾl-falsafi” [Fables Between Our Popular and Philosophical Heritage], in Fusul, special number on heritage, autumn 1994, 134– 52, quotation on p. 136).

  39. Ibid., 145.

  40. When the great Umayyad poet Dhu ʾl-Rumma read his wonderful baʾiyya poem at al-Mirbad, one of his best, he asked al-Farazdaq, who admired the poem, why he was not regarded among the greats (fuhul). Al-Farazdaq’s answer shows the alienation of town poets like al-Farazdaq from pre-Islamic conventions: “This is because you keep describing the campsites and the camels.” These conventions nonetheless persisted among some major poets, such as al-Sharif al-Radi, several centuries later.

  41. The minor poet Abu Dulaf al-Khazraji, of the fourth / tenth century, opposed the elevated trend of major poets. His poem “Al-qasida ʿl-Sasaniyya” (The Sassanid Poem) portrays the life of marginal members of society, including beggars, linked, in this poem and elsewhere, with the Banu Sasan, of Persia; see the two-volume work by C. E. Bosworth, The Medieval Islamic Underworld: The Banu Sasan in Arabic Society and Literature (Leiden: Brill, 1976). This kind of verse by Abu Dulaf and a few others was not, however, destined to become a tradition in poetry.

  42. For more on the maqamat, see Abdallah Cheikh-Moussa, “Reality and Fiction in the Maqamat of al-Hamadhani, Abu ʾl-ʿAnbas al-Saymari and Abu l-Fath al-Iskandari,” and Devin Stuart, “Classical Arabic Maqamat and the Picaresque Novel,” both in my Classical Arabic Story (forthcoming).

  43. On some of these influences, see, among others, Luce López-Baralt, “The Legacy of Islam in Spanish Literature,” in The Legacy of Muslim Spain, ed. Salma Khadra Jayyusi, 505–52 (Leiden: Brill, 1977); and María Rosa Menocal, “Al-Andalus and 1492: The Ways of Remembering,” ibid., 483–504; and Roger Boase, “Arab Influences on European Love Poetry,” ibid., 457–82, for a cogent discussion of influences and similarities.

  44. Federico Corriente, “Linguistic Interference between Arabic and the Romance Languages,” ibid., 443–51; and Dieter Messner, “Further Listings and Categorizations of Arabic Words in Ibero-Romance Languages,” ibid., 452–556.

  45. J. C. Burgel, “Ibn Tufail and His Hayy ibn Yaqzan: A Turning Point in Arabic Philosophical Writing,” in Jayyusi, Legacy of Muslim Spain, 831.

  46. Ibid.

  47. I am indebted to Dr. Stefan Sperl, head of the Arabic Department at the School of Oriental and African Studies, London University, for the following addition about other writings in the same vein. The first treatment in Ara
bic of a Hayy Ibn Yaqzan story occurs in a ten-page risala of this name by Ibn Sina (b. 370/980–428/1037) published by Ahmad Amin at Dar al-Maʿarif, Cairo, in 1959, in a book titled Hayy Ibn Yaqzan ʿinda Ibn Sina, Ibn Tufayl wa ʾl-Suhrawardi. Next the story appears in a Hebrew philosophical poem by Abraham Ibn Ezra (b. 1089 C.E.) under the title Hay Ben Meqitz (seventeen pages in English translation). Suhrawardi (549/1154–587/1191) wrote only a brief statement of two pages on Hayy. The longest treatment is that by Ibn Tufayl (499?/1105–581/1185/6). It approaches novel dimensions. In modern times, the most detailed treatment of the Hayy cycle is Aaron W. Hughes, The Texture of the Divine: Imagination in Medieval Islamic and Jewish Thought (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004). A cogent and original discussion of this novel by ʿAbd al-Fattah Kilito titled “The Intruder: Hayy ibn Yaqzan” is being published in my edited book, The Classical Arabic Story, History, Genres, and Influences, now in press at E. J. Brill.

  48. Ibid. For a compelling discussion of this novel, see ʿAbd al-Fattah Kilito, “The Intruder: Hayy ibn Yaqzan,” in my Classical Arabic Story.

  49. Muhammad Rajab al-Najjar, “Epic Stories in the Arab Heritage: Structure, Significance and Function,” ibid.

  50. Ibid.

  51. Harry Norris, “Introduction,” in The Adventures of Sayf Ben Dhi Yazan: An Arab Folk Epic, part translation, part retelling by Lena Jayyusi (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996).

  1

  Pre-Islamic Tales

  1

  The Sons of Nizar

  When Nizar1 felt himself about to die, he called his sons Mudar, Iyad, Rabiʿa, and Anmar

  “Sons,” he told them, “this red tent” (which was of leather) “is to be Mudar’s; and this black horse and black woolen tent are to be Rabiʿa’s; and this gray-haired servant” (she was of middle age) “is to be Iyad’s; and this reception room is to be Anmar’s, in which he will sit. If you find any difficulty in dividing [the inheritance], then go and consult with the Serpent of Jurhum [the High Priest], who lives in Najran.”2

  When Nizar died, they found themselves quarreling over the inheritance and so went to visit the Serpent of Jurhum. On their way, Mudar, seeing the remains of grass that had been used for pasture, said:

  “The camel that ate this grass was one-eyed.”

  “And it was lame,” Rabiʿa said.

  “And it was short-tailed,” Iyad said.

  “It was certainly a stray camel,” Anmar said.

  As they walked on, they met a man looking for his camel, and he asked them if they had seen one.

  “Was it one-eyed?” Mudar asked him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Was it lame?” Rabiʿa asked.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “Was it short-tailed?” Iyad asked.

  “Yes,” answered the man.

  “Was it a stray camel?” Anmar asked finally.

  “Yes,” the man answered, “that’s the very camel! Take me to where it is.”

  “By God,” they said, “we never saw it.”

  “You’re lying!” the man retorted. Then he laid hold of them. “How am I to believe you,” he went on, “when you describe my camel down to the last detail?” He stayed close by them till they reached Najran.

  When they alighted, the camel owner cried:

  “These men have taken my camel. They’ve just described it to me.”

  “We never saw it,” the brothers said.

  They went to the Serpent of Najran, who was a wise man and a judge among the Arabs, and laid their case before him.

  “How were you able to describe it,” he asked, “when you’d never seen it?”

  “I saw,” Mudar answered, “how it had grazed on one side of the pasture and left the other. And so I decided it must be one-eyed.”

  “I saw how one of its feet had left clear tracks,” said Rabiʿa, “while the others had left weak ones. And so I decided it must be lame.”

  “I knew it had a short tail,” Iyad said, “because its dung was in a single heap. Had it had a long tail, the dung would have been scattered.”

  “I knew it was a stray camel,” Anmar said finally, “because it had grazed in one lush place, thick with grass, then left it for another with poorer, ranker grass.”

  The Serpent of Najran told the man:

  “These men didn’t take your camel. Go and search for it.”

  “Who are you?” he asked them then. And, when they told him, he welcomed them, and they told him the reason for their visit.

  “How can you be in need of me,” he asked, “when you are as you are?”

  Then he gave them his hospitality, killing a goat for them, and he brought in wine, then sat where he could hear them without their seeing him.

  “I should never have eaten more delicious meat,” Rabiʿa said, “had the goat not been fed on the milk of a bitch.”

  “I should never have drunk better wine,” Mudar said, “if the vine had not been growing on a grave.”

  “I should never, to this day,” said Iyad, “have seen a man more noble than this one, if only he had come from the father he claimed.”

  “I have never,” Anmar said finally, “heard words more profitable to us than our words today.”

  All this was uttered in the Serpent’s hearing, and he said to himself: “These are devilish men.”

  With that he called the server and asked him about the wine and where it had come from.

  “It came,” the man told him, “from a shoot I planted on our father’s grave. And what wine was ever more delicious?”

  Next he asked the herdsman:

  “What was the matter with this goat?”

  “It was a small goat,” the herdsman answered, “whose mother had died, and there was no female in milk among the goats we had. And so I had to suckle it on a bitch’s milk.”

  Then he approached his mother and asked her who his father was. She had, she told him, been married to a king of great wealth who could not beget children. “I was afraid,” she went on, “he would die childless and all his wealth would be lost.”

  The Serpent returned to the young men and explained these matters to them. They in turn told him of their father’s advice.

  “Whatever wealth falls under the color red,” he told them, “that belongs to Mudar.” And Mudar took all the dinars and all the red camels, and was called thereafter Mudar the Red.

  “As for him,” the Serpent said, “to whom the black horse and the black tent were given, he shall have all that is black.” And Rabiʿa inherited all the black horses and was called thereafter Rabiʿa the Horse.

  “And all,” the Serpent continued, “that resembles the gray-haired maidservant belongs to Iyad.” And Iyad inherited all the white and gray sheep, and was called thereafter Iyad the Gray.

  As for Anmar, the Serpent assigned him all the dirhams and whatever else remained of the inheritance, and he was called thereafter Anmar the Remnant.

  From Kitab al-Tijan fi Muluk Himyar (The Book of Crowns Concerning the Kings of Himyar), as narrated by Abu Muhammad ibn Hisham, from Asad ibn Musa, from Abi Idris ibn Sinan, from his grandfather Wahb ibn Munabbih. Edited and published by the Center for Yemeni Studies, Sanaa, Yemen, A.H. 1347.

  1. Nizar ibn Rabiʿa is regarded as the founder of the southern Arabs in what is now called Yemen.

  2. Najran was one of the most important ancient cities of Yemen. The title “Serpent of Najran” was given to this priest on account of his celebrated wisdom, the serpent being a symbol of wisdom for the ancient Arabs.

  2

  The Priestess of the Banu Saʿd

  ʿAbd al-Muttalib1 vowed that, should he have ten sons and find them all men around him, he would sacrifice one of them at the Kaʿba in honor of the [pagan] god.

  When all his sons had grown to the age of ten, he told them:

  “Sons, I made a vow of which you know. What do you have to say?”

  “The choice is yours,” they said. “We are all in your hands.”


  “Let each of you take his arrow,” ʿAbd al-Muttalib said, “and write his name on it.”

  They did so and gave him the arrows. Then ʿAbd al-Muttalib summoned the man responsible for casting the arrows [as divination] and gave him their arrows, telling him: “Shake them slowly.”

  ʿAbd Allah was the son dearest to him. The man cast the arrows, and it was ʿAbd Allah’s arrow that came out. ʿAbd al-Muttalib took a great knife and brought ʿAbd Allah and had him lie between the two Quraish idols, Isaf and Naʾila.2 But as he was about to slay him, the boy’s brother Abu Talib leaped in and stayed his father’s hand.

  When the Abu Makhzoum, who were ʿAbd Allah’s maternal uncles, heard of this, they all came furiously to ʿAbd al-Muttalib.

  “We shall not allow you,” they said, “to slay our nephew. Go and slay whomever you wish from your other children.”

  “I have made a vow,” ʿAbd al-Muttalib said, “and the arrow came on ʿAbd Allah. He must be slain.”

  “No,” they said. “This shall never be, so long as we have breath in us! We are ready to sacrifice for his safety all our wealth, inherited or acquired.”

  Then the chiefs of the Quraish came to ʿAbd al-Muttalib and counseled him, saying:

  “The thing you intend to do is fearful. Should you slay your son, you will never enjoy life after him. Only have patience, and we will go with you to the priestess of Saʿd. Whatever she commands you to do, then do it.”

  “I consent to this,” ʿAbd al-Muttalib said.

  He went with a group of the Banu Makhzoum to the priestess in Damascus. When ʿAbd al-Muttalib had told her of his intention to slay his son, the priestess said: “Leave now.” And so they left.

  Next morning they returned. “How much,” she asked, “is the head price of a [slain] man in your [community]?”