“Is it just one rat,” the guest asked, “or are there several of them?”
“There are several,” the host complained, “but one of them’s a bigger
nuisance than the others. I just can’t stop it. I don’t know what to do.”
“That reminds me,” said the guest, “of the story of the woman who sold sesame seeds.”
“What about her?” the host asked, encouraging his guest to embark on a new account. “Tell me.”
I was the guest of a man (the traveler began) in such and such a city. We had supper, then, after making up a bed for me, he and his wife retired for the night. There was a reed screen between me and them, and I heard him tell his wife:
“I’d like to invite some people here to dinner tomorrow.”
“How can you,” she objected, “when there’s barely enough in the house to feed your children? You never save anything. Whatever you get, you spend.”
“Don’t worry about the food we offer to other people,” he advised her. “Thrift and saving lead to what happened to the wolf.”
“And what happened to the wolf?” she asked.
“A hunter,” he said, “went out seeking game with bow and arrows. He shot a deer, and, as he was carrying it home slung over his shoulders, he was attacked by a boar. The boar was mortally wounded by the hunter, but the boar gored him so seriously that he died, too. Then a wolf came along and found a hunter, a deer, and a boar all lying dead.
“ ‘I ought to be thrifty,’ the wolf said to himself ‘and save what I can from this sumptuous feast. You don’t get anywhere if you don’t save.’
“Showing quite remarkable thrift, the wolf left the three bodies to one side and started chewing, of all things, on the hunter’s bowstring. Once the string was cut, the bow snapped back violently against the wolf’s head, killing him instantly.”
“That sounds fair enough,” the wife said approvingly. “I’ve enough rice and sesame to feed six or seven. I’ll go off now and prepare the meal. Invite your guests for tomorrow.”
The next day she spread the sesame out in the sun to dry. “Now, you scare away the birds and dogs,” she told her husband. He, though, went off on an errand and left the sesame unguarded. A dog came into the yard and started eating some of it and the wife, seeing the dog eating the meal intended for their guests, decided the food was unclean now and not fit for humans to eat. Off she hurried to the marketplace, with the hulled sesame the dog had eaten from, and exchanged it for some much cheaper unhulled sesame.
So I watched (the traveler went on) and heard the market man say: “This woman’s exchanging hulled for unhulled sesame. There must be some reason.” Now, the same applies to this rat that gets into your food basket wherever you hide it. Fetch me a hatchet. I’ll break a way into his hole and find the reason for you. And so the host brought him a hatchet.
All this time (our rat continued), I was in the hole of another rat, listening to their conversation. In my own hole there were a thousand dinars; I know the rat who placed them there. I used to spread the coins out and enjoy the sight of them, turning them over with delight. The guest put his arm through the hole, reached the hoard of coins, and took it.
“How did this rat,” he said, “ever get to the food basket? You would have thought he’d be always here, guarding the treasure! At any rate, money increases power and reputation. Now, deprived of his treasure, be sure he won’t be what he was before. He’ll have no power or influence over the other rats.”
I knew, as he spoke, that what he was saying was true. When I moved to another hole, I felt weak and powerless. I felt inferior. After a time, the other rats said: “We’re starving. We don’t have the food you used to provide us with. What are we to do now?”
So I scurried to the place where I used to leap into the food basket. I tried several times, but I couldn’t jump in. I realized I’d changed. The other rats held me in contempt now. I heard some of them say to others:
“He’s finished. Don’t bother with him anymore. He can’t do what he used to do. He’s helpless, it seems.”
So they all turned away from me and joined my enemies, talking ill of me to them.
“I only have friends,” I said to myself, “when I’m prospering. People only ever show goodness, and generosity and chivalry, to the rich. The poor who strive to better themselves are left to stagnate, like the summer rains trapped in wadis, flowing neither to river nor to sea. Those without friends are without relatives; and the childless are soon forgotten. Those without strong, healthy minds lose both this world and the next. The penniless, stricken by hardship, are turned away by friends, shunned by kith and kin, forced, by dire necessity, to seek a livelihood by wayward ways that lead only to perdition. And so they lose both the here and the hereafter. There’s nothing harder than poverty. The poor, in their desperate need of what lies in the hands of others, are like a bare, stark tree, standing leafless in a salt flat. Poverty is at the base of all affliction, earning nothing but contempt. Poverty steals away mind and manners alike, drains away learning, knowledge, wisdom. It draws unfounded accusation, invites hardship and affliction. The impoverished lose all sense of what’s shameful. Those without shame are without virtue or chivalry, are loathed and shunned. Those who are loathed will be harmed. Those who are harmed will grieve, and grief does away with a sound, balanced mind. The impoverished will be accused by those they trusted, reviled by those they respected. The wealthy are always praised, the poor despised. Generosity, in the poor, is deemed foolishness. Mild manners are deemed weakness. In them gravity is seen as dullness, eloquence as chatter, calmness as stupidity. Death is easier, more welcome, more to be desired than poverty that obliges someone to ask alms of others and so be driven down into the abyss of humiliation and ignominy. Poverty lowers someone to cavernous depths, where before he soared in prosperity to the sublime. It banishes to a cold, harsh exile, after knowing a warm, snug closeness to loved ones. It is mere wretchedness after prosperity, contempt after honor. Most insufferable of all for the poor is to beg assistance from the miserly, the mean-spirited, and the closefisted. For someone fallen from prosperity to penury, it is easier to snatch poison from a dragon’s mouth and swallow it than to ask the miserly and mean-spirited for aid.
“It’s been said that for those afflicted with incurable disease; those languishing in alien lands without house or home, family and friends; for those afflicted with bitter, grinding poverty—for all such wretches, it has been said, life is a living death, and only death brings rest. A man may be so firm in refusing charity as to be forced, in spite of himself, to resort to theft. Muteness (it has been said) is better than eloquence thick with lying, impotence better than whoring, impoverishment better than growing rich by criminal means, fortitude in poverty better than ill-won gain waste- fully spent.”
Now, I saw the guest, having taken the hoard out from the hole, divide it with his solitary host, who placed his share in a bag. I coveted some of those coins—for I felt an urgent need to restore my strength and regain my former friends. I moved toward him as he slept. My movement, though, woke him. He struck at me with a stick, and I scurried back into my hole. My pain died down at last, and I was seized, once more, with a greedy desire for the coins. Again I approached him, while he watched me. He struck me on the head once more, making me bleed, and, writhing this way and that from injury and pain, I dragged myself, barely conscious, back to my hole. The fearful pain made me hate the money now; so much so that the very word made me quake with fear and horror. Reflecting on all this, I concluded that adversity and distress spring from greed. I saw the vast gulfs dividing generosity from miserly ways. It struck me that braving dangers, enduring the challenge of travel into the unknown in search of fortune, are lighter than putting out one’s hand to ask or take. Contentment, I realized now, is the source of all wealth. “No mind,” I heard the wise say, “is greater than a contented mind, no piety greater than abstinence, no illustrious lineage greater than cultivated manners, no we
alth greater than contentment.” Enduring what cannot be changed—this is the summit of all. The highest form of good, it has been said, is compassion; the highest form of amity lies in constant accord with others. The most useful mind is the one that knows what may and may not be, and so turns away, without rancor, from the unattainable.
So it was that, fully persuaded and fully contented, I moved out from the house of the solitary man, into the wilderness. A man of chivalry will always be honored, even if he lacks wealth—like a lion, always feared, even when quite at rest. The unchivalrous man, though, will be held in contempt for all his wealth. A dog is vilified, even if he has a collar and leash. Don’t make too much of your loneliness or estrangement, for the wise are never truly lonely or estranged. Their goodness and wisdom will never fail to suffice, as with the lion, who lives through his strength alone. Make the most of what you have, using this to do the greatest possible good. Do that, and good will seek you out, as waterfowl seek out the water. Good fortune seeks the farsighted, the firm, and those diligent in making the most of what chance provides. The slothful, the hesitant, the weak, the dependent seldom find good fortune attending them. A handsome, comely, personable young woman does not seek out the company of feeble, broken-down old men.
The turtle now took up the moral theme.
“Don’t distress yourself,” he said, “by saying, I was rich once, and now
I’m poor. Wealth, like worldly pleasures, is quick to come and quick to go, bouncing like a ball, now up, now down. The wise have marked out the transient, the mutable, the impermanent as being the following: the shade of clouds, evil company, love of women, false praise, and great wealth. The wise man never rejoices in his substantial wealth, or grieves when it grows meager. He rejoices in the largeness of his mind and in the good he’s done. Never, he knows well, never will he be stripped of his good deeds. Always he fixes his thoughts on the hereafter, seeking to win a favored place there. Death is always sudden in coming, its advent never known. But you, my dear friend, hardly stand in need of my sermons, for you have your mind fixed, always, on what is good and right.”
The crow listened intently to these words of the turtle to the rat and, convinced as he was of his friendliness, goodness, and wisdom, he was filled with delight.
“You’ve brought me,” he told the turtle, “much pleasure and satisfaction, as you always do. You have every right to be pleased with those words of yours. People in the world aspire to live happily and well, to be well praised by brothers and friends, through mutual vows of faith and assistance. The good, when they fall, will rise up again if helped to their feet by the good. The elephant, if mired in the mud, is helped by other elephants. The wise do not refuse some good deed, holding it to be demanding or strenuous beyond bearing. There may be great risk in doing good, but such risk the wise will readily take; they do not regard such a course as foolhardy, or injudicious, or overventuresome. The wise man knows that, in acting thus, he is selling the transient to purchase the enduring—is buying the great for the price of the small.”
The crow went on, still addressing the turtle:
“No one is to be considered wealthy if he fails to share his wealth. No one has truly lived if the favors he has done are few. No demands for recompense are considered grasping where generous favors have gone before, performed from sheer goodness of heart. And no favors are considered generous where grasping demands for recompense have gone before.”
As the crow was speaking, a deer suddenly appeared and raced toward them. Startled, the rat scurried into a hole, while the crow flew off to a treetop, and the turtle plunged into the spring. The deer tripped lightly up to the water and drank a little. Then, suddenly, she turned rigid with fear. The crow flew across to see what could have frightened the deer. But, seeing nothing, he called out to the rat and the turtle:
“I see nothing you need fear.”
With that they all approached together. The turtle, though, saw how the deer was looking at the water, without coming near.
“Drink if you’re thirsty,” the turtle told her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
With that the deer approached and greeted the turtle.
“Where have you come from?” the turtle asked.
“From the wilderness,” the deer explained, “where I was chased this way and that by hunters. Today I saw an apparition I took to be a hunter, and I ran here in fear.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the turtle said. “We’ve seen no sign of any hunters. Stay here with us. We’ll take care of you. The meadow isn’t far off.”
So the deer joined them and stayed there with them. Each day they’d meet all together by a bower to talk, exchange memories, and discuss. One day the crow, the turtle, and the rat were there at the bower, expecting the deer to arrive. When she failed to appear, though, they grew worried. Something, they felt, might have happened to her.
“Have a look,” the turtle and the rat said to the crow. “See if she’s anywhere close by.” The crow flew over the area, and, seeing the deer caught in a hunter’s net, wheeled straight back to tell the others. The crow and the turtle thereupon appealed to the rat.
“Only you,” they said, “can help this sister of ours and yours.”
The rat scurried up to the deer.
“How could it happen,” he asked the trapped deer, “that you, so wary and sure-footed, fell into this?”
“Can wisdom,” the deer replied sagaciously, “alter fate—fate that is unseen and so cannot be avoided?”
As they were speaking, the turtle appeared. The deer turned to him.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “If the hunter returns when the rat’s cut the net, I can outpace the hunter and escape with ease. The rat has many holes to hide in. The crow flies wherever he wishes. You, though, are heavy and slow, and unable to run. I’m afraid for you.”
“Life loses all point when loved ones are gone,” the turtle replied. “When affliction strikes, it helps soothe sadness, and calm the soul, to meet a brother and unburden yourself to him. Separation from those to whom you’re bound by friendship and affection steals away joy and veils insight with darkness.”
As the turtle finished speaking, and just as the rat had freed the deer from the net, the hunter appeared. Amazed to see his net cut, he gazed around and saw only the turtle. The crow, the deer, and the rat watched with grief as the hunter bound the turtle up.
“We free ourselves from one snare,” the rat said, “only to fall into another. It’s truly said, indeed, that to be free is not to stumble. Those who stumble will stumble constantly, even on smooth, straight paths. Ill fortune isn’t content with denying me my own family and friends, my wealth and well-being; it denies me even the company of the turtle, who showed more affection than a father to a son, an affection only death could take away. Woe to this body bedeviled by affliction, forever tumbling and turning, with no semblance of stability or calm. The grief I find myself mired in is like a healing wound that awakens a double pain when struck: the pain of the blow and the pain of a healing wound reopened.”
The crow and the deer felt deeply for him.
“We share your sorrow,” they said. “And yet, whatever any of us may say,
however moving and eloquent, it will be no use to the turtle. Better, surely, to find some way out. It’s said the strong are tested in the face of adverse events, the honest in giving and taking, while the family is tested during poverty, and friends during hard times.”
“We need to show resource,” the rat said. He turned to the deer. “Follow the hunter’s trail,” he went on. “Then lie down and pretend to be injured. The crow will pretend to be picking at you. Then I’ll follow the hunter. If all goes well, he’ll see you, lay down his bow and arrows, and leave the turtle to run toward you. When he approaches, get up quickly and run off, but pretend to be lame so he’ll be encouraged to go after you for as long as possible. Let him come close. Play this game with him just as long as you can—make sure he d
oesn’t lose interest in the chase. In the meantime, I’ll have gnawed at the cords long enough to cut the turtle free.”
The deer and the crow followed the plan through. The hunter went after the deer, the rat cut the turtle free, and they were all safe. The hunter was thunderstruck by what had happened.
“This is a land of jinn and sorcerers!” he cried.
With that he fled in fear. As for the crow, the deer, the rat, and the turtle, they returned safely to the bower together.
The philosopher then said to the king:
“If the smallest, weakest animals can work together to help one another, as we saw in this story, and save one of their number from certain destruction, then how pressing is the need for humans to follow their example.”
2. The Ape and the Turtle
The king said to the philosopher:
“Tell me a fable of a man who strives for what he needs, then squanders and loses what he fought so hard to gain.”
“To win,” the philosopher replied, “is easier than to keep. What happens to a man who wins a thing yet is careless in keeping it is like what happened to the turtle when he lost the ape he’d caught.”
“Tell me this story,” the king commanded.
It’s told (the philosopher began) how a colony of apes had a king named Vardin. He lived to a great age, becoming feeble and broken down at last. At that a young ape of his house sprang on him and turned to the others.
“He’s grown old and weak-minded,” the young ape cried, “incapable of ruling now. Let’s depose him!”
The other apes supported him, banishing the old king Vardin and installing the rebel in his place. The old, banished ape, stricken with grief, fled, then wandered aimlessly till he came upon a fig tree by the seashore. He climbed the tree and began eating the figs; and one fig fell into the sea, to be gobbled up by a turtle. The sound of figs plopping down into the water pleased the ape. He went on throwing figs into the sea, all of them instantly eaten up by the turtle, who was convinced by now that the ape was feeding him deliberately, from the goodness of his heart. The turtle came out, approached the ape, and made friends with him. Amity and affection flourished between the two, and they stayed together for a long time, the turtle unwilling to leave his newfound friend to rejoin his own kind in the sea. Meanwhile the turtle’s wife, grieved at her husband’s absence, complained to a friend:
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