One day he was passing a splendid mansion, with a crowd of servants lounging in the courtyard.  He thought that from the appearance of the house it might yield him a rich harvest, so he entered and inquired to whom it belonged.

“My good man, where do you come from?” replied the servant.  “Can’t you see for yourself that it can belong to nobody but a Barmecide?” for the Barmecides were famed for their liberality and generosity.  My brother, hearing this, asked the porters, of whom there were several, if they would give him alms.  They did not refuse, but told him politely to go in, and speak to the master himself.

My brother thanked them for their courtesy and entered the building, which was so large that it took him some time to reach the apartments of the Barmecide.  At last, in a room richly decorated with paintings, he saw an old man with a long white beard, sitting on a sofa, who received him with such kindness that my brother was emboldened to make his petition.

“My lord,” he said, “you behold in me a poor man who only lives by the help of persons as rich and as generous as you.”

Before he could proceed further, he was stopped by the astonishment shown by the Barmecide.  “Is it possible,” he cried, “that while I am in Bagdad, a man like you should be starving?  That is a state of things that must at once be put an end to!  Never shall it be said that I have abandoned you, and I am sure that you, on your part, will never abandon me.”

“My lord,” answered my brother, “I swear that I have not broken my fast this whole day.”

“What, you are dying of hunger?” exclaimed the Barmecide.  “Here, slave; bring water, that we may wash our hands before meat!” No slave appeared, but my brother remarked that the Barmecide did not fail to rub his hands as if the water had been poured over them.

Then he said to my brother, “Why don’t you wash your hands too?” and Schacabac, supposing that it was a joke on the part of the Barmecide (though he could see none himself), drew near, and imitated his motion.

When the Barmecide had done rubbing his hands, he raised his voice, and cried, “Set food before us at once, we are very hungry.”  No food was brought, but the Barmecide pretended to help himself from a dish, and carry a morsel to his mouth, saying as he did so, “Eat, my friend, eat, I entreat.  Help yourself as freely as if you were at home!  For a starving man, you seem to have a very small appetite.”

“Excuse me, my lord,” replied Schacabac, imitating his gestures as before, “I really am not losing time, and I do full justice to the repast.”

“How do you like this bread?” asked the Barmecide.  “I find it particularly good myself.”

“Oh, my lord,” answered my brother, who beheld neither meat nor bread, “never have I tasted anything so delicious.”

“Eat as much as you want,” said the Barmecide.  “I bought the woman who makes it for five hundred pieces of gold, so that I might never be without it.”