Giaffar reflected: “In appearance this
man is a beggar, it is true; but all sorts of things
happen. Why should not I try the experiment?”—and
he answered: “Good, my father, I will go.”
The old man looked him in the eye and went away.
On the following morning, just as day was breaking,
Giaffar set out for the bazaar. The old man was
already waiting for him, with his elbows leaning on
the marble basin of the fountain.
Silently he took Giaffar by the hand and led him to
a small garden, surrounded on all sides by high walls.
In the very centre of this garden, on a green lawn,
grew a tree of extraordinary aspect.
It resembled a cypress; only its foliage was of azure
hue.
Three fruits—three apples—hung
on the slender up-curving branches. One of medium
size was oblong in shape, of a milky-white hue; another
was large, round, and bright red; the third was small,
wrinkled and yellowish.
The whole tree was rustling faintly, although there
was no wind. It tinkled delicately and plaintively,
as though it were made of glass; it seemed to feel
the approach of Giaffar.
“Youth!”—said the old man,
“pluck whichever of these fruits thou wilt,
and know that if thou shalt pluck and eat the white
one, thou shalt become more wise than all men; if
thou shalt pluck and eat the red one, thou shalt become
as rich as the Hebrew Rothschild; if thou shalt pluck
and eat the yellow one, thou shalt please old women.
Decide! ... and delay not. In an hour the fruits
will fade, and the tree itself will sink into the
dumb depths of the earth!”
Giaffar bowed his head and thought.—“What
am I to do?” he articulated in a low tone, as
though arguing with himself.—“If one
becomes too wise, he will not wish to live, probably;
if he becomes richer than all men, all will hate him;
I would do better to pluck and eat the third, the
shrivelled apple!”
And so he did; and the old man laughed a toothless
laugh and said: “Oh, most wise youth!
Thou hast chosen the good part!—What use
hast thou for the white apple? Thou art wiser
than Solomon as thou art.—And neither dost
thou need the red apple.... Even without it thou
shalt be rich. Only no one will be envious of
thy wealth.”
“Inform me, old man,” said Giaffar, with
a start, “where the respected mother of our
God-saved Caliph dwelleth?”
The old man bowed to the earth, and pointed out the
road to the youth.
Who in Bagdad doth not know the sun of the universe,
the great, the celebrated Giaffar?
April, 1878.
There existed once a city whose inhabitants were so
passionately fond of poetry that if several weeks
passed and no beautiful new verses had made their
appearance they regarded that poetical dearth as a
public calamity.
At such times they donned their worst garments, sprinkled
ashes on their heads, and gathering in throngs on
the public squares, they shed tears, and murmured
bitterly against the Muse for having abandoned them.
