n Bagdad lived an old merchant, of the name of Abon Casem, who was famous for his riches, but still more for his avarice. His coffers were small to look at—if you could get a sight of them—and very dirty; but they were crammed with jewels. His clothes were as scanty as need be; but then, even in his clothes, there was multum in parvo: to wit, much dirt, in little space. All the embroidery he wore was of that kind which is of necessity attendant upon a ragged state of drapery. It meandered over his bony form in all the beauty of ill-sewn patches. His turban was of the finest kind of linen for lasting: a kind of canvas, and so mixed with elementary substances that its original colour, if it still existed, was invisible. But, of all his habiliments, his slippers were most deserving the study of the curious. They were the extreme cases, both of his body and his dirt. The soles consisted chiefly of huge nails, and the upper leathers of almost everything. The ship of the Argonauts was not a greater miscellany. During the ten years of their performance in the character of shoes, the most skilful cobblers had exercised their science and ingenuity in keeping them together. The accumulation of materials had been so great, and their weight was so heavy in proportion, that they were promoted to honours of proverbialism; and Abon Casem's slippers became a favourite comparison when a superfluity of weight was the subject of discourse.
It happened one day, as this precious merchant was walking in the market, that he had a great quantity of fine glass bottles offered him for sale; and, as the proposed bargain was greatly on his side, and he made it still more so, he bought them. The vendor informed him, furthermore, that a perfumer having lately become bankrupt, had no resource left but to sell, at a very low price, a large quantity of rose-water; and Casem, greatly rejoicing at this news, and, hastening to the poor man's shop, bought up all the rose-water at half its value. He then carried it home, and comfortably put it in his bottles. Delighted with these good bargains, and buoyant in his spirits, our hero, instead of making a feast, according to the custom of his fellows, thought it more advisable to go to the bath, where he had not been for some time.
While employed in the intricate business of undressing, one of his friends, or one whom he believed such—for your misers seldom have any—observed that his pantofles had made him quite the bye-word of the city, and that it was high time to buy a new pair.
"To say the truth," said Casem, "I have long thought of doing so; but they are not yet so worn as to be unable to serve me a little longer." And, having undressed himself, he went into the stove.
During the luxury he was there enjoying, the Cadi of Bagdad came in, and, having undressed himself, he went into the stove likewise. Casem soon after came out, and, having dressed himself, looked about for his pantofles; but nowhere could he find them. In the place of his own, he found a pair sufficiently different to be not only new, but splendid. And, feeling convinced that they were a gift from his friend—not the less so, perhaps, because he wished it—he triumphantly thrust his toes in them, and issued forth into the air, radiant with joy and a skin nearly clean.
On the other hand, when the Cadi had performed the necessary purifications, and was dressed, his slaves looked for his lordship's slippers in vain. Nowhere could they be found. Instead of the embroidered pantofles of the Judge, they detected, in a corner, only the phenomena left by Casem, which were too well known to leave a doubt how their master's had disappeared. The slaves went immediately for Casem, and brought him back to the indignant magistrate, who, deaf to his attempts at defence, sent him to prison. Now, in the East, the claws of justice open just as wide, and no wider than the purse of the culprit; and it may be supposed that Abon Casem, who was known to be as rich as he was miserly, did not get his freedom at the same rate as his rose-water.
The miserable Casem returned home, tearing his beard—for beard is not a dear stuff—and, being mightily enraged with the pantofles, he seized upon them, and threw them out of his window into the Tigris.
It happened a few days after that some fishermen drew their nets under the window, and the weight being greater than usual, they were exulting in their success, when out came the pantofles. Furious against Casem (for who did not know Casem's pantofles?), they threw them in at the window, at the same time reviling him for the accident. Unhappy Casem! The pantofles flew into his room, fell among his bottles, which were ranged with great care along the shelf, and, overthrowing them, covered the room with glass and rose-water. Imagine, if you can, the miser's agony! With a loud voice, and tearing his beard, according to custom, he roared out, "Accursed pantofles, will you never cease persecuting the wretched Casem?"
So saying, he took a spade, and went into his garden to bury them.