By God, your Lord, my two companions, turn aside;
If you reproach him, he may turn to me.
Tell him of me and ask him why he kills me by forsaking me.
Then put a gentle question if he smiles:
“What harm could come were you to grant union?”
But if he shows you anger, say to him
In a rough tone: “We do not recognize this man.”
The voice that I heard was gentler than the breeze and more sorrowful than that of Ishaq your companion. It filled me with pleasure, and I told myself that if the singer was as beautiful as the voice, she would have everything. I went in to the house, moving from hall to hall until, when I came to the third, I could see behind it a girl with a perfect figure and swelling breasts, not too tall or too short, more beautiful than a statue and standing out more clearly than a way-mark. She was a well-brought-up Persian, as the poet described:
Created and perfected as she would have wished
Within the mould of beauty, neither tall nor short,
Round-breasted, like the sky, not too bright or too hot,
As though she was poured out from liquid pearls,
Showing a moon of beauty in each limb.
‘The girl, however, was suffering from an illness and was lying on a bed of ivory plated with gleaming gold. With her were maid-servants, who lifted the curtain, allowing me to look at her. She said: “Old man, have you no shame before Almighty God? This brings disgrace on white hair.” “Lady,” I replied, “I know my hair is white, but what is the disgrace?” She said: “What disgrace is fouler than that you should force your way into a house that is not yours and look at strange women?” I replied: “Lady, I am a stranger and strangers are blind. I am dying of thirst but I didn’t want to drink from the water-seller’s jug, which has been used by people suffering from diseases. I asked for a drink when I was some way from your house and when no one answered me I told myself that the halls stretched over a distance and I happened to be coming through when the maid raised the curtain and you caught sight of me.” “Is that so?” she said, and she then summoned a Turkish maid like a shining sun in a clear sky who, had she appeared to the people of the East, would have served them in place of sunrise. She was as the poet has described:
Is it your face I see or can it be the moon?
Are these your teeth or pearls set on a string?
Is this your figure stepping proudly, or a branch
Of the ban tree, or a samhari spear?
This slenderness has acted on my bones and waist
Until they are no thicker than a thread.
A lover may be killed by absence or closeness,
And I praise those who do not choose absence.
I thought that Babel was the home of magic,
Not knowing that it lives in Turkish eyes.
‘The girl was carrying a silver tray with a jug of red clay covered with a napkin of brocade, on which was an amber apple. I drank from the jug when she offered it to me and then stood up. Her mistress said: “Old man, we did not blame you when you forced your way in and we gave you the water you asked for, so now leave or else we will have you thrown out.” I said: “Lady, how can I go when I am as the poet has described:
Alas, my loneliness! As I stood at the door,
Its owner said: “Man, who are you?”
I am a stranger who has lost his way.
As I am helpless, will you be my guide?
“Go off, God guide you, this is not your way.”
How can I leave when I have business here?
‘The lady said: “Old man, what business do you have here and when did you see me so as to have business with me?” I told her: “Lady, I am an ignorant fellow, and it was thirst that forced me into your house, as even had I drunk no water for a month I could not bring myself to drink from the Tigris. I have no place of my own in Basra but when I happened to pass by the door of your house I heard a voice singing and I told myself that if the singer’s shape matched her poetry, she would have everything. I went through the halls until I came to this door and caught sight of you, who are as the poet has said:
I thought what I had heard was overblown,
But when we met I found that it fell short.
When I heard your lines, your complaint moved me to sadness and heartfelt sympathy for your misfortune. Tell me about this, for I may be able to help you find relief.” “Do you know these lines, old man?” she said, and when I asked what they were, she quoted:
When one man finds his secret hard to bear,
The one to whom he trusts it finds it harder still.
‘I said: “Lady, have you not heard the lines:
Bring your complaint before a trusty man,
And he will soothe you, making you forget, or share your pain.
‘ “And have you heard these?” she asked, before reciting:
Protect your secret from all questioners,
For firm resolve consists of wariness.
Your secret is your captive if you guard it well.
But if you make it public, you are its.
‘I said to her: “Lady, tell me, for it is difficult to find a cure when the disease is concealed, and it kills those who keep it hidden.” “No,” she answered, “I shall keep my secret to myself, for a poet has said:
It is the trustworthy with whom secrets are safe
And they are hidden by the best of men.”
“Don’t you know these other lines?” I asked:
My secret is in a locked room with yours;
The key is lost and the door is sealed shut.
By God, if you knew who I am you would tell me what you are keeping hidden and let me know your affair.” She then asked who I was, and I told her that I was Abu’l-Hasan al-Khali‘ of Damascus, the intimate of the Commander of the Faithful, of the Barmecides and of Muhammad son of Sulaiman, the governor of Basra and of all the state officials and chiefs.
‘At that she threw herself down at my feet and started to kiss them, saying: “I saw this in a dream but I never thought that it would really happen. People like you are depositories of secrets to whom things are told. You must know, Abu’l-Hasan, that I am in love.” I said: “Someone of your culture and understanding could only love a man of intelligence, and I should like you to let me know who it is. If he is someone worthy of your love, I shall help you to get what you want, but if not, I shall tell you of the faithlessness and treachery of men with tales of those who have betrayed their lovers, using poetry, history and tales. It might then be that you would abandon your love for an unworthy man and concern yourself with someone else, as amongst men there are those who deserve everything and others who do not.”
‘ “You are right, Abu’l-Hasan,” she said, “and you should know that I am in love with ‘Umair son of Jubair al-Shaibani.” By God, Commander of the Faithful, there is no one more handsome, generous or brave than this ‘Umair whom she mentioned, and I told her: “Lady, you have hit the mark, and this emir deserves to be loved. Did you and he talk together, were letters exchanged, did he see you in some fixed place or did you share a sign?” “Heedless man,” she said, “he spent a year sleeping on my breast, breaking no covenant and untying no knot, and we slept chastely and virtuously, not indulging in disloyal fornication.” “What led him to betray you and abandon you after that?” I asked, and she said: “Every day he was in the habit of riding out on a midday trip with his relations and companions, and he would stop here and have a cooked meal with strained wine, and he and I would sit and drink and amuse ourselves until one of us got drunk. He would go and sleep until morning, when he would ride off to see the sights. Then one day, when he had gone off as usual, I called one of my maids, as my hair had got ruffled when I was playing with my lover on the pillow, and I told her to comb it. She came and did this, and when she had finished I kissed her head. She kissed my hand and then the parting of my hair and my cheek, but my lover came upon her as she was doing this, and, turning o
n his heel, he left, reciting:
If I should have a partner in my love,
I would shun love itself even if I died of grief.
So I have told my soul to die of love,
As amongst lovers Qais died for Lubna.
He then left me and went off without a backward look.
‘ “I have begged the leading men of the city to get him to read a letter from me, hear what I had to say or listen to my complaint and give me an answer, but he has not done this, and, apart from God, I can only rely on you. Take a note to him, and if he sends a reply I shall give you five hundred dinars, while if does not read it and reply, you can have a hundred amiri dinars.” “Lady, to hear is to obey,” I said, “so write the note, and I shall go and do my best to bring you back an answer.”
‘She called for an inkwell and paper before writing: “In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful:
It may be you forget the love we shared,
But I remember you and your great qualities.
I found that you surpassed all men in worth,
For, while they all fall short, you are complete.
This letter comes from one who spends her nights in tears and her days in torture. All day she is bewildered and all night she is sleepless. She takes no pleasure in food, cannot take refuge in sleep, does not listen to rebuke and cannot hear those who speak to her. Longing has mastered her; separation has her in its grasp, and the fire of love controls her. She writes under duress, and her handwriting is mixed with tears and blood:
When this complaint is made of my heart’s love,
It prompts both paper and the pen to weep.
On each occasion when I want to rest,
Estrangement calls: ‘Get up and do not sleep.’
Were I to sit here writing a full account of the pains and agonies of separation and the burning longing, there would not be pages enough, but I beseech God the Creator, Who raised up the seven heavens, that, as He has decreed that we should part, so He may grant me a meeting with you.
Should a day pass on which I do not see
Your image or a messenger from you,
The world shrinks for me and I seem to be
A hand whose fingers have been cut away.
By God, my ribs could not contain my heart
Were it not sure that we would meet again;
The pupil of my eye would drown in tears
But for my promise it would see you soon.
I tell you that I suffer more than you, so give me back my mind. Your love is my delight and your abandonment of me my death. May God have mercy on the one who reads this letter and is moved by sympathy to answer it.
This letter comes from one enslaved by love
And in it she complains of love.
Send a reply so it may let her rest.
Peace be upon you to match my longing for you, which is as long-lasting as the stranger’s longing for his homeland and the dove’s song on its bough. Peace.”
‘She then sealed the letter and gave it to me. I took it, Commander of the Faithful, and brought it to the door of ‘Umair son of Jubair, where I found that he was out riding. I stood there for a time until he arrived with ten companions like frowning lions, while he was like the moon surrounded by stars. He had a dark moustache and the first traces of a red beard, while his face was like a moon. He had with him a sharp sword and was mounted on a sorrel horse of the stock of ‘Antar’s al-Abjar, which was worth more money than Caesar himself could produce. He was as the poet described:
The garden rose blooms on your cheek
And you stand like a shoot of the bamboo.
Put down the sword that you are carrying,
For your eyes cut more sharply than its edge.
When you unsheathe it your sword blade is sharp,
But the sword of your eyes cuts when still sheathed.
Critics reproach me when they see my eyes
Shed tears to rival the Euphrates’ ebb and flow.
This lover’s tears grant union with no word of loss.
I answered as the tears poured from my eyes
Over my cheeks for fear lest we should part:
“You who are bountiful to all but me,
And who have not kept to your promises,
Pay no attention to what slanderers say,
For this is often the reverse of truth.”
‘When ‘Umair caught sight of me he recognized me and threw himself down from his horse, embracing me and taking me by the hand to lead me into the house. After we had washed our hands in a copper bowl we were brought cups of sherbet and sat down after drinking them. A table made, legs and all, from khalanj wood was brought up, on which were creatures that walked, flew, were fetched up from the sea or bred in nests, sand grouse, quail, young pigeons, fatted chickens, breast of duck, suckling lambs and sugar sweets. ‘Umair stretched out his hand and invited me to start eating, but I said: “By God, I shall eat nothing nor venture on your food until you do something for me.” He asked me: “Did you pass by her door and hear her reciting such-and-such a poem and did you then go in and have such-and-such an encounter with her?” “By God, master, were you there?” I asked him. “No, I was not, and had I been, what need would there have been of the letter that you bring?” he replied. “Was one of your people with her?” I asked and he said: “It was better than that.” “Did someone come from her to tell you the story?” I asked, and he said: “By God, no one from her would dare come near me.” So I asked him who had told him, and he quoted a poet as saying:
The eyes of lovers see what other eyes do not.
‘As there was no reply that I could give him, Commander of the Faithful, I stretched out my hand and gave him the paper. When he had taken it in his hand he spat on it, threw it down and trampled it underfoot, making me very angry, and this did not escape his notice. He said: “Abu’l-Hasan, she promised you five hundred dinars if you brought back an answer and a hundred if you did not, didn’t she?” I agreed that she had, and he said: “You and I will sit through the night eating, drinking, enjoying ourselves, listening to music and keeping each other company until morning, when I shall give you five hundred dinars, and you will not have lost anything.” “By God, that is right,” I told myself.
‘We both began to eat and when we had had enough we went to the parlour, a room where the wine strainers wept and the wine flasks smiled, with herbs set out and flowers arranged. It was the time of the violet and the narcissus, Commander of the Faithful, with the flowers arranged in pairs. The poet has written of the narcissus:
The violet has come, so drink clear wine,
And pay no heed to those who talk of laws.
When your companion brings this lovely flower,
You think it must come from a peacock’s tail.
Of the narcissus amongst violets he wrote:
The fresh narcissus in its tender dress
Is like an eye that has no eyelashes.
It is a pearl set above chrysolite,
White, but with gold that smiles amongst its leaves.
There was a winter rose in the room, of which the poet says:
Do not forget to welcome this rose as your guest;
Get up and drain your glass to honour it.
This visitor brings life, so I should ransom it,
For after only one month of the year it hides away.
When I looked again I saw a lily, as in the lines:
You gave a lily to me as a gift,
But when you gave this, you did not do well.
Half of its name means “evil”, and you injured me;
I wish my eyes had never seen this flower.
Then there was a green apple, referred to in the lines:
The apple has undoubtedly the best of rights.
For it is like a pearl, a ruby or anemone.
It is enough that lovers send it to the ones they love.
‘Umair filled a glass and drank and then filled another and gave it to me. I
looked at what he had passed me and on it was written in gold wash:
The glass is heavy when it comes unfilled,
But when it is filled up with unmixed wine,
It can fly lightly off with the gazelles,
For it is spirits that make bodies light.
I drank, Commander of the Faithful, and for a time the drinking cups were passed around sportively. ‘Umair then took a large cup and drained it, saying: “I am your servant,” after which he refilled it and passed it to me. On this one I found inscribed:
Dawn calls out in the darkness: “Pour me wine,
Wine that turns the mild-tempered into fools.”
It is so finely strained and clear, I cannot tell
If it is in the glass, or is the glass in it?
“Empty the glass!” my drinking partner says,
When it has something left that I desire.
I could not leave undrunk the wine you passed to me.
‘We went on drinking all through the day until it became dark, and the young man then said to me: “Abu’l-Hasan, when the Commander of the Faithful drinks until evening, he says that to drink without listening to music is something a wine jug can do better.” I agreed, and he clapped his hands, at which three swelling-breasted virgins came forwards looking like moons, one with a lute, another with a tambourine and a third with a flute. On the lute the following lines were inscribed:
Their music overburdens me, sounding before the dawn,
As they mix this with that of tambourines to my delight.
But then they set about retuning strings,
And, though they may succeed, they make me worse.
The tambourines had this inscription:
I rise when summoned by its tuneful notes:
“Get up, for dawn has chased the clouds away.”
I do, but drunkenness is still there at its height,
And I can find nothing to cure my eyes.
But she met me with wine clear as the sun,
And so dawn smiled and night was driven off.
On the black ebony of the flute was written in letters of gold:
In Dair Durta how many pleasures have I had,
Tales of the Marvellous and News of the Strange (Hardcover Classics) Page 27
