IX
More words about guns: They only make them in three cities in the interior of Sous. The workmen are very numerous. They make also gun-barrels, pistols, gun-locks, and all such things. As for sabres and poniards, they are made by Arab armorers. They make powder in every province, but only in small quantities.
FIVE BERBER STORIES
[Translated by G. Mercier and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
DJOKHRANE AND THE JAYS
The ancestor of the grandfather of Mahomet Amokrane was named Djokhrane. He was a Roman of old times, who lived at T'kout at the period of the Romans. One of his countrymen rose against them, and they fought. This Roman had the advantage, until a bird of the kind called jays came to the assistance of Djokhrane, and pecked the Roman in the eyes until he saved his adversary. From that time forth he remained a friend to Djokhrane. The latter said to his children:
"As long as you live, never eat this bird. If you meet anyone who brings one of these birds to eat, buy it and set it free." To this day when anyone brings a jay to one of his descendants, he buys it for silver and gives it liberty. This story is true, and is not a lie.
THE OGRE AND THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
Some hunters set out with their camels. When they came to the hunting-ground they loosed their camels to let them graze, and hunted until the setting of the sun, and then came back to their camp. One day while one of them was going along he saw the marks of an ogre, each one three feet wide, and began to follow them. He proceeded and found the place where the ogre had lately made his lair. He returned and said to his companions:
"I've found the traces of an ogre. Come, let us seek him."
"No," they answered, "we will not go to seek him, because we are not stronger than he is."
"Grant me fourteen days," said the huntsman. "If I return, you shall see. If not, take back my camel with the game."
The next day he set out and began to follow the traces of the ogre. He walked for four days, when he discovered a cave, into which he entered. Within he found a beautiful woman, who said to him:
"What brings thee here, where thou wilt be devoured by this ogre?"
"But thou," answered the hunter, "what is thy story and how did the ogre bring thee here?"
"Three days ago he stole me," she replied. "I was betrothed to the son of my uncle, then the ogre took me. I have stayed in the cavern. He often brings me food. I stay here, and he does not kill me."
"Where does he enter," asked the hunter, "when he comes back here?"
"This is the way," she answered. The hunter went in to the middle of the cave, loaded his gun, and waited. At sunset the ogre arrived. The hunter took aim and fired, hitting the ogre between the eyes as he was sitting down. Approaching him he saw that he had brought with him two men to cook and eat them. In the morning he employed the day in collecting the hidden silver, took what he could, and set out on the return. On the fourteenth day he arrived at the place where he had left his comrades, and found them there.
"Leave the game you have secured and return with me to the cave," he said to them. When they arrived they took all the arms and clothing, loaded it upon their camels, and set out to return to their village. Half way home they fought to see which one should marry the woman. The powder spoke between them. Our man killed four, and took the woman home and married her.
THE FALSE VEZIR
A king had a wife who said to him: "I would like to go and visit my father."
"Very well," said he; "wait to-day, and to-morrow thou shalt go with my vezir." The next day they set out, taking the children with them, and an escort lest they should be attacked on the way. They stopped at sunset, and passed the night on the road. The vezir said to the guards, "Watch that we be not taken, if the robbers should come to seize us." They guarded the tent. The vezir asked the King's wife to marry him, and killed one of her sons because she refused. The next day they set out again. The next night he again asked the King's wife to marry him, threatening to kill a second child should she refuse. She did refuse, so he killed the second son. The next morning they set out, and when they stopped at night again he asked the King's wife to marry him.
"I'll kill you if you refuse."
She asked for delay, time to say her prayers. She prayed to God, the Master of all worlds, and said: "O God, save me from the vezir." The Master of the worlds heard her prayer. He gave her the wings of a bird, and she flew up in the sky.
At dawn she alighted in a great city, and met a man upon the roadside. She said: "By the face of God, give me your raiment and I'll give thee mine."
"Take it, and may God honor you," he said. Then she was handsome. This city had no king. The members of the council said:
"This creature is handsome; we'll make him our king." The cannon spoke in his honor and the drums beat.
When she flew up into the sky, the vezir said to the guards: "You will be my witnesses that she has gone to the sky, so that when I shall see the King he cannot say, 'Where is she?'" But when the vezir told this story, the King said:
"I shall go to seek my wife. Thou hast lied. Thou shalt accompany me." They set out, and went from village to village. They inquired, and said: "Has a woman been found here recently? We have lost her." And the village people said, "We have not found her." They went then to another village and inquired. At this village the Sultan's wife recognized them, called her servant, and said to him, "Go, bring to me this man." She said to the King, "From what motive hast thou come hither?"
He said, "I have lost my wife."
She answered: "Stay here, and pass the night. We will give thee a dinner and will question thee."
When the sun had set she said to the servant, "Go, bring the dinner, that the guests may eat." When they had eaten she said to the King, "Tell me your story."
He answered: "My story is long. My wife went away in the company of a trusted vezir. He returned and said: 'By God, your wife has gone to heaven.'
"I replied: 'No, you have lied. I'll go and look for her.'"
She said to him, "I am your wife."
"How came you here?" he asked.
She replied: "After having started, your vezir came to me and asked me to marry him or he would kill my son, 'Kill him,' I said, and he killed them both."
Addressing the vezir, she said: "And your story? Let us hear it."
"I will return in a moment," said the vezir, for he feared her. But the King cut off his head.
The next day he assembled the council of the village, and his wife said, "Forgive me and let me go, for I am a woman."
THE SOUFI AND THE TARGUI
Two Souafa were brothers. Separating one day one said to the other: "O my brother, let us marry thy son with my daughter." So the young cousins were married, and the young man's father gave them a separate house. It happened that a man among the Touareg heard tell of her as a remarkable woman. He mounted his swiftest camel, ten years old, and went to her house. Arrived near her residence, he found some shepherds.
"Who are you?" he said.
"We are Souafa."
He confided in one of them, and said to him: "By the face of the Master of the worlds, O favorite of fair women, man of remarkable appearance, tell me if the lady so and so, daughter of so and so, is here."
"She is here."
"Well, if you have the sentiments of most men, I desire you to bring her here, I want to see her."
"I will do what you ask. If she'll come, I'll bring her. If not, I will return and tell you."
He set out, and, arriving at the house of the lady, he saw some people, and said "Good-evening" to them.
"Come dine with us," they said to him.
"I have but just now eaten and am not hungry." He pretended to amuse himself with them to shorten the night, in reality to put to sleep their vigilance. These people went away to amuse themselves while he met the lady.
"A man sends me to you," he said, "a Targui, who wants to marry you. He is as handsome as you are, his eyes are fine, his nose is fine, his mouth is fine."
"Well, I will marry him." She went to him and married him, and they set out on a camel together. When the first husband returned, he found that she had gone. He said to himself: "She is at my father's or perhaps my uncle's." When day dawned he said to his sister, "Go see if she is in thy father's house or thy uncle's." She went, and did not find her there. He went out to look for her, and perceived the camel's traces. Then he saddled his own camel.
The women came out and said: "Stay! Do not go; we will give thee our own daughters to marry."
"No," he replied, "I want to find my wife." He goes out, he follows the tracks of the camel, here, here, here, until the sun goes down. He spends the night upon the trail. His camel is a runner of five years. When the sun rises he starts and follows the trail again.
About four o'clock he arrives at an encampment of the Touareg, and finds some shepherds with their flocks. He confides in one of these men, and says to him: "A word, brave man, brother of beautiful women, I would say a word to thee which thou wilt not repeat."
"Speak."
"Did a woman arrive at this place night before last?"
"She did."
"Hast thou the sentiments of a man of heart?"
"Truly."
"I desire to talk to her."
"I will take thee to her. Go, hide thy camel; tie him up. Change thy clothing. Thou wilt not then be recognized among the sheep. Bring thy sabre and come. Thou shalt walk as the sheep walk."
"I will walk toward you, taking the appearance of a sheep, so as not to be perceived."
"The wedding-festival is set for to-night, and everybody will be out of their houses. When I arrive at the tent of this lady I will strike a stake with my stick. Where I shall strike, that is where she lives."
He waits and conceals himself among the flocks, and the women come out to milk. He looks among the groups of tents. He finds his wife and bids her come with him.
"I will not go with thee, but if thou art hungry, I will give thee food."
"Thou'lt come with me or I will kill thee!"
She goes with him. He finds his camel, unfastens him, dons his ordinary clothing, takes his wife upon the camel's back with him, and departs. The day dawns. She says:
"O thou who art the son of my paternal uncle, I am thirsty." Now she planned a treachery.
He said to her: "Is there any water here?"
"The day the Targui took me off we found some in that pass." They arrived at the well.
"Go down into the well," said the Soufi.
"I'm only a woman. I'm afraid. Go down thyself." He goes down. He draws the water. She drinks. He draws more water for the camel, which is drinking, when she pours the water on the ground.
"Why dost thou turn out the water?"
"I did not turn it out; thy camel drank it." And nevertheless she casts her glances and sees a dust in the distance. The Targui is coming. The woman says:
"Now I have trapped him for thee."
"Brava!" he cries, and addressing the Soufi: "Draw me some water that I may drink." He draws the water, and the Targui drinks. The woman says to him: "Kill him in the well. He is a good shot. Thou art not stronger than he is."
"No," he answered, "I do not want to soil a well of the tribes. I'll make him come up." The Soufi comes up till his shoulders appear. They seize him, hoist and bind him, and tie his feet together. Then they seize and kill his camel.
"Bring wood," says the Targui to the woman; "we'll roast some meat." She brings him some wood. He cooked the meat and ate it, while she roasted pieces of fat till they dripped upon her cousin.
"Don't do that," says the Targui.
She says, "He drew his sword on me, crying, 'Come with me or I will kill thee.'"
"In that case do as you like." She dropped the grease upon his breast, face, and neck until his skin was burnt. While she was doing this, the Targui felt sleep coming upon him, and said to the woman, "Watch over him, lest he should slip out of our hands."
While he slept the Soufi speaks: "Word of goodness, O excellent woman, bend over me that I may kiss thy mouth or else thy cheek." She says: "God make thy tent empty. Thou'lt die soon, and thou thinkest of kisses?"
"Truly I am going to die, and I die for thee. I love thee more than the whole world. Let me kiss thee once. I'll have a moment of joy, and then I'll die." She bends over him, and he kisses her.
She says, "What dost thou want?"
"That thou shalt untie me." She unties him. He says to her: "Keep silent. Do not speak a word." Then he unfastens the shackles that bind his feet, puts on his cloak, takes his gun, draws out the old charge and loads it anew, examines the flint-lock and sees that it works well. Then he says to the woman, "Lift up the Targui." The latter awakes.
"Why," says he, "didst thou not kill me in my sleep?"
"Because thou didst not kill me when I was in the well. Get up. Stand down there, while I stand here."
The Targui obeys, and says to the Soufi: "Fire first."
"No, I'll let thee fire first."
The woman speaks: "Strike, strike, O Targui, thou art not as strong as the Soufi."
The Targui rises, fires, and now the woman gives voice to a long "you--you." It strikes the chechias that fly above his head. At his turn the Soufi prepares himself and says:
"Stand up straight now, as I did for thee." He fires, and hits him on the forehead. His enemy dead, he flies at him and cuts his throat.
He then goes to the camel, cuts some meat, and says to the woman: "Go, find me some wood, I want to cook and eat."
"I will not go," she says. He approaches, threatening her, and strikes her. She gets up then and brings him some wood. He cooks the meat and eats his fill. He thinks then of killing the woman, but he fears that the people of his tribe will say, "Thou didst not bring her back." So he takes her on the camel and starts homeward. His cousins are pasturing their flocks on a hill. When he had nearly arrived a dust arose. He draws near, and they see that it is he. His brother speaks, "What have they done to thee?"
He answers, "The daughter of my uncle did all this."
Then they killed the woman and cut her flesh in strips and threw it on a jujube-tree. And the jackals and birds of prey came and passed the whole day eating it, until there was none left.
AHMED EL HILALIEU AND EL REDAH
Ahmed el Hilalieu was not loved by people in general. His enemies went and found an old sorceress, and spoke to her as follows: "O sorceress, we want you to drive this man out of our country. Ask what you will, we will give it to you!"
She said to them: "May God gladden your faces. Call aloud. Our man will come out and I will see him." They obeyed her, crying out that a camel had escaped. Straightway Ahmed goes to find his father, and tells him his intention of going to join in the search. He starts forth mounted on his courser, and on the way meets some people, who tell him, "It is nothing." He makes a half turn, not forgetting to water his horse, and meets at the fountain the sorceress, who was drawing water.
"Let me pass," he said to her, "and take your buckskin out of my way."
"You may pass," she answered. He started his horse, which stepped on the buckskin and tore it.
"You who are so brave with a poor woman," she said, "would you be able to bring back Redah Oum Zaid?"
"By the religion of Him whom I adore, you shall show me where this Redah lives or I'll cut off your head."
"Know, then, that she lives far from here, and that there is between her and you no less than forty days' journey."
Ahmed went home, and took as provisions for the journey forty dates of the deglet-nour variety, putting them into his pocket. He mounted his steed and departed.
He goes and goes without stopping, until he comes to the country of the sand. The charger throws his feet forward and buries himself in the sand up to his breast, but soon stops, conquered and worn out by fatigue. Ahmed el Hilalieu then addresses him:
"My good gray horse, of noble mien, the sand,
The cruel sand would eat your very eyes.
The air no longer thy loud whinnies bears,
No strength is left thee in thy head or heart.
The prairies of Khafour I'll give to thee,
With Nouna's eyes I'll quench thy thirst, by God
A mule's whole pack of barley shalt thou have
That Ben Haddjouna shall bring here for thee."
In his turn the steed spoke and said: "Dismount, unfasten the breast-strap, tighten the girth, for some women are coming to show themselves to us in this country." Ahmed unfastened the breast-strap, then remounts and departs. While he proceeds he sees before him the encampment of a tribe, and perceives a horseman coming, mounted on a white mare, engaged in herding camels.
"Blessings upon you!" cried Ahmed; "you behind the camels!" The horseman kept silence, and would not return his salutations.
"Greetings to you," cried Ahmed again, "you who are in the middle of the camels." The same obstinate silence.
"Greetings to you, you who are before the camels." The horseman still was silent. Ahmed then said: "Greetings to you, you who own the white mare."
"Greetings to you!" replied the horseman.
"How comes it that you would not answer my greetings for so long?"
The horseman answered: "You cried to me, 'Greetings to you, you who are behind the camels,' Now, behind them are their tails. Then you said, 'Greetings to you, you who are in the middle of the camels,' In the middle of them are their bellies. You said, again, 'Greetings to you, you who are before the camels.' Before them are their heads. You said, 'Greetings to you, O master of the white mare,' And then I answered to you, 'Greetings to you also,'"
Ahmed el Hilalieu asked of the shepherd, "What is your name?"
"I am called Chira."
"Well, Chira, tell me where Redah lives. Is it at the city of the stones or in the garden of the palms?"
"Redah dwells in the city. Her father is the Sultan. Seven kings have fought for her, and one of them has refreshed his heart. He is named Chalau. Go, seek the large house. You will be with Redah when I see you again."
Ahmed sets out, and soon meets the wife of the shepherd, who comes before him and says, "Enter, be welcome, and may good luck attend you!" She ties his horse, gives him to drink, and goes to find dates for Ahmed. She takes care to count them before serving him with them. He takes out a pit, closes the date again, puts them all together, and puts down the pit. He ate nothing, and he said to the woman: "Take away these dates, for I have eaten my fill." She looks, takes up the tray, counts the dates again, and perceives that none of them has been eaten. Nevertheless, there is a pit, and not a date missing. She cries out:
"Alas! my heart for love of this young man
Is void of life as is this date of pit."
Then she heaved a sigh and her soul flew away.
Ahmed remained there as if in a dream until the shepherd came back. "Your wife is dead," he said to him, "and if you wish, I'll give you her weight in gold and silver."
But the shepherd answers: "I, too, am the son of a sultan. I have come to pay this woman a visit and desire to see her. Calm yourself. I will take neither your gold nor silver. This is the road to follow; go, till you arrive at the castle where she is."
Ahmed starts, and when he arrives at the castle, he stands up in his stirrups and throws the shadow of his spear upon the window.
Redah, addressing her negress, said to her: "See now what casts that shadow. Is it a cloud, or an Arab's spear?"
The negress goes to see, comes back to her mistress, and says to her, "It is a horseman, such as I have never seen the like of before in all my life."
"Return," said Redah, "and ask him who he is." Redah goes to see, and says:
"O horseman, who dost come before our eyes,
Why seekest thou thy death? Tell me upon
Thine honor true, what is thine origin?"
He answers:
"Oh, I am Ahmed el Hilalieu called. Well known
'Mongst all the tribes of daughters of Hilal.
I bear in hand a spear that loves to kill,
Who'er attacks me counts on flight and dies."
She says to him:
"Thou'rt Ahmed el Hilalieu? Never prowls
A noble bird about the Zeriba;
The generous falcon turns not near the nests,
O madman! Why take so much care
About a tree that bears not any dates?"
He answers:
"I will demand of our great Lord of all
To give us rain to cover all the land
With pasturage and flowers. And we shall eat
Of every sort of fruit that grows on earth."
Redah:
"We women are like silk. And only those
Who are true merchants know to handle us."
Ahmed el Hilalieu then says:
"I've those worth more than thou amid the girls
Of Hilal, clad in daintiest of silk
Of richest dye, O Redah, O fifth rite."
And, turning his horse's head, he goes away. But she recalls him:
"I am an orange, them the gardener;
I am a palm and thou dost cut my fruit;
I am a beast and thou dost slaughter me.
I am--upon thine honor--O gray steed,
Turn back thy head. For we are friends henceforth."
She says to the negress, "Go open wide the door that he may come."
The negress admits him, and ties up his horse. On the third day he sees the negress laughing.
"Why do you laugh, negress?"
"You have not said your prayers for three days."
POEMS OF THE MAGHREB
[Translated by M.C. Sonneck and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
ALI'S ANSWER
[ARGUMENT.--It is related that a young man named Aly ben Bou Fayd, falling in love with a young woman, begged his father to ask her in marriage for him. His father refused. Angered, Aly procured a gun, engraved his name upon it, and betook himself to the chase. His father having claimed this gun he answered:]
You ask the gun I have that bears my name.
I will not give it, save against my will.
How comes it, father, that you treat me thus?
You say, "Bring back the gun to put in pledge."
Now, may God pardon you for acting thus!
I leave you in your land, and, all for you,
I swear by God I never shall return.
Your conduct is unwise. Our enemies
Insult me, O my father. And I think
That you will give up your ancestral home
And garden too. And can I after that
Recover my good gun?
I shall not be
Enfeebled that I am no more with you.
No longer are you father unto me,
And I shall be no more your cherished son.
I think, my sire, that you are growing old.
Your teeth are falling out from day to day.
They whom you visit will not serve you more.
Your friends won't serve you longer, and your sire,
He who begot you, will not help you now.
In your adversity no help will come
From all your kindred's high nobility.
May God make easy all the paths you tread!
His uncle having threatened him with death, he answered:
Keep far away from him who has not come
To thee in his misfortune. Leave him free.
My uncle writes to me this very day
That if he held in his own hands the leaf
Of my life's destiny he'd blot it out.
If he had in his hands this leaf, O say to him:
Let him efface it openly, nor hide
You'll not be able, save with God's own help
To bear the separation. As for those
Who are so evil, we will spare them now.
The barrel of this gun is rusted red.
The lock is forceless, 'twill no longer act.
Misfortune overtake the man who leaves
His child to perish! For the least of things
He says to me, "Come, give me up this gun."
I go to seek the desert. I will go
Among the tribe they call Oulad Azyz,
And live by force. But, pray you say to her,
The fair one with the deftly braided hair,
I leave the tribe, but shall return for her.
I disappear, but shall come back for her.
And while I live, I never shall forget.
I swear it by the head of that sweet one
Who for the sake of Ali was accused.
The cup of passion which I offered her
O'ercame her lovely spirit's tenderness.
The cup of love intoxicated her.
O God, Creator of us all, give her
The strength to bear my absence! Sad for me
The hour I dream of her I love so well.
Her love is in my heart and burns it up.
My heart is sad. 'Tis love that crushes it.
It leaves my heart reduced to naught but dust.
So that I am consumed by vigils long,
And never taste refreshing sleep at all.
So that I'm like a bird with broken wings,
Just like a bird who tries to lift its wings!
And so my spirit is not healed. There comes
To me no comfort nor relief. The eyes
Of my beloved are as bright as day.
One word from her would send the friends to death.
IN HONOR OF LALLA AYCHA-EL-MANNOUBYYA
A fire burns at the bottom of my heart,
For love has conquered me, and I am now
His hostage and his prisoner. My soul
Is torn out from my body, and sweet sleep
Keeps far aloof from my tired eyelids' need.
'Tis Aycha causes this, the pretty one.
With blackest eyes, Aycha the pure, from whom
I'm parted now, whose name is finest gold.
Why? why? Oh, tell me, El Mannoubyya.
Why all this coldness, O my best beloved?
For thy dear love I have drunk deep of scorn.
For thy love, maiden with the darksome looks,
I wither while thou bear'st a port of oak.
The fire that burns me eats my very soul.
My spirit is distracted by these proofs.
O thou, rebellious to my warm desires,
My black-eyed beauty, if thou'rt vexed with me
I'll make apology before the world,
I'll bring an offering to thee at once,
The symbol of my homage. May it please!
Instruct me, sympathetic with my pain
Have you not said: "I'll bring thee soon good news"?
O come! That in my sleep my eyes may see
Thee coming toward me, my black-pupilled one!
Awaiting thy fair image I'm consumed,
I am exhausted. Why, El Mannoubyya?
I long have hoped to see thee, O my sweet.
And ever farther off appears the end
Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed
In cries for thee, as some poor mariner
Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft.
For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one,
Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness.
And I alone must wither, 'mongst my friends.
O unpersuadable, with teasing eyes,
I am in a most pitiable state.
Since thou repell'st me and declin'st to keep
Thy promise to me, I'll not hesitate
To call thee before God.
Unless thou deign'st
To cast thy looks on me the coming day,
I shall, all clad in vestments rich, make plaint
Unto the envoy of our God, the last
Of all the prophets. For thou said'st to me,
"I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair."
I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet,
My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night.
Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why.
Let thyself bend and call thy servitor,
Inhabitant of Tunis--city green.
I will apologize and come to thee,
O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark.
We've heard the story of thy deeds so fine.
From common brass whene'er thou walk'st abroad,
Thou drawest silver pure, queen of thy time,
'Mongst men illumined by thy piety.
The wretch, led on by love, accosted thee.
Receiving grace, despite his base design
He was, nathless, forgiven and saved from sin;
So was it from eternity decreed.
They all consulted thee, queen of thy day,
And thou didst answer: "This man truly loved.
Pour him a cup of wine." By thee he came
Unto perfection's acme, step by step.
Our Lord, all-powerful, gave to thee this power.
These are thy merits, fairest citizen!
To whom God gave strength irresistible.
O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha,
Our queen.
Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard
Of all that time, has said: "I wrote these words
The year one thousand one hundred just,
But thou who read'st these lines, where'er it be,
Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight."
Now I salute all those united here
And him who hates me here I steep in scorn.
Why? why? El Mannoubyya! Why?
SAYD AND HYZYYA
Give me your consolation, noble friends;
The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb.
A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
I am undone. Alas! O cruel fate!
My heart's with slim Hyzyya in the grave.
Alas! we were so happy a short while
Ago, just like the prairie flow'rs in spring;
How sweet to us was life in those dear days!
Now like a phantom's shadow she has gone,
That young gazelle, of utter loveliness.
Removed by stern, inevitable fate.
When she walked forth, not looking right or left,
My beauteous loved one rendered fools the wise.
Impressed thus was the great bey of the camp.
A gleaming poniard rested in his belt.
He went hemmed in by soldiers and a horde
Of horsemen, glad to follow where he led.
All haste to bring him costly gifts. He bore
A sabre of the Ind, and with one stroke
He cleaved a bar of iron, split a rock.
How many rebels fell beneath his blow!
Haughty and proud, he challenged all who came.
Enough now we have glorified the bey.
Speak, singer, in a song that's sweet and new,
The praises of the dainty girl I loved,
The daughter of good Ahmed ben el Bey.
Give me your consolation, noble friends;
The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb.
A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate!
She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze,
Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched
In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball
Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark.
Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose
Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood
Gives it the shining brightness of the sun.
Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss
Is sweet as milk or honey loved by all.
Oh, see that neck, more white than palm-tree's heart,
That sheath of crystal, bound with bands of gold.
Thy chest is marble, and thy tender breasts
Are apples whose sweet scent makes well the ill.
Thy body is, like paper, shining, white,
Or cotton or fine linen, or, again,
Just like the snow that falls in a dark night.
Hyzyya lets her sash hang gracefully,
Down-falling to the earth, in fold on fold.
Her fine limbs jingle with gems she wears.
Her slippers clink with coupled rings of gold.
We were encamped at Bazer. Every day
At dawn I saw the beauty, and we were
So glad together! Every dawn I brought
My wishes to my love and followed fate
More happy than if I alone possessed
All riches and all treasures of the earth.
Wealth equals not the tinkle of her gems.
When I had crossed the mountain there I met
Hyzyya, and she walked amid the fields
With every grace, and made her bracelets ring.
My reason wandered, heart and head were vexed.
After a happy summer passed at Tell,
We came, my dearest one and I, Sahara-ward.
The litters now are closed, the powder sounds.
My gray horse to Hyzyya bears me swift.
The palanquin of my coquette's on route.
At Azal when night comes we pitch our tents.
Sydy-l-Ahsen is before us now:
Ez-Zerga, too. Then faring on we go
To Sydy Sayd, and Elmetkeouk,
And Medoukal-of-palms, where we arrive
At eventide. We saddle up at dawn,
Just when the breeze begins. Our halting-place,
Sydy Mehammed, decks this peaceful earth.
From there the litters seek El Mekheraf.
My charger gray straight as an eagle goes.
I wend to Ben Seryer with my love,
Of tattooed arms. When we had crossed Djedy
We passed the wide plain, and we spent the night
At Rous-et-toual, near the gleaming sands.
Ben Djellal was our next day's resting-place;
And, leaving there, I camped at El Besbas,
And last at El-Herymek, with my love.
How many festivals beheld us then!
In the arena my good steed of gray
Fled like a ghost. And sweet Hyzyya there,
Tall as a flagstaff, bent her gaze on me,
Her smile disclosing teeth of purest pearl.
She spoke but in allusions, causing thus
That I should understand whate'er she meant.
Hamyda's daughter then might be compared
Unto the morning-star or a tall palm,
Alone, erect among the other trees.
The wind uprooted it, and dashed it down.
I did not look to see it fall, this tree
I hoped forever to protect. I thought
That God, divinely good, would let it live.
But God, the Master, dashed it to the earth.
I take up now my song. We made but one
Encampment, at Oned Itel. 'Twas there
My friend, the queen of damsels, said farewell.
'Twas in the night she paid the debt of death.
'Twas there my dark-eyed beauty passed away.
She pressed her heart to mine and, sighing, died.
My cheeks were flooded with a sea of tears.
I thought to lose my reason. I went forth
And wandered through the fields, ravines, and hills.
She bore my soul away, my black-eyed love.
The daughter of a noble race. Alas!
She still increased the burnings of my heart.
They wrapped her in a shroud, my noble love.
The fever took me, burning up my brain.
They placed her on a bier, all decked with gems.
And I was in a stupor, dull to see
All that was passing on that dreadful day.
They bore my beauty in a palanquin--
Her pretty palanquin--this lovely girl,
Cause of my sorrows, tall as a straight staff.
Her litter is adorned with odd designs,
Shining as brilliant as the morning-star,
And like the rainbow glowing 'midst the clouds,
All hung with silk and figured damask-cloth.
And I, like any child, was in despair,
Mourning Hyzyya. Oh, what pangs I felt
For her whose profile was so pure! She nevermore
Will reappear upon this earth again.
She died the death of martyrs, my sweet love,
My fair'st one, with Koheul-tinted lids!
They took her to a country that is called
Sydy Kaled, and buried her at night,
My tattooed beauty. And her lovely eyes,
Like a gazelle's, have never left my sight.
O sexton, care now for my sweet gazelle,
And let no stones fall on Hyzyya's grave.
I do adjure thee by the Holy Book
And by the letters which make up the name
Of God, the Giver of all good, let no
Earth fall upon the dame with mirror decked.
Were it to claim her from a rival's arms
I would attack three troops of warriors.
I'd take her from a hostile tribe by force.
Could I but swear by her dear head, my love,
My black-eyed beauty--I would never count
My enemies, 'though they a hundred were.
Were she unto the strongest to belong
I swear she never would be swept from me.
In the sweet name Hyzyya I'd attack
And fight with cavaliers innumerable.
Were she to be the spoil of conqueror,
You'd hear abroad the tale of my exploits.
I'd take her by main strength from all who vied.
Were she the meed of furious encounters
I'd fight for years for her, and win at last!
For I am brave. But since it is the will
Of God, the mighty and compassionate,
I cannot ward away from me this blow.
I'll wait in patience for the happy day
When I shall join thee. For I only think
Of thee, my dearest love, of thee alone!
My gray steed fell dead as he leaped. O friends,
After my love, he's gone and left me, too.
My charger, 'mid these hills, was of all steeds
The fleetest, and in fiercest war's attack
All saw him at the head of the platoon.
What prodigies he wrought in war's red field!
He showed himself ahead of all his peers.
A blood-mare was his mother. He excelled
In all the contests 'twixt the wandering camps;
I tourneyed with him careless of my fate.
When just a month had passed I lost the steed.
Hyzyya first, and then this noble horse.
He did not long survive my well-beloved.
They both are gone, leaving their last farewells.
O grief! my charger's reins have fallen down.
God made my life a death, in leaving me
Behind. For them I die. Oh, cruel hurt!
I weep for this just as a lover weeps.
Each day my heart burns fiercer, and my joy
Has fled away. Now tell me, O my eyes,
Why shed so many tears? Beyond a doubt
The pleasures of the world will capture you.
And will you grant no mercy? My sad soul
But sees its torments grow. My pretty one,
With lashes black, who was my heart's delight,
Now sleeps beneath the sod. I do but weep
And my head whitens for the beauteous one,
With pearly teeth. My eyes no longer can
Endure the separation from their friend.
The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs,
Then gains the west. It disappears from sight
When it has gained the summit of the vault
Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines
At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach
Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world.
To these would I compare the lovely queen
Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed,
Descendant of a race illustrious,
The daughter of Donaonda.
Such is
The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men.
The Lord hath shown his will and borne away
Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord!
My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love
Did tear it from me when she left the earth.
She's worth a hundred steeds of noble race,
A thousand camels, and a grove of palms
In Zyban. Yes, all Djryd is she worth,
From near to far. The country of the blacks,
Haoussa and its people is she worth,
Arabians of Tell and dry Sahara,
And the encampments of the tribes, as far
As caravans can reach by all the ways,
All nomads and all travellers, she's worth,
And those who settle down as citizens.
The treasurer of all riches is she worth,
My black-eyed beauty. And if thou dost think
This all too small, add all the cities' folk.
She's worth all flocks and nicely chisel'd gold,
She's worth the palms of Dra and Chaouyya;
All that the sea contains, my love is worth,
The fields and cities from beyond Djebel
Amour, as far as Ghardaya. She is worth
All Mzab, the plains of Zab. She pleases, too,
The people of the Goubba, holy folk,
And friends of God. She's worth all noble steeds
However richly housed--or evening's star
When twilight comes. Too small--'tis all too small
For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes.
O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch!
Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves!
Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age
Of her who wore the silken sash. My love
Has followed her, ne'er to revive within
My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans,
My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one,
Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now
In her cold, dark, eternal home.
Console me, O young friends, for having lost
Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest.
Naught but a name she left behind which I
Gave to the camp wherein she passed away.
Console me, men, for I have lost my fair,
Dear one, that silver
khelkals
wore.
Now is she covered with a veil of stone,
On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends,
For all this loss, for she loved none but me.
With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed,
Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd,
Blue as the collar of the gentle dove.
Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn,
Although without
galam
--my handiwork.
I drew them 'twixt her breasts, and on her wrists
I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate!
Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee,
Shall never see thee more! The memory
Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet.
Oh, pardon, God compassionate, forgive
Us all. Sa'yd is sad, he weeps for one
Dear as his soul. Forgive this love, Lord!
Hyzyya--join them in his sleep, O God most high.
Forgive the author of these verses here!
It is Mahomet that recites this tale.
O Thou who hast the future in thy hand,
Give resignation to one mad with love!
Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn.
My enemies might give me pity now.
All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep.
I write this with my love but three days dead.
She left me, said farewell, and came not back.
This song, O ye who listen, was composed
Within the year twelve hundred finished now,
The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.]
This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung
In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month,
At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man,
Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung
Of her you'll never see again alive.
My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb.
THE AÏSSAOUA IN PARIS[58]]
Come, see what's happened in this evil year.
The earthquake tumbled all the houses down,
Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.
Hear what has happened to those negro scamps,
Musicians--rogues, and Aïssaoua.
They spoke of nothing but their project great.
Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!
On learning of the tour of Rayyato
They all began to cry and run about,
Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod.
The Lord afflicts them much in this our world.
'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers,
Who did not follow them about in crowds.
The Christian Salvador put them on ship.
One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick."
A wench poured aromatics on the fire,
And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now
They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.
The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm,
Between the sea and church, upon the wharf
He drew them, wonders promising, and led
Them but to beggary.
He takes them to
His land to show them to the chief of all
His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes
To get a present and thus pay them back,
Retaining all the money he advanced.
This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named Salvador Daniel. The original is in couplets of six hemistichs.
Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage
Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks
Begin to dance to sound of castanets.
The Christians bet on what will happen next.
They say a letter has arrived which says
That they've suppressed ablutions and their prayers.
One has been very ill--"I do not know
What is the matter with me"--but the cause
Of all his illness was because he fell
On the perfuming-pans that they had brought.
For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl
Who leads the dances. With her boxes small
In basket made of grass, a picture fine!
Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost.
The Christian works them all, and most are seized
With folly. Would you know the first of all?
Well, sirs, 'tis Et-Try, and he is the son
Of one Et-Germezlyya. Never has
He thought of doing well, he lives for crime.
The shrewd "Merkanty" made a profit on them.
Et-Try served them as an interpreter.
The Christian ought to make them this year gain
A thousand d'oros. But I pray to God
To send those two men to the fires of hell.
Now Aly Et-Try is their manager;
He runs about all day, with naught achieved.
The Christian kept them in a stable shut,
And like a squad of soldiers took them out.
He herded them like oxen there, and naught
Was lacking but the drover's lusty cries.
Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd,
The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs,
And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains
Except the benches and some coffee-grounds.
The leader of musicians, wholly daft,
Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool,
Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights.
(I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!)
If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say
He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends.
The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was
Barber and cafekeeper, eager for
A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip,"
He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage."
There's nothing lacking but the telbyya.
"I've taken trips before and with good luck.
I was the master, with my art acclaimed.
I was director of the Nouba, at
The court, when Turkey held the reins of power.
I was a court buffoon and broke my heart.
O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death?
"I left a workman in my shop so that
I might not lose my trade. I went to show
My oboe, for someone might ask for it.
I used to travel with musicians once."
God bless him!--what a workman. He conversed
With all the customers who passed that way.
He took them in the shop and told his case--
"I'm here for a short while." Then he began
To praise his patron, who, he said, would have
A gift for him.
And his lieutenant, named
Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool
Who thinks his word superior to all,
And that there's no one like him in this world.
When he has gone there and come back again,
He will be perfect. All he contradicts
Who speak to him, and will not let them lift
A finger. Little love he hath for those
Who speak with candor, but he's very fond
Of liars, and always bids them come to him.
"My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks,
And flies into a passion if one doubts.
He only lives on semolina coarse,
And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp.
Yet every day he tells you how he's dined.
"I have discovered," he is wont to say
"A certain semolina lately brought
By a Maltese, who lives some distance off.
You never saw the like. I'm going to have
Some fine cakes made of it, and some
meqrout
."
And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along
By all these lies and by the love of gain.
If God had not abandoned him, he'd be
Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led
Him on, and that is how it came to pass.
With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who
Sold flowers in the market-place. He left
His family no coins to live upon,
But told them only: "Moderate your pace.
I'll buy a house for you when I get back,
And we shall live in plenty evermore."
Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had
As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired
To play in unison, but the musicians all
Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time.
The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love
For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair.
I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell
Him out, and yellow he will straight become
As yellow as a carrot in a field.
I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings
And plays the tambourine. Such ugliness
My eyes have never seen. You'd think he was
A clown. He says: "No one could vanquish me
Were I not just a trifle ill to-day."
Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy,
Who hangs on walls and colors houses here
Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took
This voyage just to get a bit of air."
Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away.
Fresh apricots he sells down in the square.
"Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods,
And here my little heart shall stay in peace."
When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son.
Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round
His figure with a cord and does not lie
Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see
In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aïssaoua.
Faradjy--fop--eats fire and fig-leaves now;
The while Hasan the Rat excites him on
To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine.
Playing with all his might and all his soul.
They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettár
To pay this tribute to the Emperor.
That fop, Ben Zerfa, who chopped hashish seeds
Among us here, said: "We have had good luck
This summer, and I'm going to pay my debts.
I'll execute my drill with stick and sword
And serve my sheik the very best I can."
If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran,
So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back
A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what!
It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed.
El Hadj Batâta--see his silly trance!
With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off,
And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums,
He shows his tuft denuded all of hair.
Even Móstafa ben el Meddâh desired
To go to Paris and his fortune make.
"On my return," he said, "I'll buy a lamp,
A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl;
A big and little mattress, too, I'll buy,
A carpet and a rug so soft and fine."
Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work
For our good mayor, off to Paris went
To make the soldiers' coffee. When he comes
Back home again, so much he will have earned.
He will be richer than a merchant great.
Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris
Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear!
If he would only go to Mexico,
And stay there it would be a riddance good.
He is a cafékeeper, and his son
A baker. For associate he has
Sydy Aly Mehraz, who does his work
Astride a thorn; he surely doth deserve
Our compliments. All three you see are dressed
In duck, in fashion of the Christian men.
There's de Merzong; the people say he's good,
But still they fear him, he is so uncouth.
Good God! When he begins aloud to cry
In Soudanese, it is enough to make
You fly to the antipodes away.
Oulyd ben Zamoum saw his cares increase--
Since he is a musician, as he thinks,
The world is rid of him. And when he starts
To play the first string of the violin,
The while the Jewess doth begin to sing!
With him two Jews departed, and the like
You never saw on earth. A porcupine
The first resembled, and the other one
Was one-eyed. You should hear them play the lute!
Some persons heard my story from afar,
Oulyd Sydy Sáyd, among them, and
Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with
Them was the chief of Miliana. All
Were seated on an iron bench, within
The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth
Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when
They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused.
"Impossible," I answered, "for I have
With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied,
And the Senousyya. So I cannot."
Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air,
"The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee.
I saw within that book you have at home
His story truly told." "You're right," said I,
"Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see
Him turn his eyes in wrath.
He said to me
'Tis not an action worthy of a man;
He glared at me with eyes as big as cups
And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to
Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm.
With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf,
who remains at prayer all day.
He heard this prelude and he said to them,
"It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said,
"For they will put you also in the song."
He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies,
Who praise him as the master of chicane.
"'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts."
They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all.
You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go
And teach Sahary oxen how to read!"
When I recited all these lines to Sy
Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has
To the supreme degree the gift of being
A bore he said to me, "Now this is song
Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop
Have eaten an ounce of wool.
He is installed
Within the chamber of El Boukhary.
In posture of a student, in his hands
Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make
Some socks for little children, for I have
But little wool."
When I had finished quite
This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha
Became acquainted with it, he began
To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then
His decoration from his wallet took,
Which had been there enclosed.
My song spread wide.
They found it savory. Respected sirs,
It is the latest Friday in the month
Of El Mouloud and in the year we call
Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete
This tale fantastic.
Would you know my name?
I am Qaddour, well known to all the world,
Binder to Sydy Boû Gdour, and attired
In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back
Were not deformed, none could compete with me.
They told me, "When those folk come back again
Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm.
They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven."
"Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain
To the police."
If I were not so busy
I'd still have many other things to say.
Those who have heard my prattle say it's good;
So say the singers and musicians, too,
Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who
Pays compliments to me, from window-seat.
He who hath nothing found that's useful here
Will find in this my song what suits him best.
But if he wants to see here something more,
Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight
A thousand blows upon the belly; then
Take him away to the physician, who
Will bleed him well.
And now may hearts not be
Made sad by what I have so lightly said.
I've placed myself among you, so that I
May not incur your blame, O brothers mine.
I've told you my deformity, and all
My miseries unveiled before your gaze.
SONG OF FATIMA[59]
My spirit is in pain, for it cannot
Forget my sweet gazelle, with eyes so black.
A fire burns in my heart, and all my frame
But wastes and withers. Where's thy cure, O Taleb?
I find no medicine that cureth love,
In vain I search. Sweet Fatima's the cause
Of all my woes, with
khelkal
tinted blue.
My heart endureth passion's pangs, my grief
Continues. Where's thy remedy, O Taleb?
Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.
Pray God for me, O Taleb, I implore.
But how to cure the malady of love?
There is no remedy, and all is lost.
I die for lack of strength to bear my trials.
It is to thee that I intrust myself,
The healer who must bring rest to my heart;
For now a living brand burns in my breast.
If thou art skilful, find a cure for me.
Look in thy book and calculate for me
If thou canst quench the burning brand within.
I will become thy slave, and thou may'st keep
Me or at auction sell. Where is thy cure!
Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.
The Taleb looked at me and said: "Take heart,
O lover, courage! Thou hast sipped, I see,
The cup of death already, and thou hast
Not long to live. But hear my counsel now.
Have patience! Tis the only thing that will
Sustain thee. Thou shalt thus obtain the gifts
Of Him who only knows thy future days.
Thy fate shall be unrolled according to
The will of God, the sovereign Lord most high.
"Turn to thy God. Beseech him constantly.
He hears with mercy and he knows all souls.
He turns away no one who comes to him.
He sees the bottom of their hearts, and lists.
Bear his decrees with patience camels show.
They walk from land to land and hope to lose
At last their burdens." Where's thy cure, O Taleb?
Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.
O Taleb, search within thy book and find
The letters that give birth to friendship sweet.
Write them for me, and skilful be, I pray,
So God may give me happiness by them,
And cause my dear gazelle to pardon me,
And drive nay bitter sorrows all away.
My punishment too long has lasted. I
Am tired of waiting. Never was adventure
More strange than mine.
My cares continue, and
I am fatigued with efforts obstinate.
The trouble that I've taken to deserve
That pretty one, has been for me like that
Of daring merchant who doth undertake
A venture and gets nothing back but loss
And weariness. Where is thy cure, O Taleb?
Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.
The Taleb answered unto me and said:
"Support her rigors. Listen now to me,
And I will give thee counsel sound and good.
Turn thy true heart aside from memory.
Forget thy love as she's forgotten thee.
Courage! Her loss now wastes and makes thee pale.
For her thou hast neglected everything.
And sacrificed a good part of thy days.
"My counsels heed and turn me not aside.
Hear what sages in their proverbs say:
'That which is bitter never can turn sweet,'
'Leave him whose intercourse is troublesome,
And cleave to one who hath an easy way,'
'Endure the pangs of love until they pass,'"
Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where.
Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb.
If thou art powerful, Taleb, my excuse
Accept, and give assistance to my cause.
Thy words are all in vain, they but increase
My woes. For ne'er can I forget my love,
My dear accomplished beauty. While I live,
I love her, queen of beauties, and she is
Soul of my soul, light of my eyes, my sweet.
And, oh, how grows my love! A slave I'd be,
Obedient to a man despised. Perhaps
That which is far removed, the nearest comes.
And if the moment comes, thou know'st it well
Who knoweth all the proverbs! He that's well
Shall perish, and the invalid be cured.
Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where.
Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.
And then the Taleb answered him and said:
"Thou'rt taken in the snares of Qeys--thou know'st.
He laid strong siege to Leyla's heart and then
Awaited trembling at the trysting-place.
Thou now hast wooed thy love for two long years
And she will not relent, nor speak to thee.
God bless us both!"
The Lord is generous.
He sees. If trouble comes, he'll make it pass.
My lot is sad and I am full of fear.
The mountains tall would melt and turn to sand
If I to them my sorrows should relate.
Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where.
Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb.
O Taleb, should I tell my tale of grief
Unto a sabre of the Ind, 'twould melt
On hearing my laments. My heart cannot
Endure these tortures, and my breast's on fire.
My tale is finished, here I end my song,
And publish forth my name along with it;
It is Ben Sahla. I do not conceal
How I am called, and in my black despair
I do not cease my lamentations loud.
O ye who have experienced the stings
Of love, excuse me now and blame me not
In this affair. I know that I shall die,
O'ercome by woe. The doctor of my heart
Protracts my suffering. He cures me not,
Nor yet cuts short the thread of my sad life.
Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where.
Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb.
THE CITY GIRL AND THE COUNTRY GIRL
O thou who hearest me, I will recite
One of these stories I am master of--
A tale that's true. By these I move the hearts
Of lovers like to thee, and I divert
Their minds with pleasant stories. As I hear,
So I relate them, and they please my friends,
By flow of wit and eloquence of thought.
I tell of beauties' battle. And my song
Is written in perfection, straight and clear.
Thinking of naught I walked along one day
When I had gone to see some beauties fair
Whose like I ne'er have seen in city nor
In country yet. I should have said
That they were sun and moon, and that the girls
Of that time were bright stars surpassing far
The Pleiades. The stars are envious
In their far firmaments, each of
The other. That's the reason why we see
Eclipses of the sun and moon.
My tale
Is true. The women, like unto the stars,
Are jealous also. Two young virgins met
The day I saw them, a sad day for them,
For one was jealous of the other one.
The citizeness said to the Bedouine:
"Look at thy similars and thou shalt see
In them but rustics, true dogs of the camp.
Now what art thou beside a city girl?
Thou art a Bedouine. Dost thou not dream
Of goat-skin bottles to be filled at dawn?
And loads of wood that thou must daily cut?
And how thou'rt doomed to turn the mill all night,
Fatigued, harassed? Thy feet, unshod, are chapped
And full of cracks. Thy head can never feel
The solace of uncovering, and thou,
All broken with fatigue, must go to sleep
Upon the ground, in soot and dust to lie,
Just like a serpent coiled upon himself.
Thy covering is the tatters of old tents,
Thy pillow is the stones upon the hearth.
All clad in rags thou hast a heavy sleep
Awaking to another stupid day.
Such is the life of all you country folk.
What art thou then compared to those who live
In shade of walls, who have their mosques for prayer
Where questions are discussed and deeds are drawn?"
The Arab woman to the city girl
Replied: "Get out! Thou'rt like a caverned owl.
And who art thou beside the Arab girls,
The daughters of those tribes whose standards wave
Above brave bands of horsemen as they speed?
Look at thy similars. The doctor ne'er
Can leave their side. Without an illness known
They're faded, pale, and sallow. The harsh lime
Hath filled thy blood with poison. Thou art dead,
Although thou seem'st alive. Thou ne'er hast seen
Our noble Arabs and their feats of strength,
Who to the deserts bring prosperity
By their sharp swords! If thou could'st see our tribe
When all the horsemen charge a hostile band,
Armed with bright lances and with shields to break
The enemy's strong blow! Those who are like
To them are famed afar and glorified.
They're generous hosts and men of nature free.
Within the mosques they've built and lodgings made
For
tolba
and for guests. All those who come
To visit them, bear gifts away, and give
Them praises. Why should they reside in town
Where everything's with price of silver bought?"
The city girl replied: "Oh, Bedouine,
Thou dost forget all that thou hast to do.
Thou go'st from house to house, with artichokes
And mallows, oyster-plants, and such,
Thy garments soaked all through and through with grease.
This is thy daily life. I do not speak
Of what is hid from view. Thy slanders cease!
What canst thou say of me? Better than thee
I follow all the precepts of the Sonna
And note more faithfully the sacred hours.
Hid by my veil no eye hath seen my face:
I'm not like thee, forever in the field.
I've streets to go on when I walk abroad.
What art thou, then, beside me? I heard not
The cows and follow them about all day.
Thou eatest sorrel wild and heart of dwarf
Palm-tree. Thy feet are tired with walking far,
And thy rough hands with digging in the earth."
"Now what impels you, and what leads you on,"
The country girl of city girl inquired,
"To outrage us like this and say such words
Against us, you who are the very worst
Of creatures, in whom all the vices are
Assembled? You are wicked sinners all,
And Satan would not dare to tell your deeds.
You are all witches. And you would betray
Your brother, not to speak of husbands. You
Walk all unguarded in the street alone,
Against your husband's will. And you deny
Your holy faith. The curse of heav'n will weigh
Upon you when you go to meet your God.
Not one of you is honest. O ye blind
Who do not wish to see, whence comes your blindness?
You violate the law divine, and few
Among you fear the Lord. 'Tis in the country,
Amid the fields, that women worship God.
Why say'st thou that the city women sole
Are pious? Canst thou say my prayers for me?"
"What pleasure have the country girls?" replied
The city girl. "They've no amusements there.
There's nothing to divert the eyes. Their hands
They do not stain with henna, setting off
A rounded arm. Rich costumes they wear not,
Which cost some hundred silver pieces each,
Nor numerous garments decked with precious stones.
They are not coifed with kerchiefs of foulard
With flowers brocaded. Neither have they veils
Nor handkerchiefs of silk and broidered gold.
They never have a negress nurse to bring
Their children up and run on services
Throughout the house. And yet they boast as loud
As any braggart. Why bring'st thou the charge
That I a blameful life do lead, whilst thine
Deserves reproof? Dirt in the country holds
Supreme control. The water's scarce enough
To drink, with none left for the bath. The ground
Serves you as bed, and millet is your food,
Or rotten wheat and barley."
Then took up
The word, and spoke the Arab woman dark:
"Who are thy ancestors? Which is thy tribe
Among all those that fill the mighty world?
You're only Beny Leqyt, and the scum
Of people of all sorts. Thou call'st thyself
A city woman. What are city men?
Thy lords don't slander folk. 'Tis only those
Who come whence no one knows who have so rude
A tongue. Thou wouldst insult me, thou, of stock
Like thine, with such a name abroad! And thou
Wouldst taunt a Qorechyte, a Hachemite
Of glorious ancestors who earned their fame.
Tis proper for a woman born of such
A stock illustrious to vaunt herself
Upon her origin. But thou, a vile
Descendant of a conquered race!
"Thou call'st
Thyself a Sunnite, yet thou knowest not
The three great things their Author gave to us:
(He knows all secrets.) First is Paradise,
Then the Koran, and then our Prophet great,
Destroyer of false faiths and for all men
The interceder. Whosoe'er loves him
Doth love the Arabs, too, and cleaves to them.
And whosoe'er hates them hates, too, in truth,
The chosen one of God. Thou hatest him,
For thou revil'st my ancestors, and seek'st
To lower their rank and vilify their fame.
Think on thine evil deeds, against the day
When in thy grave thou'lt lie, and that one, too,
When thou shalt rise again, insulter of
The Arabs, king of peoples on the earth."
"The Arabs I do not at all despise,"
The city woman said, "nor yet decry
Their honor, and 'tis only on account
Of thee I spoke against them. But 'tis thou
Who hast insulted all my family, and placed
Thy race above. He who begins is e'er
At fault, and not the one who follows. Thou
The quarrel didst commence. Pray God, our Lord,
To pardon me, as I will pray him, too,
And I the Arabs will no more attack.
If they offend me I will pardon them
And like them for our holy prophet's sake.
I shall awake in Paradise some day.
From them 'tis given, far beyond all price.
Frankly, I love them more than I do love
Myself. I love them from my very heart.
He who a people loveth shall arise
With them. And here's an end to all our words
Of bickering and mutual abuse."
I told them that it was my duty plain
To reconcile them. I accorded both
Of them most pure intentions. Then I sent
Them home, and made agreeable the way.
Their cares I drove away with honeyed words.
I have composed the verses of this piece,
With sense more delicate than rare perfume
Of orange-flower or than sugar sweet,
For those kind hearts who know how to forgive.
As for the evil-minded, they should feel
The
zeqqoum
. With the flowers of rhetoric
My song is ornamented: like the breast
Of some fair virgin all bedecked with stones
Which shine like bright stars in the firmament.
Some of its words will seem severe to those
Who criticise. I culled them like unto
A nosegay in the garden of allusions.
May men of lion hearts and spirit keen--
Beloved by God and objects of his care--
Receive my salutations while they live,
My countless salutations.
I should let
My name be known to him who's subject to
The Cherfa and obeys their mighty power.
The
mym
precedes, then comes the written
ha
.
The
mym
and
dal
complete the round and make
It comprehensible to him who reads
Mahomet. May God pardon me this work
So frivolous, and also all my faults
And errors. I place confidence in him,
Creator of all men, with pardon free
For all our sins, and in his mercy trust,
Because he giveth it to him who seeks.
The country girl and city girl appeared
Before the judge, demanding sentence just.
In fierce invectives for a while they joined,
But after all I left them reconciled.