“Indeed you are,” the rat agreed. “In the normal way, it would have pleased me to see you trapped. But today I have a fellow feeling for you. We’re both of us trapped. Why don’t we work together to free ourselves? I’m not seeking any deliverance separate from yours. You’ll see, in time, that I’m harboring no deception or treachery. You can see the ferret over there, waiting to pounce on me, and the owl up above, waiting to swoop down on me. Both are your prey, just as they’re my enemies, and both fear you. If you’ll let me approach you in safety, so I can escape safely from them, then I’ll cut you loose. Trust what I’m saying. By nature, I trust no one, and you yourself are trusted by none. But we’re both of us trapped. We must trust each other if we’re to come out alive. Be quick to trust me. The wise never delay what must be done. Find relief in my survival as I do in yours. Each of us will be rescued by the other, as happens with a ship and its crew at sea. The crew are delivered safely by the ship, the ship by its crew.”
The wildcat liked the words he heard, realizing the rat was quite sincere.
“What you say is the plainest truth,” the wildcat answered. “I wish for this truce, which will bring both of us out safely. I shall thank you for it as long as I live and reward you most handsomely.”
“As I approach you,” the rat said, “let the ferret and the owl see we’ve come to an agreement. That will make them leave in despair. And then I’ll have time to gnaw at the net and cut you free.”
So it happened. But the wildcat saw the rat was taking his time gnawing at the net, as if not truly bent on his work.
“I see you’re not serious about cutting me free,” the wildcat said. “Now you have what you wanted, you seem to have changed—unwilling to lend your help. It isn’t honorable to hesitate in relieving a friend after finding relief yourself. You saw what a good friend I was to you in saving you from certain death. It’s only right you should do the same for me. You ought to forget the natural enmity that persists between your kind and mine. The good deed we’ve done, each for the other, should make you forget your natural instincts. The honorable are always thankful, never perfidious. One good deed makes the honorable forget countless bad ones. Treachery, bearing false witness, refusing heartfelt pleas for forgiveness—all these lead on, swiftly, to severe punishment.”
“There are two kinds of friend,” the rat replied. “Willing friends and those forced into friendship by necessity. Both seek their own interests, and guard themselves against harm. The willing friend is one the heart opens up to; he’s always trusted, implicitly. The friend by necessity can be trusted in certain cases, but he’s to be avoided in others. The wise man carefully weighs his need for such a friend. For the most part, relations between people are based on mutual interest and on any advantage sought. I’m loyal to you only in so far as I hold myself accountable— I’m on my guard against what you might do to me. There’s a right time for every deed, and a deed out of its proper time is futile, even harmful. That’s why I’m cutting you totally free only at the right time. For the moment I’m leaving a few knots uncut, till I know I’m completely safe from you.”
They went on talking in this way till the hunter appeared in the distance. “Now it’s time to cut you free completely,” said the rat; and this he did. The wildcat scampered up the tree, the rat vanished into his hole, and the hunter, picking up what was left of his torn net, went off empty-handed.
After a while the rat came out from his hole, but, seeing the wildcat some way off, was wary of going too close to him.
“My brave friend,” the wildcat called, “why don’t you come closer? Come, we’re friends! If someone makes friends, then loses the proper feelings of warmth and loyalty, he loses the fruits of friendship and despairs of friends’ assistance. How could I forget the helping hand you stretched out to me. You deserve a reward, from me and from my kind. Don’t be afraid of me. Rest assured, what I have is yours.”
“A friendship,” the rat replied, “may well hide an enmity more dangerous than open enmity itself. To relax your guard is to be like those who ride on elephants’ tusks, then fall asleep. A friend is a friend for the good he can provide. An enemy is an enemy for the harm he can inflict. If the wise seek benefits from their enemies, then they should make a show of friendship. And if they fear harm from a friend, then they feign enmity. Young beasts follow their mothers in search of milk, and when the milk no longer flows, then the young ones turn away. Clouds can gather now and release rain, then, later, disperse and withhold it. The wise will change their ways toward friends according to how their friendships change. You can open yourself up to friends, be frankly talkative, or draw back and be warily silent. Enemies may become friends by force of circumstances. When the circumstances are gone, the friendship goes, too, and the path’s set for the old enmity to return.
“Friendships of this kind” (the rat went on) “are like water heated by fire. Take away the fire, and the water cools. By natural instinct, no enemy threatens me more than you do. But the two of us were forced into a friendship by pressing circumstances: you needed me, and I you. Now all that has passed, a sign that the old enmity, for ever prevailing between your kind and mine, may now return. It isn’t good for the weak to be too close to a powerful foe; nor for the humble to be too near a proud and insolent enemy. You have no need of me now, except as your next meal. I see no reason to trust you. The weak are closer to escape from a powerful enemy when they’re on their guard, when they’re not beguiled by shows of feigned friendship. The wise conciliate, appease their enemies when obliged to do so, then swiftly turn away from them when the means appear. The wise are loyal, as best they can be, to those they befriend, and they’re wary of their enemies, with all the wariness they can muster. You avoided the hunter, and I avoid you, which shows us both to have sound, sensible minds. I’m well disposed to you, but from a distance, and you should be the same. There’s no way we could ever be too close. Now, peace be upon you!”
5. The Traveler and the Jeweler
The king said to the philosopher:
“I have heard of what goes on between kings and their confidants. Tell me about kings. On whom should they bestow favors, and who has the right to take a king into his confidence?”
“Kings,” the philosopher replied, “are, like others, in duty bound to show favor to the deserving, to give hope to the grateful, and not solely to consider relatives and courtiers, the wealthy and those with influence. Kings should not hold back from doing good to the weak, to laborers, to the poor. They should have dealings with the lower orders as well as with the higher, should know how grateful and loyal, or how thankless and treacherous, they are; and should know how to deal with each kind accordingly. The physician doesn’t cure his patients by observation alone. He analyzes their water, examines their veins, then dispenses his medication. The judicious man, knowing who the grateful and loyal are, strengthens his ties with them—he may, after all, need them in the future. The wise should be wary and cautious, not hasty in trusting others. It was said of old that the wise man should show no contempt either to small or great, among people or beasts. Rather he should test them out, then have dealings with them in the light of what he discovers. There is a fable on this theme, recounted by the wise.”
“A fable?” the king said. “How does it go?”
It’s told (the philosopher began) how some hunters once dug a pit to trap lions, and into this pit fell a man, a jeweler by profession. Later some beasts— a mountain cat, a snake, and an ape—fell into the pit, too. They didn’t attack the man, but nor could they find a way out. The pit was too deep.
A traveler, passing by, looked down into the pit and saw them all together there.
“I can do no better deed,” he said to himself, “to stand for me in the hereafter, than to save that poor man there from all those beasts.”
He lowered a rope down into the pit. The nimble ape grasped it first and quickly scampered up to freedom. When the rope was lowered once more, the mountain cat
clung on to it and was hauled up. Next the snake coiled itself around the rope and was pulled out. They all thanked the traveler but warned him, too, against helping the jeweler to come out.
“No creatures on earth are less grateful than man,” they all warned him, “and above all that one down there.”
The ape, introducing himself to his rescuer, said: “My home is at such and such a mountain, close to a city called Barajoun.” “I, too, come from those parts,” said the mountain cat. “And I live in that city’s walls,” the snake said, “should you ever pass through it.” Then they all said together: “Visit us. We’re in duty bound to repay you.”
The traveler, though, ignoring the beasts’ warnings, lowered his rope to the jeweler, now solitary down in the pit. Once hauled out, the jeweler bowed low to his rescuer, thanking him profusely.
“You’ve done me a very great kindness,” he said, “for which I shall always be grateful. Should you ever come to Barajoun, do, please, visit me. That’s where I live. Simply ask for me.”
They all went their separate ways. Sometime later, the traveler found himself on his way to Barajoun. As he was passing by a mountain nearby, the ape came running toward him, welcoming him warmly, kissing his hands and feet in a gesture of utter affection and loyalty.
“Wait for me here,” he said, “while I fetch you some refreshment.”
Soon after, the ape returned with all kinds of luscious fruit. After enjoying this, the traveler moved on toward Barajoun, and, on some hilly ground outside the city walls, was met by the mountain cat.
“You did me a good turn,” the mountain cat said, “and a very great one, too. I feel I must repay you generously. Wait here till I return.”
Late that night, the mountain cat found his own way into the city, headed for the royal palace, then stole into the bedchamber of the king’s daughter, who was sound asleep there. With swift, deadly movements, he killed the hapless girl and made off with her jewelry; and the traveler, awaiting his return, was presented with the booty.
“This small treasure,” the mountain cat lied, “I discovered hidden here in these hills. Now it’s yours. I must apologize for rewarding your priceless help so meanly.”
“These poor beasts,” the traveler said to himself, “have given me such excellent reward. How much more won’t the jeweler—a man—repay me? Even if times are hard for him and he’s nothing to spare, he’ll at least be able to sell the jewels and share the proceeds with me.”
The traveler arrived in the city and was welcomed by the jeweler.
“Make yourself at home,” the jeweler said. “Excuse me for a moment. I have to go out and fetch you something to eat. What I have here in the house isn’t fit to be set before such an honored guest as you are.”
The jeweler, leaving the traveler waiting there at his house, then hurried off to the royal palace and presented himself before the king in the audience chamber.
“The man who murdered your daughter,” he said, “and stole her jewelry is now detained at my house. I’ve caught him red-handed with the stolen jewels. He came to try to persuade me to sell the jewels for him.”
The king at once sent a detachment of the royal guards, who arrested the traveler and brought him to the king. When the king saw the stolen jewels in the man’s possession, he ordered that the traveler be first tortured, then paraded around the city as a thief and murderer, and finally crucified. Led through the city, reviled and spat on by an angry, outraged mob, the traveler sobbed loudly in his anguish.
“If only,” he cried out bitterly, “I’d listened to the ape, and the mountain cat, and the snake, I would have been spared this. Oh, such a shameful, fearful plight!”
The snake, hearing the traveler’s pitiful howls, came out from his hole in the city walls. Seeing the poor man in such a lamentable state, he couldn’t bear simply to stand by and do nothing; and he thought of a clever ruse to save the wretched man from his misery. Crawling purposefully to the royal palace, he slithered swiftly into the apartment of the king’s son and, finding the prince at his meal, bit him in the leg. There was uproar in the palace, everyone quivering with anxiety and fear. The distraught king summoned the royal astrologer and the court physicians to treat the stricken prince, who was now grievously sick and close to death. Giving him a potion that induced him to talk, the knot of anxious people around the prince’s bed was dumbfounded by the words the young man uttered.
“I won’t be cured,” the prince said from his sickbed, weakly but fervently, “till the traveler’s brought to me. When he lays his hand on me, I shall be cured. You, my father the king, have committed the fearful injustice, indeed the most heinous crime, in condemning a quite innocent man to torture, public ridicule, and death.”
Now, how was it these strange words came from the lips of the dying prince? The truth is that the snake had told a jinn friend of his about the traveler, about the good deed he’d done and the heartrending misfortune he’d suffered. The jinn had then wafted itself, invisibly, to the sleeping prince and cast a spell on him, infusing in him a dream in which all the traveler had done, all that had happened to him, was revealed. The snake then sped off to the traveler and told him all about the jinn, the prince, and the dream.
“I warned you against helping that man,” the snake said reproachfully to the hapless traveler languishing in his dungeon and awaiting death. “But you wouldn’t listen.”
Then the snake gave him a sprig of herbs that would dispel the effect of his poison.
“Should the king,” he directed, “summon you, then give the sick prince this sprig. Tell him to have it boiled, then drink the infusion. It will cure him. Tell the truth to the king, and you’ll be safe, God willing.”
Meanwhile, the prince told his father the king from his sickbed:
“My cure lies with the traveler you arrested, tortured, and condemned to death.”
The king relented at this, brought the traveler to his presence, and commanded him to cure his son.
“I cannot do as you command,” the traveler replied. “But I pray, indeed, for the prince’s health.”
“What brings you to this city?” the king inquired. “What’s your business here?”
The traveler thereupon told him the whole story: of the pit, the ape, the snake, the mountain cat, and the jeweler against whom the beasts had warned him. Then he prayed aloud:
“Almighty God! If You know I have spoken the truth, then hasten the prince’s cure and restore him to health.”
The young prince quickly recovered and was soon in the best of health. The king rewarded the traveler handsomely and ordered that the jeweler be executed.
The philosopher then said to the king:
“The jeweler’s treachery, after what the traveler had done to save his life, the way the beasts supported the traveler and exerted themselves to save him from certain death—all this is a lesson to be learned, a lesson of loyalty and good faith.”
6. The Host and the Guest
The king said to the philosopher:
“Tell me about those who turn away from their own quite suitable professions, which they carry on well enough, to follow other professions for which they’re unsuited.”
It’s told (the philosopher replied) how there lived once, in a land called Karkh, a man who was pious and devout. One day the man had a guest and set before him a platter of choice dates.
“How sweet these dates are!” the guest exclaimed, after eating a few.
“How delicious! In my own country, there are no palm trees and no dates. We do, though, have other kinds of fruit, especially figs. And dates, after all, aren’t as good for the health as figs are.”
In reply, the host embarked on a moral discourse.
“He isn’t to be considered happy who needs what he can’t find, or can’t acquire. Such a man will grow greedy, covetous, and restless. Then gloom and despondency will follow, and his health will suffer. He’ll overburden himself with worry and care. You, who have a firm will and a g
ood appearance, should be content with what you have and hold back from seeking the unattainable.”
“That’s well said,” the guest remarked approvingly. “But tell me one thing. I’ve heard you speak a foreign language I find intriguing and pleasing. Would you teach me that language? I’d like very much to learn it.”
“What would happen to you,” the wise host replied, “were you to turn away from your native language and take up a foreign one, would be like what happened to the crow.”
“The crow?” the guest said. “Tell me, please. What did happen to the crow?”
“It’s told,” the host began, “how a crow once stood watching a partridge as it went about. Liking the way the partridge walked, he tried to imitate it. But no matter how hard he tried, the crow’s steps looked awkward and clumsy compared to the quick, light, graceful steps of the partridge. At last, after repeated failures, the crow grew confused and disconsolate. I give you this fable,” the host explained, “to show how, were you to abandon your native language (which might sound less attractive to you than a foreign one) and choose to attempt that foreign language instead, you wouldn’t master it and would merely appear foolish trying to speak it. You’d lose what you already have but wouldn’t gain the thing you covet. It was said of old: a person will be deemed ignorant if he attempts what is unapt, unfitting, and unbecoming; what his forefathers were never known to have attempted in their time.”
The philosopher then explained to the king:
“Rulers who fail in their duty to keep those they govern in their present stations but rather encourage them to move beyond themselves will be making them act like the crow in this fable, who aspired to be something not his by destiny. A wise ruler should see to it that people know their places in society and don’t covet positions above their own. For people, when driven by the urge to rise above themselves, to move out from their ordained places, find themselves embroiled in uncalled for hardships: hardships of displacement, uncertainty, and instability. This hectic movement, up the social scale, entails ever-mounting dangers, till, at the highest point, the exalted position so longed for and attained becomes a visible challenge to the ruler himself.”
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