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*** Start of this project gutenberg EBOOK Moorish literature ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Susan Skinner and the
Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
COMPRISING
Romantic ballads, tales of the
Berbers, stories of the Kabyles,
folk-lore,
and national traditions
WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY
Rene Basset, Ph.D.
1901
The region which extends from the frontiers of Egypt to the Atlantic Ocean, and from the Mediterranean to the Niger, was in ancient times inhabited by a people to whom we give the general name of Berbers, but whom the ancients, particularly those of the Eastern portion, knew under the name of Moors. “They were called Maurisi by the Greeks,” said Strabo, “in the first century A.D., and Mauri by the Romans. They are of Lybian origin, and form a powerful and rich nation."[1] This name of Moors is applied not only to the descendants of the ancient Lybians and Numidians, who live in the nomad state or in settled abodes, but also to the descendants of the Arabs who, in the eighth century A.D., brought with them Islamism, imposed by the sabre of Ogbah and his successors. Even further was it carried, into Spain, when Berbers and Arabs, reunited under the standard of Moussa and Tarik, added this country to the empire of the Khalifa. In the fifteenth century the Portuguese, in their turn, took the name to the Orient, and gave the name of Moors to the Mussulmans whom they found on the Oriental coast of Africa and in India.
[1] Geographica, t. xviii, ch. 3, Section ii.
The appellation particularizes, as one may see, three peoples entirely different in origin—the Berbers, the Arabs of the west, and the Spanish Mussulmans, widely divided, indeed, by political struggles, but united since the seventh and eighth centuries in their religious law. This distinction must be kept in mind, as it furnishes the necessary divisions for a study of the Moorish literature.
The term Moorish Literature may appear ambitious applied to the monuments of the Berber language which have come down to us, or are gathered daily either from the lips of singers on the mountains of the Jurgura, of the Aures, or of the Atlas of Morocco; under the tents of the Touaregs of the desert or the Moors of Senegal; in the oases of the south of Algeria or in Tunis. But it is useless to search for literary monuments such as have been transmitted to us from Egypt and India, Assyria and Persia, ancient Judea, Greece and Rome; from the Middle Ages; from Celt, Slav, and German; from the Semitic and Ouralo-altaique tongues; the extreme Orient, and the modern literature of the Old and New World.
But the manifestations of thought, in popular form, are no less curious and worthy of study among the Berbers. I do not speak of the treatises on religion which in the Middle Ages and in our day were translated from the Arabic into certain dialects: that borrowed literature, which also exists among the Sonalulis of Eastern Africa and the Haussas and the Peuls of the Soudan, has nothing original. But the popular literature—the stories and songs—has an altogether different importance. It is, above all, the expression of the daily life, whether it relates to fetes or battles or even simple fights. These songs may be satirical or laudatory, to celebrate the victory of one party or deplore the defeat of the True Believers by the Christians, resounding on the lips of children or women, or shouted in political defiance. They permit us, in spite of a coarse rhythm and language often incorrect, an insight into their manner of life, and to feel as do peoples established for centuries on African soil. Their ancestors, the Machouacha, threatened Egypt in the time of Moses and took possession of it, and more than twenty centuries later, with the Fatimides, converted Spain to the Mussulman faith. Under Arab chiefs they would have overcome all Eastern Europe, had it not been for the hammer of Charles Martel, which crushed them on the field of Poitiers.
The richest harvest of Berber songs in our possession is, without doubt, that in the dialect of the Zouaous, inhabiting the Jurgura mountains, which rise some miles distant from Algiers, their crests covered with snow part of the year.[2] All kinds of songs are represented; the rondeaux of children whose inspiration is alike in all countries:
[2] Hanoteau, Poesies Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, Paris, 1867, 8vo.
“Oh, moonlight clear in the narrow
streets,
Tell to our little friends
To come out now with us to play—
To play with us to-night.
If they come not, then we will go
To them with leather shoes. (Kabkab.)[3]
“Rise up, O Sun, and hie thee forth,
On thee we’ll put a bonnet old:
We’ll plough for thee a little field—
A little field of pebbles full:
Our oxen but a pair of mice.”
“Oh, far distant moon:
Could I but see thee, Ali!
Ali, son of Sliman,
The beard[4] of Milan
Has gone to draw water.
Her cruse, it is broken;
But he mends it with thread,
And draws water with her:
He cried to Ayesha:
’Give me my sabre,
That I kill the merle
Perched on the dunghill
Where she dreams;
She has eaten all my olives.’"[5]
[3] A sort of sandal.
[4] Affectionate term for a child.
[5] Hanoteau, v. 441-443.
In the same category one may find the songs which are peculiar to the women, “couplets with which they accompany themselves in their dances; the songs, the complaints which one hears them repeat during whole hours in a rather slow and monotonous rhythm while they are at their household labors, turning the hand-mill, spinning and weaving cloths, and composed by the women, both words and music."[6]
One of the songs, among others, and the most celebrated in the region of the Oued-Sahal, belonging to a class called Deker, is consecrated to the memory of an assassin, Daman-On-Mesal, executed by a French justice. As in most of these couplets, it is the guilty one who excites the interest:
“The Christian oppresses. He
has snatched away
This deserving young man;
He took him away to Bougre,
The Christian women marvelled
at him.
Pardieu! O Mussulmans, you
Have repudiated Kabyle honor.” [7]
[6] Hanoteau, Preface, p. iii.
[7] Hanoteau, p. 94.
With the Berbers of lower Morocco the women’s songs are called by the Arab name Eghna.
If the woman, as in all Mussulman society, plays an inferior role—inferior to that allowed to her in our modern civilizations—she is not less the object of songs which celebrate the power given her by beauty:
“O bird with azure plumes,
Go, be my messenger—
I ask thee that thy flight be swift;
Take from me now thy recompense.
Rise with the dawn—ah, very
soon—
For me neglect a hundred plans;
Direct thy flight toward the fount,
To Tanina and Cherifa.
“Speak to the eyelash-darkened maid,
To the beautiful one of the pure, white
throat;
With teeth like milky pearls.
Red as vermillion are her cheeks;
Her graceful charms have stol’n
my reason;
Ceaselessly I see her in my dreams."[8]
“A woman with a pretty nose
Is worth a house of solid stone;
I’d give for her a hundred reaux,[9]
E’en if she quitted me as soon.
“Arching eyebrows on a maid,
With love the genii would entice,
I’d buy her for a thousand reaux,
Even if exile were the price.
“A woman neither fat nor lean
Is like a pleasant forest green,
When she unfolds her budding charms,
She gleams and glows with springtime sheen."[10]
[8] Hanoteau, p. 350-357
[9] Reais
[10] Hanoteau, pp. 302, 303
The same sentiment inspires the Touareg songs, among which tribe women enjoy much greater liberty and possess a knowledge of letters greater than that of the men, and know more of that which we should call literature, if that word were not too ambitious:
“For God’s sake leave those
hearts in peace,
’Tis Tosdenni torments them so;
She is more graceful than a troop
Of antelopes separated from gazelles;
More beautiful than snowy flocks,
Which move toward the tents,
And with the evening shades appear
To share the nightly gathering;
More beautiful than the striped silks
Enwrapped so closely under the haiks,
More beautiful than the glossy ebon veil,
Enveloped in its paper white,
With which the young man decks himself,
And which sets off his dusky cheek."[1]
[1] Masqueray, Observations grammaticales sur la grammaire Touareg et textes de la Tourahog des Tailog, pp. 212, 213. Paris, 1897.
The poetic talent of the Touareg women, and the use they make of this gift—which they employ to celebrate or to rail at, with the accompaniment of their one-stringed violin, that which excites their admiration or inspires them with disdain—is a stimulant for warriors:
“That which spurs me to battle is
a word of scorn,
And the fear of the eternal malediction
Of God, and the circles of the young
Maidens with their violins.
Their disdain is for those men
Who care not for their own good names.[2]
“Noon has come, the meeting’s
sure.
Hearts of wind love not the battle;
As though they had no fear of the violins,
Which are on the knees of painted women—
Arab women, who were not fed on sheep’s
milk;
There is but camel’s milk in all
their land.
More than one other has preceded thee
and is widowed,
For that in Amded, long since,
My own heart was burned.
Since you were a young lad I suffered—
Since I wore the veil and wrapped
My head in the folds of the haik."[3]
[2] Masqueray, p. 220.
[3] Masqueray, p. 227.
War, and the struggle of faction against faction, of tribe against tribe, of confederation against confederation, it is which, with love, above all, has inspired the Berber men. With the Khabyles a string of love-songs is called “Alamato,” because this word occurs in the first couplet, always with a belligerent inspiration:
“He has seized his banner for the
fight
In honor of the Bey whose cause he maintains,
He guides the warriors with their gorgeous
cloaks,
With their spurs unto their boots well
fastened,
All that was hostile they destroyed with
violence;
And brought the insurgents to reason.”
This couplet is followed by a second, where allusion is made to the snow which interrupts communication:
“Violently falls the snow,
In the mist that precedes the lightning;
It bends the branches to the earth,
And splits the tallest trees in twain.
Among the shepherds none can pasture his
flock;
It closes to traffic all the roads to
market.
Lovers then must trust the birds,
With messages to their loves—
Messages to express their passion.
“Gentle tame falcon of mine,
Rise in thy flight, spread out thy wings,
If thou art my friend do me this service;
To-morrow, ere ever the rise of the sun,
Fly toward her house; there alight
On the window of my gracious beauty."[4]
[4] Hanoteau, pp. 348-350.
With the Khabyles of the Jurgura the preceding love-songs are the particular specialty of a whole list of poets who bear the Arab name of T’eballa, or “tambourinists.” Ordinarily they are accompanied in their tours by a little troop of musicians who play the tambourine and the haut-boy. Though they are held in small estimation, and are relegated to the same level as the butchers and measurers of grain, they are none the less desired, and their presence is considered indispensable at all ceremonies—wedding fetes, and on the birth of a son, on the occasion of circumcision, or for simple banquets.
Another class, composed of Ameddah, “panegyrists,” or Fecia, “eloquent men,” are considered as much higher in rank. They take part in all affairs of the country, and their advice is sought, for they dispense at will praise or blame. It is they who express the national sentiment of each tribe, and in case of war their accents uplift warriors, encourage the brave, and wither the cowardly. They accompany themselves with a Basque drum. Some, however, have with them one or two musicians who, after each couplet, play an air on the flute as a refrain.[5]
[5] Hanoteau, Introduction.
In war-songs it is remarkable to see with what rapidity historical memories are lost. The most ancient lay of this kind does not go beyond the conquest of Algiers by the French. The most recent songs treat of contemporary events. Nothing of the heroic traditions of the Berbers has survived in their memory, and it is the Arab annalists who show us the role they have played in history. If the songs relating to the conquest of Algeria had not been gathered half a century ago, they would doubtless have been lost, or nearly so, to-day. At that time, however, the remembrance was still alive, and the poets quickly crystallized in song the rapidity of the triumph of France, which represents their civilization:
“From the day when the Consul left
Algiers,
The powerful French have gathered their
hosts:
Now the Turks have gone, without hope
of return,
Algiers the beautiful is wrested from
them.
“Unhappy Isle that they built in
the desert,
With vaults of limestone and brick;
The celestial guardian who over them watched
has withdrawn.
Who can resist the power of God?
“The forts that surround Algiers
like stars,
Are bereft of their masters;
The baptized ones have entered.
The Christian religion now is triumphant,
O my eyes, weep tears of blood, weep evermore!
“They are beasts of burden without
cruppers,
Their backs are loaded,
Under a bushel their unkempt heads are
hidden,
They speak a patois unintelligible,
You can understand nothing they say.
“The combat with these gloomy invaders
Is like the first ploughing of a virgin
soil,
To which the harrowing implements
Are rude and painful;
Their attack is terrible.
“They drag their cannons with them,
And know how to use them, the impious
ones;
When they fire, the smoke forms in thick
clouds:
They are charged with shrapnel,
Which falls like the hail of approaching
spring.
Unfortunate queen of cities—
City of noble ramparts,
Algiers, column of Islam,
Thou art like the habitation of the dead,
The banner of France envelops thee all."[6]
[6] Hanoteau, pp. 2, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11.
It is, one may believe, in similar terms that these songs, lost to-day, recount the defeat of Jugurtha, or Talfarinas, by the Romans, or that of the Kahina by the Arabs. But that which shows clearly how rapidly these songs, and the remembrance of what had inspired them, have been lost is the fact that in a poem of the same kind on the same subject, composed some fifty years ago by the Chelha of meridional Morocco, it is not a question of France nor the Hussains, but the Christians in general, against whom the poet endeavors to excite his compatriots.
It is so, too, with the declamatory songs of the latest period of the Middle Ages, the dialects more or less precise, where the oldest heroic historical poems, like the Song of Roland, had disappeared to leave the field free for the imagination of the poet who treats the struggles between Christians and Saracens according to his own fantasy.
Thanks to General Hanoteau, the songs relating to the principal events of Khabyle since the French conquest have been saved from oblivion, viz., the expedition of Marechal Bugeaud in 1867; that of General Pelissier in 1891; the insurrection of Bon Bar’la; those of Ameravun in 1896, and the divers episodes of the campaign of 1897 against the Aith Traten, when the mountains were the last citadel of the Khabyle independence:
“The tribe was full of refugees,
From all sides they sought refuge
With the Aith Traten, the powerful confederation.
‘Let us go,’ said they, ‘to
a sure refuge,’
For the enemy has fallen on our heads,’
But in Arba they established their home."[7]
[7] Hanoteau, p. 124.
The unhappy war of 1870, thanks to the stupidity of the military authorities, revived the hope of a victorious insurrection. Mograne, Bon Mazrag, and the Sheikh Haddad aroused the Khabyles, but the desert tribes did not respond to their appeal. Barbary was again conquered, and the popular songs composed on that occasion reproached them for the folly of their attempt.
Bon Mezrah proclaimed in the mountains and on the plain:
“Come on, a Holy War against the
Christians,
He followed his brother until his disaster,
His noble wife was lost to him.
As to his flocks and his children,
He left them to wander in Sahara.
Bon Mezrag is not a man,
But the lowest of all beings;
He deceived both Arabs and Khabyles,
Saying, ‘I have news of the Christians.’
“I believed Haddad a saint indeed,
With miracles and supernatural gifts;
He has then no scent for game,
And singular to make himself he tries.
“I tell it to you; to all of you
here
(How many have fallen in the battles),
That the Sheikh has submitted.
From the mountain he has returned,
Whoever followed him was blind.
He took flight like one bereft of sense.
How many wise men have fallen
On his traces, the traces of an impostor,
From Babors unto Guerrouma!
This joker has ruined the country—
He ravaged the world while he laughed;
By his fault he has made of this land
a desert."[8]
[8] R. Basset, L’insurrection Algerienne, de 1871 dans les chansons populaires Khabyles Lourain, 1892.
The conclusion of poems of this kind is an appeal to the generosity of France:
“Since we have so low fallen,[9]
You beat on us as on a drum;
You have silenced our voices.
We ask of you a pardon sincere,
O France, nation of valorous men,
And eternal shall be our repentance.
From beginning to the end of the year
We are waiting and hoping always:
My God! Soften the hearts of the
authorities.”
[9] J.D. Luciani, Chansons Khabyles de Ismail Azekkion. Algiers, 1893.
With the Touaregs, the civil, or war against the Arabs, replaces the war against the Christians, and has not been less actively celebrated:
“We have saddled the shoulders of
the docile camel,
I excite him with my sabre, touching his
neck,
I fall on the crowd, give them sabre and
lance;
And then there remains but a mound,
And the wild beasts find a brave meal."[10]
[10] Masqueray, pp. 228, 229.
One finds in this last verse the same inspiration that is found in the celebrated passage of the Iliad, verses 2 and 5: “Anger which caused ten thousand Achaeans to send to Hades numerous souls of heroes, and to make food of them for the dogs and birds of prey.” It is thus that the Arab poet expresses his ante-Islamic “Antarah”:
“My pitiless steel pierced all the
vestments,
The general has no safety from my blade,
I have left him as food for savage beasts
Which tear him, crunching his bones,
His handsome hands and brave arms."[1]
[1] Mo’allagah, v. 49, 50.
The Scandinavian Skalds have had the same savage accents, and one can remember a strophe from the song of the death of Raynor Lodbrog:
“I was yet young when in the Orient we gave the wolves a bloody repast and a pasture to the birds. When our rude swords rang on the helmet, then they saw the sea rise and the vultures wade in blood."[2]
[2] Marmier, Lettres sur l’Islemde.
Robbery and pillage under armed bands, the ambuscade even, are celebrated among the Touaregs with as great pleasure as a brilliant engagement:
“Matella! May thy father die!
Thou art possessed by a demon,
To believe that the Touaregs are not men.
They know how to ride the camel; they
Ride in the morning and they ride at night;
They can travel; they can gallop:
They know how to offer drink to those
Who remain upon their beasts.
They know how to surprise a
Courageous man in the night.
Happy he sleeps, fearless with kneeling
camels;
They pierce him with a lance,
Sharp and slender as a thorn,
And leave him to groan until
His soul leaves his body:
The eagle waits to devour his entrails."[3]
[3] Hanoteau, Essaie de grammaire de la langue Tamachek, pp. 210, 211. Paris, 1860.
They also show great scorn for those who lead a life relatively less barbarous, and who adorn themselves as much as the Touaregs can by means of science and commerce:
“The Tsaggmaren are not men,
Not lance of iron, nor yet of wood,
They are not in harness, not in saddles,
They have no handsome saddle-bags,
They’ve naught of what makes mankind
proud;
They’ve no fat and healthy camels,
The Tsaggmaren; don’t speak of them;
They are people of a mixed race,
There is no condition not found with them.
Some are poor, yet not in need;
Others are abused by the demon,
Others own nothing but their clubs.
There are those who make the pilgrimage,
and repeat it,
There are those who can read the Koran
and learn by that
They possess in the pasturage camels,
and their little ones,
Besides nuggets of gold all safely wrapped."[4]
[4] Hanoteau, p. 213.
Another style, no less sought for among the Berbers inhabiting cities, is the “complaint” which flourished in lower Morocco, where it is known under the Arab name of Lqist (history). When the subject is religious, they call it Nadith (tradition). One of the most celebrated is that wherein they tell of the descent into the infernal regions of a young man in search of his father and mother. It will give an idea of this style of composition to recite the beginning:
“In the name of God, most clement
and merciful,
Also benediction and homage to the prophet
Mohammed,
In the name of God, listen to the words
of the author,
This is what the Talebs tell, according
to the august Koran.
Let us begin this beautiful story by
Invoking the name of God.
Listen to this beautiful story, O good
[5] R. Basset, Le Poeme de Sabi, p. 15 et suis. Paris, 1879.
Other poems—for instance, that of Sidi Hammen and that of Job—are equally celebrated in Morocco. The complaints on religious subjects are accompanied on the violin, while those treating of a historical event or a story with a moral have the accompaniment of a guitar. We may class this kind of poems among those called Tandant, in lower Morocco, which consist in the enumeration of short maxims. The same class exist also in Zouaona and in Touareg.
But the inspiration of the Khabyle poets does not always maintain its exaltation. Their talents become an arm to satirize those who have not given them a sufficiently large recompense, or—worse still, and more unpardonable—who have served to them a meagre repast:
“I went to the home of vile animals,
Ait Rebah is their name;
I found them lying under the sun like
green figs,
They looked ill and infirm.
They are lizards among adders,
They inspire no fear, for they bite not.
Put a sheepskin before them, they
Will tear your arms and hands;
Their parched lips are all scaly,
Besides being red and spotted.
“As the vultures on their dung heaps,
When they see carrion, fall upon it,
Tearing out its entrails,
That day is for them one of joy.
Judging by their breeches,
And the headdresses of their wives,
I think they are of Jewish origin."[6]
[6] Hanoteau, Poemes Populaires de la Khabyle, pp. 179-181, Du Jurgura.
This song, composed by Mohammed Said or Aihel Hadji, is still repeated when one wishes to insult persons from Aith Erbah, who have tried several times to assassinate the poet in revenge.
Sometimes two rival singers find themselves together, and each begins to eulogize himself, which eulogy ends in a satire on the other. But the joust begun by apostrophes and Homeric insults finishes often with a fight, and the natural arm is the Basque drum until others separate, the adversaries.[7] We have an example in a dialogue of this kind between Youssuf ou Kassi, of the Aith Djemnad, and Mohand ou Abdaha, of the Aith Kraten. The challenge and the jousts—less the blows—exist among the chellahs of lower Morocco, where they are called Tamawoucht; but between man and woman there is that which indicates the greatest liberty of manners. The verses are improvised, and the authors are paid in small money. Here is a specimen:
The woman: “When
it thunders and the sky is overcast,
Drive home the sheep, O watchful
shepherd.”
The man: “When
it thunders, and the sky is overcast,
We will bring home the sheep.”
The woman: “I wish
I had a bunch of switches to strike you with!
May your father be accursed,
Sheepkeeper!”
The man: “Oh, God,
I thank thee for having created
Old maids to grind meal for the
toilers."[8]
[7] Hanoteau, p. 275 et seq.
[8] Stemme, p. 7, 8.
Another manifestation, and not less important of the popular Berber literature, consists in the stories. Although no attempt has been made in our days to gather them, many indications permit us to believe that they have been at all times well treasured by these people. In the story of Psyche that Apuleius inserted at the end of the second century A.D., in the romance of Metamorphoses,[9] we read that Venus imposed on Psyche, among other trials, that of sorting out and placing in separate jars the grains of wheat, oats, millet and poppy pease, lentils and lima beans which she had mixed together. This task, beyond the power of Psyche, was accomplished by the ants which came to her aid, and thus she conquered the task set by her cruel mother-in-law.
[9] Hanoteau, Essai de Grammaire Khabyle, p. 282 et seq. Alger.
This same trial we find in a Berber story. It is an episode in a Khabyle story of the Mohammed ben Sol’tan, who, to obtain the hand of the daughter of a king, separated wheat, corn, oats, and sorghum, which had been mingled together. This trait is not found in Arab stories which have served as models for the greater part of Khabyle tales. It is scarcely admissible that the Berbers had read the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius, but it is probable that he was born at Madaure, in Algeria, and retained an episode of a popular Berber tale which he had heard in his childhood, and placed in his story.
The tales have also preserved the memory of very ancient customs, and in particular those of adoption. In the tales gathered in Khabyle by General Hanoteau,[10] T. Riviere,[1] and Moulieras,[2] also that in the story of Mizab, the hero took upon himself a supernatural task, and succeeded because he became the adopted son of an ogress, at whose breast he nursed.[3] This custom is an ancient one with the Berbers, for on a bas relief at Thebes it shows us a chief of the Machouacha (the Egyptian name of the Berbers) of the XXII Dynasty nursed and adopted by the goddess Hathor. Arab stories of Egypt have also preserved this trait—for instance, “The Bear of the Kitchen,"[4] and El Schater Mohammed.[5]
[10] Hanoteau, p. 266. Le chasseur.
[1] Contes Populaires de la Khabylie du Jurgura, p. 239. Paris, 1892. Le chausseur.
[2] Legendes et contes merveilleuses de la grande Khabylie, p. 20. 2 vols. Tunis, 1893-1898. Le fils du Sultan et le chien des Chretiens, p. 90. Histoire de Ali et sa mere.
[3] R Basset, Nouveaux Contes Berbers, p. 18. Paris, 1897. La Pomme de jeunesse.
[4] Spitta-bey, Contes Arabes modernes, p. 12. Ley de 1883.
[5] Arless Pasha, Contes Populaire de la vallee du Nil. Paris, 1895.
During the conquest of the Magreb by the Arabs in the seventh century A.D., Kahina, a Berber queen, who at a given moment drove the Mussulman invaders away and personified national defiance, employed the same ceremony to adopt for son the Arab Khaled Ben Yazed, who was to betray her later.
Assisted by these traits of indigenous manners, we can call to mind ogres and pagans who represent an ancient population, or, more exactly, the sectarians of an ancient religion like the Paganism or the Christianity which was maintained on some points of Northern Africa, with the Berbers, until the eleventh century A.D. Fabulous features from the Arabs have slipped into the descriptions of the Djohala, mingled with the confused souvenirs of mythological beings belonging to paganism before the advent of Christianity.
It is difficult to separate the different sources of the Berber stories. Besides those appearing to be of indigenous origin, and which have for scene a grotto or a mountain, one could scarcely deny that the greater part, whether relating to stories of adventure, fairy stories, or comical tales, were borrowed from foreign countries by way of the Arabs. Without doubt they have furnished the larger part, but there are some of which there are no counterparts in European countries. “Half a cock,” for instance, has travelled into the various provinces of France, Ireland, Albania, among the Southern Slavs, and to Portugal, from whence it went to Brazil; but the Arabs do not know it, nor do they know Tom Thumb, which with the Khabyles becomes H’ab Sliman. In the actual state of our knowledge, we can only say that there is a striking resemblance between a Berber tale and such or such a version. From thence comes the presumption of borrowed matter. But, for the best results to be gained, one should be in possession of all the versions. When it relates to celebrated personages among the Mussulmans, like Solomon, or the features of a legend of which no trace remains of the names, one can certainly conclude that it is borrowed from the Arabs. It is the same with the greater number of fairy tales, whose first inventors, the Arabs, commenced with the “Thousand and One Nights,” and presented us with “The Languages of the Beasts,” and also with funny stories.
The principal personage of these last is Si Djeha, whose name was borrowed from a comic narrative existing as early as the eleventh century A.D. The contents are sometimes coarse and sometimes witty, are nearly all more ancient, and yet belong to the domain of pleasantries from which in Germany sprung the anecdotes of Tyll Eulenspiegel and the Seven Suabians, and in England the Wise Men of Gotham. In Italy, and even in Albania, the name of Djeha is preserved under the form of Guifa and Guicha; and the Turks, who possess the richest literature on this person, have made him a Ghadji Sirii Hissar, under the name of Nasr-eddin Hodja (a form altered from Djoha). The traits attributed to such persons as Bon Idhes, Bon Goudous, Bon Kheenpouch, are equally the same as those bestowed upon Si Djeha.
But if the Berbers have borrowed the majority of their tales, they have given to their characters the manners and appearance and names of their compatriots. The king does not differ from the Amir of a village, or an Amanokul of the Touaregs. The palace is the same as all those of a Haddarth, and Haroun al Raschid himself, when he passes into Berber stories, is plucked of the splendor he possesses in the “Thousand and One Nights,” and in Oriental stories. This anachronism renders the heroes of the tales more real, and they are real Berbers, who are alive, and who express themselves like the mountaineers of Jurgura, the Arabs of the Atlas; like the men of Ksour, or the nomads of Sahara. In general there is little art in these stories, and in style they are far below other collections celebrated through the entire world.
An important place is given to the fables or stories of animals, but there is little that is not borrowed from foreign lands, and the animals are only such as the Berbers are familiar with. The adventures of the jackal do not differ from those of the fox in European stories. An African trait may be signalled in the prominence which it offers the hare, as in the stories of Ouslofs and Bantous. Also, the hedgehog, neglected so lamentably in our fables, holds an important place; and if the jackal manages to deceive the lion, he is, in spite of his astute nature, duped by the hedgehog when he tries a fall with him. As to the lion, the serpent, the cock, the frog, the turtle, the hyena, the jackal, the rat, their roles offer little of the place they play in the Arab tales, or even the Europeans.
If we pass from Berber we find the Arab tongue as spoken among the Magreb, and will see that the literature is composed of the same elements, particularly in the tales and songs. There are few special publications concerning the first, but there are few travellers who have not gathered some, and thus rendered their relations with the people more pleasant. In what concerns the fairy tales it is, above all, the children for whom they are destined, “when at night, at the end of their wearisome days, the mothers gather their children around them under the tent, under the shelter of her Bon Rabah, the little ones demand with tears a story to carry their imaginations far away.” “Kherrfin ya summa” ("Tell us a story"), they say, and she begins the long series of the exploits of Ah Di Douan.[6] Even the men do not disdain to listen to the tales, and those that were gathered from Tunis and Tripoli by Mr. Stemme,[7] and in Morocco by Messrs. Souin and Stemme,[8] show that the marvellous adventures, wherein intervene the Djinns, fairies, ogres, and sorcerers, are no less popular among the Arab people than among the Berbers.
[6] Deeplun, Recueil de textes pour l’etude de l’Arabe parle, v. 12, p. iv. Paris, 1891.
[7] Iumsche Maerchen und Gedichte. Leipzig, 1898. 2 vols. Maerchen und Gedichte. Aus der Stadt Tripolis in Nord Afrika. Leipzig.
[8] Zum Arabischen Dialekt. Von Markko. Leipzig, 1893. Vers. 8.
We must not forget that these last-named have borrowed much from the first ones, and it is by them that they have known the celebrated Khalif of Bagdad, one of the principal heroes of the “Thousand and One Nights,” Haroun al Raschid, whose presence surprises us not a little when figuring in adventures incompatible with the dignity of a successor of the Prophet.
As in the Berber tales, one finds parallels to the Arab stories among the folk-lore of Europe, whether they were borrowed directly or whether they came from India. One will notice, however, in the Arab tales a superior editing. The style is more ornate, the incidents better arranged. One feels that, although it deals with a language disdaining the usage of letters, it is expressed almost as well as though in a cultivated literary language. The gathering of the populations must also be taken into consideration; the citizens of Tunis, of Algiers, and even in the cities of Morocco, have a more exact idea of civilized life than the Berber of the mountains or the desert. As to the comic stories, it is still the Si Djeha who is the hero, and his adventures differ little with those preserved in Berber, and which are common to several literatures, even when the principal person bears another name.
The popular poetry consists of two great divisions, quite different as to subject. The first and best esteemed bears the name of Klam el Djedd, and treats of that which concerns the Prophet, the saints, and miracles. A specimen of this class is the complaint relative to the rupture of the Dam of St. Denis of Sig, of which the following is the commencement:
“A great disaster was fated:[9]
The cavalier gave the alarm, at the moment
of the break;
The menace was realized by the Supreme
Will,
My God! Thou alone art good.
The dam, perfidious thing,
Precipitated his muddy Legions,
With loud growlings.
No bank so strong as to hold him in check.
“He spurred to the right,
The bridges which could not sustain his
shock fell
Under his added weight;
His fury filled the country with fear,
and he
Crushed the barrier that would retain
him.”
[9] Delphin et Genis. Notes sur la Poesie et la musique Arabes dans le Maghreb Algerien, pp. 14-16. Paris, 1886.
As to the class of declamatory poems, one in particular is popular in Algiers, for it celebrates the conquest of the Maghreb in the eleventh century by the divers branches of the Beni-Hilal, from whom descend almost the whole of the Arabs who now are living in the northwest of Africa. This veritable poem is old enough, perhaps under its present form, for the historian, Ten Khaldoun, who wrote at the end of the fourteenth century and the beginning of the fifteenth, has preserved the resume of the episode of Djazza, the heroine who abandoned her children and husband to follow her brothers
The names of the invading chiefs have been preserved in the declamatory songs: Abou Zeid, Hassan ben Serhan, and, above all, Dyab ben Ghanum, in the mouth of whom the poet puts at the end of the epic the recital of the exploits of his race:
“Since the day when we quitted the
soil and territory of the Medjid, I
have
not opened my heart to joy;
We came to the homes of Chokir and Cherif
ben Hachem who pours upon thee
(Djazzah)
a rain of tears;
We have marched against Ed-Dabis ben Monime
and we have overrun his
cities
and plains.
We went to Koufat and have bought merchandise
from the tradesmen who come
to
us by caravan.
We arrived at Ras el Ain in all our brave
attire and we mastered all the
villages
and their inhabitants.
We came to Haleb, whose territory we had
overrun, borne by our swift,
magnificent
steeds.
We entered the country of the Khazi Mohammed
who wore a coat of mail,
with
long, floating ends,
We traversed Syria, going toward Ghaza,
and reached Egypt, belonging to
the
son of Yakoub, Yousof, and found the Turks with their
swift
steeds.
We reached the land of Raqin al Hoonara,
and drowned him in a deluge of
blood.
We came to the country of the Mahdi, whom
we rolled on the earth and as
to
his nobles their blood flowed in streams.
We came to the iron house of Boraih, and
found that the Jewish was the
established
religion.
We arrived at the home of the warrior,
El Hashais:
The night was dark, he fell upon us while
we slept without anxiety,
He took from us our delicate and honored
young girls, beauties whose eyes
were
darkened with kohol.
Abou Zeid marched against him with his
sharp sword and left him lying on
the
ground.
Abou So’dah Khalifah the Zemati,
made an expedition against us, and
pursued
us with the sword from all sides.
I killed Abou So’dah Khalifah the
Zemati, and I have put you in
possession
[10] R. Basset. Un Episode d’une chanson de geste Arabe sur la seconde conquete de l’Afrique Septentrionale par les Mussulmans. Bulletin de Correspondence Africaine, p. 147. Alger, 1885, in 8vo. See also Stemme. Tripolitanisches Bederinenlieder. Leipzig, 1804, in 8vo.
The second style of modern Arabic poetry is the “Kelamel hazel.” It comprises the pieces which treat of wine, women, and pleasures; and, in general, on all subjects considered light and unworthy of a serious mind. One may find an example in the piece of “Said and Hyza,” and in different works of Mr. Stemme cited above. It is particularly among the nomad Arabs that this style is found, even more than the dwellers in cities, on whom rests the reproach of composing verses where the study and sometimes the singularity of expression cannot replace the inspiration, the energy, and even the delicacy of sentiment often found among the nomads:
“The country remains a desert, the
days of heat are ended, the trees of
our
land have borne the attack of Summer, that is my grief.
After it was so magnificent to behold,
its leaves are fallen, one by one,
before
my eyes.
But I do not covet the verdure of a cypress;
my sorrow has for its cause
a
woman, whose heart has captivated mine.
I will describe her clearly; you will
know who she is; since she has gone
my
heart fails me.
Cheika of the eye constantly veiled, daughter
of Mouloud, thy love has
exhausted
me.
I have reached a point where I walk dizzily
like one who has drunken and
is
drunk; still am I fasting; my heart has abandoned me.
Thy thick hair is like the ostrich’s
plumes, the male ostrich, feeding in
the
depressions of the dunes; thy eyebrows are like two
nouns
[Arab letters] of a Tlemcen writing.
Thy eyes, my beautiful, are like two gleaming
gun barrels, made at
Stamboul,
city defiant of Christians.
The cheek of Cherikha is like the rose
and the poppy when they open under
the
showers.
Thy mouth insults the emerald and the
diamond; thy saliva is a remedy
against
the malady; without doubt it is that which has
cured
me[1].”
[1] Joly, Poesie Arnaduno chez les Nomades Algeriennes. Revue Africaine, XLV, pp. 217-219. Alger, 1901, 8vo.
To finish with the modern literature of the northwest of Africa, I should mention a style of writings which played a grand role some five centuries ago, but that sort is too closely connected with those composing the poems on the Spanish Moors, and of them I shall speak later. It remains now to but enumerate the enigmas found in all popular literature, and the satiric sayings attributed to holy persons of the fifteenth century, who, for having been virtuous and having possessed the gift of miracles, were none the less men, and as such bore anger and spite. The most celebrated of all was Sidi Ahmed ben Yousuf, who was buried at Miliana. By reason of the axiom, “They lend but to the rich,” they attributed to him all the satirical sayings which are heard in the villages and among the tribes of Algeria, of which, perhaps, he did pronounce some. Praises are rare:
“He whom you see, wild and tall,
Know him for a child of Algiers,”
“Beni Menaur, son of the dispersed,
Has many soldiers,
And a false heart.”
“Some are going to call you Blida
(little village),
But I have called you Ourida (little rose).”
“Cherchel is but shame,
Avarice, and flight from society,
His face is that of a sheep,
His heart is the heart of a wolf;
Be either sailor or forge worker,
Or else leave the city."[2]
[2] R. Basset. Les dictionnaires
satiriques attribues a Sidi ben Yousof.
Paris, 1890, 8vo.
“He who stands there on a low hill
All dressed in a small mantle,
Holding in his hand a small stick
And calling to sorrow, ‘Come and
find me,’
Know him for a son of Medea.”
“Miliana; Error and evil renown,
Of water and of wood,
People are jealous of it,
Women are Viziers there,
And men the captives.”
“Tenes; built upon a dunghill,
Its water is blood,
Its air is poison,
By the Eternal! Sidi Ahmed will not
pass the night here,
Get out of the house, O cat!”
“People of Bon Speur,
Women and men,
That they throw into the sea.”
“From the Orient and Occident,
I gathered the scamps,
I brought them to Sidi Mohammed ben Djellal.
There they escaped me,
One part went to Morocco,
And the rest went down into Eghres.”
“Oran
the depraved,
I
sold thee at a reasonable price;
The
Christians have come there,
Until
the day of the resurrection.”
“Tlemcen:
Glory of the chevaliers;
Her water, her air,
And the way her women
veil themselves
Are found in no other
land.”
“Tunis: Land of hypocrisy and
deceit,
In the day there is abundance of vagabonds,
At night their number is multiplied,
God grant that I be not buried in its
soil.”
Another no less celebrated in Morocco, Sidi Abdan Rahman el Medjidont, is, they say, the author of sentences in four verses, in which he curses the vices of his time and satirizes the tribes, and attacks the women with a bitterness worthy of Juvenal:
“Morocco
is the land of treason;
Accursed
be its habitants;
They
make guests sleep outside,
And
steal their provisions."[3]
[3] H.J. Castries. Les Gnomes
de Sidi Abdir Rahman El Medjedoub. Paris,
1896.
“Deceptive women
are deceivers ever,
I hastened to escape
them.
They girdle themselves
with vipers,
And fasten their gowns
with scorpions.”
“Let not thyself fall victim to
a widow,
Even if her cheeks are bouquets,
For though you are the best of husbands,
She will repeat ceaselessly, ‘God,
be merciful to the dead.’”
“No
river on the mountains,
No
warm nights in the winter,
No
women doing kind actions,
No
generous-hearted enemies.”
The battle of the Guadalete, where sank the Visigoth empire, delivered Spain almost defenceless to the Arab and Berber conquest. There developed then a civilization and an intellectual culture far superior to those of the barbarous Christian refugees in the Asturias, where they led a rude and coarse life which but seasoned them for future struggles. Of their literary monuments, there remain to us but mediocre Latin chronicles. The court of the Omayades at Cordova saw a literature blossom which did not disappear even after the fall of the Khalifate. On the contrary, it seemed to regain a new vigor in the small states which surged up about the Iberian Peninsula. The Christians, under the domination of the Mussulmans, allowed themselves to be seduced by the Arabian literature. “They loved to read their poems and romances. They went to great expense and built immense libraries. They scarcely knew how to express themselves in Latin, but when it was necessary to write in Arabic, they found crowds of people who understood that language, wrote it with the greatest elegance, and composed poems even preferable in point of view to the art of the Arab poets themselves."[4]
[4] Dozy. Histoire des Mussulmans de l’Espagne, pp. 103-166. Leyden, 1861, in 12mo, 4to.
In spite of the complaints of fanatics like Euloge and Alvaro, the literary history of that time was filled with Christian names, either those of Spanish who had remained faithful to the ancient faith, or renegades, or children of renegades. By the side of the Arab names, like that of the Bishop Arib ben Said of Cordova, are found those of Ibn Guzman (Son of Guzman), Ibn el Goutya (son of Gothe), Ibn Loyon (son of Leon), Ibn er Roumaye (son of the Greek), Ibn Konbaret (son of Comparatus), Ibn Baschkoual (son of Paschal), and all have left a name among letters.
One magnificent period in literature unfolded itself in the eleventh century A.D., in the little courts of Seville, of Murcie, of Malaga, Valence, Toledo, and Badajos. The kings, like El Nis Sasim, El Mo’hadhid, El Mishamed, Hbn Razin, rank among the best poets, and even the women answered with talent to the verses which they inspired. They have preserved the names and the pieces of some of them: Aicha, Rhadia, Fatima, Maryam, Touna, and the Princess Ouallada. Greek antiquity has not left us more elegant verses, nor elegies more passionate, than these, of which but a small portion has been saved from forgetfulness in the anthologies of Hbn Khayan, Hbn el Abbar, Hbn Bassam de Turad-eddin, and Ibn el Khatib el Maggari. They needed the arrival of the Berbers to turn them into Almoran. Those Berbers hastened there from the middle of Sahara and the borders of Senegal to help the cause of Islamism against Spanish rule, as it was menaced through the victories of Alfonso of Castile. The result would have been to stifle those free manifestations of the literary art under a rigorous piety which was almost always but the thin varnish of hypocrisy.
To the Almoravides succeeded the Almohades coming from the Atlas of Morocco. To the Almohades, the Merias coming from Sahara in Algeria, but in dying out each of these dynasties left each time a little more ground under the hands of the Christians, who, since the time in Telage, when they were tracked into the caverns of Covadonga, had not ceased, in spite of ill fortune of all sorts, to follow the work of deliverance. It would have been accomplished centuries before if the internal struggle in Christian Spain in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries had not accorded some years of respite to the kingdom which was being founded at Granada, and revived, although with less brilliancy, the splendor of the times before the twelfth century.
In the course of the long struggle the independent Christians had not been able to avoid feeling in a certain measure something of the influence of their neighbors, now their most civilized subjects. They translated into prose imitations of the tales such as those of the book of Patronis, borrowing from the general chronicles or in translations like the “Kalila and traditions, legendary or historic, as they found them in the Dimna,” or the book of “The Ruses of Women,” in verse.
In their oldest romances—for instance, that of the “Children of Sara,"[5] and in those to which they have given the name of romances fronterizos, or romances of the frontier—they give the facts of the war between the Mussulmans and the Christians.
[5 ] T. Ramon Manendez Pidal. La legende de les Infantes de Sara. Madrid, 1896. 8vo.
But they gave the name of Mauresques to another and different class of romances, of which the heroes are chevaliers, who have nothing of the Mussulman but the name. The talent of certain litterateurs of the sixteenth century exercised itself in that class where the persons are all conventional, or the descriptions are all imaginative, and made a portrait of the Mussulman society so exact that the romances of Esplandian, Amadis de Gaul, and others, which evoked the delicious knight-errantry of Don Quixote, can present a picture of the veritable chivalry of the Middle Ages. We possess but few verses of the Mussulmans of Granada. Argot de Moll preserved them in Arabic, transcribed in Latin characters, one piece being attributed to Mouley Abou Abdallah:
“The charming Alhambra and its palaces
weep
Over their loss, Muley Boabdil (Bon Abdallah),
Bring me my horse and my white buckler,
That I may fight to retake the Alhambra;
Bring me my horse and my buckler blue,
That I may go to fight to retake my children.
“My children are at Guadia, my wife
at Jolfata;
Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm
el Fata.
My children are at Guadia, my wife at
Jolfata,
Thou hast caused my ruin, O Setti Omm
el Fata!"[6]
[6] A. de Circourt. Histoire des Moors mudijares et des Moresques. Paris, 1846.
As may be seen, these verses have no resemblance to those called Moorish. These are of a purely Spanish diction.[7]
[7] T.A. de Circourt. I. iii., p. 327-332.
Some romances, but not of these last-named, have kept traces of the real legends of the Arabs. There is among them one which treats of the adventures of Don Rodrigues, the last king of the Visigoths—“The Closed House of Toledo."[8] “The Seduction of la Cava,” “The Vengeance of Count Julien,” “The Battle of Guadalete,” are brought back in the same fashion by the historians and writers of Mussulman romances.
[8] R. Basset. Legendes Arabes d’Espagne. La Maison fermee de Tolede. Oran, 1898, in 8vo.
The romance on the construction of the Alhambra has preserved the character of an Arabic legend which dates from before the prophet.[9] There is also a romance on the conquest of Spain, attributed to an Arab writer, the same man whom Cervantes somewhat later feigned to present as the author of Don Quixote, the Moor, Cid Hamet ben Engels.[10]
[9] R. Basset. D’Alhambra et le Chateau de Khanumag: Revue des traditions populaires. Fairier, 1871, p. 459-465.
[10] Histoire des Conquetes d’Espagne par les Mores. Par Ali Aven Sufran. Paris, 1720.
It is another style of writing, less seductive, perhaps, than that of the Moorish romances, in spite of their lack of vivacity and their bad taste. But why mark this as the expression of the Mussulman sentiment under Christian domination? Conquered by the Castilians, the Aragons, and the Portuguese, the Moors had lost the use of Arabic, but they had preserved the exterior sign-writing, just as their new converts retained their usages and their national costumes. We possess a complete literature composed in Spanish, but written in Arabic characters. They called it by the name of Aljaniado. Its chief characteristic is that it treats of the principal legends of the Mussulmans; those of Solomon and Moses, of Jesus; the birth, childhood, and the marriage of Mohammed; Temins ed Daria, the war of the king El Mohallal, the miracle of the moon, the ascension of Mohammed to heaven, the conversion of Omar, the battle of Yarmouk, the golden castle, the marvels that God showed to Abraham, Ali and the forty young girls, the anti-Christ and the day of judgment[1] etc.; the legend of Joseph, son of Jacob; that of Alexander the Great,[2] to which could be added the story of the princess Zoraida,[3] without speaking of the pious exhortations, magic formulas, conjurations, and charms.[4]
[1] Guillon Robles. Legendas Moriscas. Madrid, 1885-86. 36 petit in 8vo.
[2] Guillon Robles. La Legenda de Jose, hijo de Jacob, ye do Alexandro Magna. Zaragoza, 1888, en 8vo.
[3] L de Eguilas el Hditz, de La Princess Zoraida. Granada, 1892, 16mo.
[4] P. Gil y Ribera et Mar Sanches. Colleccion el textos Aljamiados. Zaragoza, 1888, 8vo.
The Moors held to these documents all the more that they were written in Arabic, and that the fury of the Inquisition was let loose upon them. To save them from the flames, their owners hid them with the greatest care, and but recently, at El Monacid, they found a whole library in Arabic and Aljamiado, hidden more than two centuries between the double walls of an old house.[5] The Mussulman proprietor of these books and his descendants were dead, or had emigrated to Africa, abandoning the treasure which was to see the light in a more tolerant epoch.
[5] Pamo. Las coplas del Peregrino de Puey Moncon. Zaragoza, 1897. Pet. en 8vo.
Political relations also existed between those of the Moors who remained in Spain as converts and such as had fled from persecution and carried to the populations of the north of Africa the hatred of the Spanish Christians. Thus we find among the popular literature of the Magreb the same legends, but edited in Arabic. Only a small number has been published.[6] Whether in one language or the other, editing does not offer anything remarkable. The stories have been developed, after the traditions of the Mussulmans, by the demi-litterateurs, and by that means they have become easier and more accessible to the multitude.
[6] R. Basset. Les Aventures Merveilleuses de Tunis et Dais. Rome, 1891, en 8vo. L’expedition du Chateau d’or, et la combat d’Ali et du dragon. Rome, 1893, en 8vo. M’lle Florence Groff. Les sept dormants, La ville de Tram, et l’excursion contre la Makke, Alger, 1891, en 8vo.
It is thus that a literature in Spain sadly ends which, during seven centuries, had counted historians and poets, philologists, philosophers and savants, and which the Christian literature replacing it can possibly equal in some points, but never surpass.[7]
[Illustration (Signature Facsimile): Rene Basset]
[7] M. Basset’s “Special Introduction” was written in French; the English translation was made by Robert Arnot.
The Moorish ballads which appear in this volume are selected from a unique department of European literature. They are found in the Spanish language, but their character is oriental; their inspiration comes from the Mahometan conquerors of northern Africa, and while they exhibit a blending of Spanish earnestness and chivalry with the wild and dashing spirit of the Arab, they present a type of literature which is quite unparalleled in the Latin and Teutonic countries of the Mediterranean basin.
Spain is especially rich in ballad literature, infinitely richer than any other civilized nation. These ballads take various forms. By Cervantes and his countrymen they are styled romances, and the romance generally consists in a poem which describes the character, sufferings, or exploits of a single individual. The language is simple; the versification, often artless though melodious, is seldom elaborated into complexity of rhyme. But the heroic Moor is set before us in the most vivid colors. The hues and material of his cloak, his housings, his caftan, and his plumes are given, and quite a vocabulary is exhausted in depicting the color, sex, and breed of his war-horse. His weapons, lance, scimitar, and corslet of steel are dwelt upon with enthusiasm. He is as brave as Mars, and as comely as Adonis. Sometimes he dashes into a bull-ring and slays wild creatures in the sight of fair ladies and envious men. He throws his lance of cane, which is filled with sand, so high that it vanishes in the clouds. He is ready to strike down, in his own house, the Christian who has taken from him and wedded the lady of his choice. He is almost always in love with some lady who is unkind and cold, and for her he wanders at times in dark array, expressing his sombre mood in the device and motto which he paints upon his shield. Some of the ballads picture love more fortunate in the most charming manner, and the dark tortures of jealousy are powerfully described in others. The devotion of the Moor to his lady is scarcely caricatured in the mocking language of Cervantes, and is not exceeded by anything to be found in the history of French chivalry. But the god of these ballads is Allah, and they sometimes reveal a trace of ferocity which seems to be derived from religious fanaticism. Nor can the reader fail to be struck by the profound pathos which many of them express so well. The dirges are supremely beautiful, their language simple and direct, but perfect in descriptive touches and in the cadence of the reiterated burden.
Beside the ballads of warlike and amorous adventures, there are sea-songs, songs of captivity, and songs of the galley slave. The Spanish Moor is seized by some African pirate and carried away to toil in the mill of his master on some foreign shore, or he is chained to the rowing-bench of the Berber galley, thence to be taken and sold when the voyage is over to some master who leaves him to weep in solitary toil in the farm or garden. Sometimes he wins the love of his mistress, who releases him and flies in his company.
All these ballads have vivid descriptions of scenery. The towers of Baeza, the walls of Granada, the green vegas that spread outside every city, the valley of the Guadalquivir, and the rushing waters of the Tagus, the high cliffs of Cadiz, the Pillars of Hercules, and the blue waves of the Mediterranean make a life-like background to every incident. In the cities the ladies throng the balconies of curling iron-work or crowd the plaza where the joust or bull-fight is to be witnessed, or steal at nightfall to the edge of the vega to meet a lover, and sometimes to die in his arms at the hands of bandits.
There is a dramatic power in these ballads which is one of their most remarkable features. They are sometimes mere sketches, but oftener the story is told with consummate art, with strict economy of word and phrase, and the denouement comes with a point and power which show that the Moorish minstrel was an artist of no mean skill and address.
The authors of the Moorish romances, songs, and ballads are unknown. They have probably assumed their present literary form after being part of the repertoire of successive minstrels, and some of the incidents appear in more than one version. The most ancient of them are often the shortest, but they belong to the period when southern Spain under Mahometan rule was at the height of its prosperity, and Arabian learning, art, and literature made her rank among the first countries in Europe. The peninsula was conquered by the Moors in the caliphate of Walid I, 705-715 A.D., and the independent dynasty of the Ommiades was founded by Abderrhaman at Granada in 755 A.D. It was from this latter date that the Spanish Moors began to assume that special character in language, manners, and chivalric enthusiasm which is represented in the present ballads; the spirit of Christian knighthood is here seen blended with Arabian passion, impetuosity, and impulsiveness, and the Spanish language has supplanted, even among Mahometan poets, the oriental idiom. We may roughly estimate the period in which the Moorish romance flourished as comprised in the years between 1100 and 1600 A.D.
The term Moorish is somewhat indefinite, and is used in Spanish history as a synonym of Saracen or Mahometan. It cannot be called a national appellation, though originally in the Augustan age it was applied to the dwellers in Mauretania, with whom the Romans had first come in contact when the war with Hannibal was transferred from Italy and Spain to Africa. In the present day, it may be applied to all the races of northwestern Africa who have accepted Mahometanism; in which case it would include the aborigines of that region, who live not on the coast and in towns, but in the Atlas Mountain and the Sahara Desert. While these races, all Berbers under different local names, are Mussulmans in profession, they are not so highly civilized as their co-religionists who people the coast of the Mediterranean. They live a tribal life, and are blood-thirsty and predatory. They are of course mixed in race with the Arabians, but they are separate in their life and institutions, and they possess no written literature. Their oral literature is, however, abundant, though it is only within quite recent years that it has become known to America and Europe. The present collection of tales and fables is the first which has hitherto been made in the English language. The learned men who collected the tales of the Berbers and Kabyles (who are identical in ethnical origin) underwent many hardships in gathering from half-savage lips the material for their volume. They were forced to live among the wild tribesmen, join their nomad life, sit at their feasts, and watch with them round their camp-fire, while it was with difficulty they transferred to writing the syllables of a barbarous tongue. The memory of the Berber story-teller seems to be incredibly capacious and retentive, and the tales were recited over and over again without a variation. As is to be expected these tales are very varied, and many of them are of a didactic, if not ethical, cast. They are instructive as revealing the social life and character of these mountain and desert tribes.
We find the spirit of the vendetta pervading these tales with more than Corsican bitterness and unreasoning cruelty, every man being allowed to revenge himself by taking the life or property of another. This private and personal warfare has done more than anything else to check the advance in civilization of these tribesmen. The Berbers and Kabyles are fanatical Mahometans and look upon Christians and Jews as dogs and outcasts. It is considered honorable to cheat, rob, or deceive by lies one who does not worship Allah. The tales illustrate, moreover, the degraded position of women. A wife is literally a chattel, not only to be bought, but to be sold also, and to be treated in every respect as man’s inferior—a mere slave or beast of burden. Yet the tribesmen are profoundly superstitious, and hold in great dread the evil spirits who they think surround them and to whom they attribute bodily and mental ills. An idiot is one who is possessed by a wicked demon, and is to be feared accordingly.
There are found current among them a vast number of fairy tales, such as equal in wildness and horror the strangest inventions of oriental imagination. Their tales of ogres and ogresses are unsoftened by any of that playfulness and bonhomie which give such undying charm to the “Thousand and One Nights.” The element of the miraculous takes many original forms in their popular tales, and they have more than their share of the folk-lore legends and traditions such as Herodotus loved to collect. It was said of old that something new was always coming out of Africa, and certainly the contribution which the Berbers and Kabyles have made to the fund of wonder-stories in the world may be looked upon as new, in more than one sense. It is new, not only because it is novel and unexpected, but because it is fresh, original and highly interesting.
The fables of these tribes are very abundant and very curious. The great hero of the animal fable in Europe has always been the fox, whose cunning, greed, and duplicity are immortalized in the finest fable the world’s literature possesses. The fables of northwest Africa employ the jackal instead of Reynard, whose place the sycophant of the lion not inaptly fills.
There are a number of men among the Kabyles and other Berber tribes who make a profession of reciting poems, tales, and proverbs, and travel from one village or encampment to another in search of an audience. They know the national traditions, the heroic legends, and warlike adventures that pertain to each community, and are honored and welcomed wherever they go. It was from these men that the various narratives contained in this collection were obtained, and the translation of them has engaged the talents and labors of some of the world’s foremost oriental scholars.
[Illustration (Facsimile Signature): Epiphanius Wilson]
MOORISH BALLADS
Fatima’s Love
The Braggart Rebuked
The Admiral’s Farewell
Moriana and Galvan
The Bereaved Father
The Warden of Molina
The Loves of Boabdil and Vindaraja
The Infanta Sevilla and Peranguelos
Celin’s Farewell
Celin’s Return
Baza Revisited
Captive Zara
The Jealous King
The Lovers of Antequera
Tarfe’s Truce
The Two Moorish Knights
The King’s Decision
Almanzar and Bobalias
The Moorish Infanta and Alfonzo Ramos
The Bull-fight of Zulema
The Renegade
The Tower of Gold
The Dirge for Aliatar
The Ship of Zara
Hamete Ali
Zaide’s Love
Zaida’s Jealousy
Zaida of Toledo
Zaide Rebuked
Zaida’s Inconstancy
Zaide’s Desolation
Zaida’s Lament
Zaida’s Curse
The Tournament of Zaide
Zaide’s Complaint
Guhala’s Love
Azarco of Granada
Azarco Rebuked
Adelifa’s Farewell
Azarco’s Farewell
Celinda’s Courtesy
Gazul’s Despondency
Gazul in Love
Celinda’s Inconstancy
The Bull-fight of Gazul
The Zegri’s Bride
The Bridal of Andalla
Zara’s Ear-rings
The Lamentation for Celin
FIVE BERBER STORIES
Djokhrane and the Jays
The Ogre and the Beautiful Woman
The False Vezir
The Soufi and the Targui
Ahmed el Hilalieu and El Redah
Ali’s Answer
In Honor of Lalla
Sayd and Hyzyya
The Aissaoua in Paris
Song of Fatima
The City Girl and the Country Girl
The Turtle, the Frog, and the Serpent
The Hedgehog, the Jackal, and the Lion
The Stolen Woman
The King, the Arab, and the Monster
The Lion, the Jackal, and the Man
Salomon and the Griffin
Adventure of Sidi Mahomet
The Haunted Garden
The Woman and the Fairy
Hamed ben Ceggad
The Magic Napkin
The Child and the King of the Genii
The Seven Brothers
Half-a-Cock
Strange Meetings
The King and His Family
Beddou
The Language of the Beasts
The Apple of Youth
Ali and Ou Ali
The Infidel Jew
The Sheik’s Head
The Wagtail and the Jackal
The Flute-player
The Child
The Monkey and the Fisherman
The Two Friends
The Robber and the Two Pilgrims
The Little Child
The Wren
The Mule, the Jackal, and the Lion
Thadhellala
The Good Man and the Bad One
The Crow and the Child
H’ab Sliman
The King and His Son
Mahomet ben Soltan
ROMANCEROS MORISCOS
[Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M.]
FATIMA’S LOVE
On the morn of John the Baptist, just
at the break of day,
The Moors upon Granada’s fields
streamed out in bright array.
Their horses galloped o’er the sod,
their lances flashed in air,
And the banners that their dames had wrought
spread out their colors
fair.
Their quivers bright flashed in the light
with gold and silk brocade,
And the Moor who saw his love was there
looked best in the parade,
And the Moor who had no lady love strove
hard some love to gain.
’Mong those who from Alhambra’s
towers gazed on that warrior train,
There were two Moorish ladies there whom
love had smitten sore;
Zarifa one, and Fatima the name the other
bore.
Knit by warm friendship were their hearts
till, filled with jealous pain,
Their glances met, as one fair knight
came prancing o’er the plain.
Zarifa spoke to Fatima, “How has
love marred thy face!
Once roses bloomed on either cheek, now
lilies take their place;
And you, who once would talk of love,
now still and silent stay.
Come, come unto the window and watch the
pageant gay!
Abindarraez is riding by; his train is
full in view;
In all Granada none can boast a choicer
retinue.”
“It is not love, Zarifa, that robs
my cheek of rose;
No fond and anxious passion this mournful
bosom knows;
My cheeks are pale and I am still and
silent, it is true,—
For, ah! I miss my father’s
face, whom fierce Alabey slew.
And did I crave the boon of love, a thousand
knights were fain
To fight for me in service true on yonder
flowery plain.
And all the love I give to each to give
me back again.
And for Abindarraez, whose heart and valiant
might,
You praise and from the window watch,
with rapturous delight——”
The lady stopped, for at their feet knelt
down the well-loved knight.
“If thou art brave in battle’s
hour
As thou art bold
in pleasure’s rout;
If thou canst make the lances fly
As thou canst
fling thy words about;
“If thou canst in the vega fight
As thou the ladies’
eyes canst praise;
And show on horseback half the skill
That marks thee
in the dance’s maze;
“Meet with the briskness of the
joust
The challenge
of the deadly lance,
And in the play of scimitars
Be sprightly as
in festive dance;
“If thou art ready in the field
As thou art nimble
on the square;
And canst the front of battle face
As though thou
flirtest with the fair;
“If thou dost don thy shining mail
As lightly as
thy festive suit,
And listenest to the trumpet call
As though it were
thy lady’s lute;
“And if, as in the gamesome hour
Thou flingest
round the rattling reed
Against the foeman’s moated camp,
Thou spurrest
on thy thundering steed;
“If, when the foe is face to face,
Thou boastest as thou oft
hast done
When far away his ranks were ranged,
And the fierce fight had not
begun;—
“Go, Zaide, to the Alhambra go,
And there defend thy soldier
fame;
For every tongue is wagging there,
And all, derisive, speak thy
name.
“And if thou fear to go alone,
Take others with thee to thine
aid;
Thy friends are ready at thy beck,
And Zaide need not be afraid!
“It is not in the palace court,
Amid the throng of ladies
bright,
That the good soldier, by his tongue,
Proves himself valorous in
the fight.
“It is not there his hands can show
What in the battle he can
do;
But where the shock of onset tests
The fearless heart, the iron
thew.
“Betake thee to the bloody field
And let thy sword thy praises
sing;
But silence is most eloquent
Amid the courtiers of the
King.”
Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight,
His heart so filled with furious
rage
That where his fiery pen had passed
It pierced and rent the flimsy
page.
He called his varlet to his side,
“Now seek the Alhambra’s
hall,” said he,
“And privately to Zaide say
That this epistle comes from
me;
“And whisper, that none else may
hear,
And say that I his coming
wait,
Where Genil’s crystal torrent laves
The pillars of yon palace
gate.”
THE ADMIRAL’S FAREWELL
The royal fleet with fluttering sail is
waiting in the bay;
And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must
start at break of day.
His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly
dons, and sets
Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls
and amulets;
Of many tints above his head his plumes
are waving wide;
Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling
at his side;
And standing at the window, he gazes forth,
and, hark!
Across the rippling waters floats the
summons to embark.
Blow, trumpets;
clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum,
the alarum in refrain.
Let the shrill
fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
A summons to our
Admiral, a salvo to our King!
The haughty Turk his scarlet shoe upon
the stirrup placed,
Right easily he vaulted to his saddle-tree
in haste.
His courser was Arabian, in whose crest
and pastern show
A glossy coat as soft as silk, as white
as driven snow.
One mark alone was on his flank! ’twas
branded deep and dark;
The letter F in Arab script, stood out
the sacred mark.
By the color of his courser he wished
it to be seen
That the soul of the King’s Admiral
was white and true and clean.
Oh, swift and full of mettle was the steed
which that day bore
Mustapha, the High Admiral, down to the
wave-beat shore!
The haughty Turk sails forth at morn,
that Malta he may take,
But many the greater conquest his gallant
men shall make;
For his heart is high and his soul is
bent on death or victory,
And he pauses, as the clashing sound comes
from the distant sea;
Blow, trumpets;
clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum,
the alarum in refrain.
Let fife and flute,
and sackbut in accord
Proclaim,
Aboard! Aboard!
Thy pinnace waits
thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!
And as he hears the summons Love makes
for him reply,
“O whither, cruel fortune, wilt
thou bid the warrior fly?
Must I seek thee in the ocean, where the
winds and billows roar?
Must I seek thee there, because in vain
I sought thee on the shore?
And dost thou think the ocean, crossed
by my flashing sail,
With all its myriad waters and its rivers,
can avail
To quench the ardent fire of love that
rages in my breast,
And soothe the fever of my soul into one
hour of rest?”
And as he mused, in bitter thought, Mustapha
reached in haste
A balcony; till dawn of day before that
house he paced,
And all his heart’s anxieties he
counted o’er and o’er,
And, when the darkness of the night toward
opening twilight wore,
Upon the balcony there came the cause
of all his sighs,
But a smile was on her rosy lips and a
light was in her eyes.
“O lovely Zaida,” he began,
and gazed into her face,
“If my presence at thy window is
a burden to thy peace,
One pledge bestow upon me, one pledge
of love, I pray,
And let me kiss thy lily hand before I
sail away.”
“I grieve for thy departure,”
the lady made reply,
“And it needs no pledge to tell
thee I am faithful till I die,
But if one token thou must have, take
this ere thou depart;
(’Twas fashioned by these hands
of mine) and keep it on thy heart!”
The Moor rose in his stirrups, he took
it from her hand,
’Twas a piece of lace of gold and
silk shaped for a helmet band.
There was the wheel of fortune with subtile
needle drawn,
(Ah, Fortune that had left him there dejected
and forlorn!)
And as he paused, he heard the sound tumultuous
come again,
’Twas from the fleet, down in the
bay, and well he knew the strain.
Blow, trumpets;
clarions, sound your strain;
Strike, kettle-drum,
the alarum in refrain.
Let fife and flute,
and sackbut in accord
Proclaim,
Aboard! Aboard!
Thy pinnace waits
thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard!
Oh, stay my foes, nor in such haste invite
me to the field!
Here let me take the triumphs that softer
conquests yield!
This is the goal of my desire, the aim
of my design,
That Zaida’s hand in mine be placed
and her heart beat close to mine!
Then spake the fair Sultana, and she dropped
a tender tear,
“Nay mourn not for the present pain,
for future bliss is near.
The wings of Time are swift, and they
bear a brighter day;
And when once the longed-for gift is here
’twill never pass away!”
Then the Moor’s heart beat high
with joy; to smiles were changed his
sighs,
In silent ecstasy he gazed into the lady’s
eyes.
He rode to meet his waiting fleet, for
favoring was the wind,
But while his body went on board, he left
his heart behind!
Blow, trumpets;
clarions, sound your strain!
Strike, kettle-drum,
the alarum in refrain.
Let the shrill
fife, the flute, the sackbut ring
A summons to our
Admiral, a salvo to our King.
Twas Princess Moriana,
Upon a castle’s height,
That played with Moorish Galvan
At cards for her delight;
And oft he lost the stakes he set,
Full many a coin I wis;
When Moriana lost, she gave
Her hand for him to kiss.
And after hours of pleasure
Moor Galvan sank to sleep;
And soon the lady saw a knight
Descend the mountain steep;
His voice was raised in sorrow,
His eyes with tears were wet,
For lovely Moriana
His heart could ne’er
forget.
For her, upon St. John’s Day,
While she was gathering flowers,
The Moors had made a captive,
Beneath her father’s
towers.
And Moriana raised her eyes
And saw her lover ride,
And on her cheeks her Moorish lord
The sparkling tears descried.
With anger raged his spirit,
And thus to her he cried:
“What ails thee, gentle lady?
Why flows with tears thine
eye?
If Moors of mine have done thee wrong,
I swear that they shall die;
If any of thy maidens
Have caused thee this distress,
The whip across their shoulders
Shall avenge their wickedness.
Or, if the Christian countrymen
Have sorrow for thee made,
I will, with conquering armies,
Their provinces invade.
The warlike weapons that I don
Are festal robes to me;
To me the din of battle
Is sweet tranquillity;
The direst toils the warrior bears
With steadfast joy I meet;
To me the watch that nightlong lasts
Is like a slumber sweet.”
“No Moors of thine within these
halls
Have caused to me this pain;
No maidens waiting in my bower
Have showed to me disdain;
Nor have my Christian kinsmen
To mourn my spirit made,
Provoking thee in vengeance
Their province to invade.
Vain the deep cause of my distress
From Galvan’s eye to
hide—
’Tis that I see down yonder mount
A knight in armor ride.
’Tis such a sight that does my tears
From very heart-springs move;
For yonder knight is all to me,
My husband and my love.”
Straight the Moor’s cheek with anger
flushed,
Till red eclipsed the brown,
And his clenched fist he lifted
As if to strike her down.
He gnashed his teeth with passion,
The fangs with blood were
red,
He called his slaves and bade them
Strike off the lady’s
head.
He bade them bind and take her
First to the mountain’s
height,
That she the doom might suffer
THE BEREAVED FATHER
“Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head,
What madness causes thy delay?
Thou killest swine on Thursday morn,
And eatest flesh on fasting
day.
“’Tis now seven years since
first I trod
The valley and the wandering
wood;
My feet were bare, my flesh was torn,
And all my pathway stained
in blood.
“Ah, mournfully I seek in vain
The Emperor’s daughter,
who had gone
A prisoner made by caitiff Moors,
Upon the morning of St. John.
“She gathered flowers upon the plain,
She plucked the roses from
the spray,
And in the orchard of her sire
They found and bore the maid
away.”
These words has Moriana heard,
Close nestled in the Moor’s
embrace;
The tears that welled from out her eyes
Have wet her captor’s
swarthy face.
The warden of Molina, ah! furious was
his speed,
As he dashed his glittering rowels in
the flank of his good steed,
And his reins left dangling from the bit,
along the white highway,
For his mind was set to speed his horse,
to speed and not to stay.
He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with
the wind he raced,
And the breezes rustled round him like
a tempest in the waste.
In the Plaza of Molina at last he made
his stand,
And in a voice of thunder he uttered his
command:
To
arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound,
clarions; trumpets, blow;
And
let the thundering kettle-drum
Give
challenge to the foe.
“Now leave your feasts and banquetings
and gird you in your steel!
And leave the couches of delight, where
slumber’s charm you feel;
Your country calls for succor, all must
the word obey,
For the freedom of your fathers is in
your hands to-day.
Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast
may be the cost;
But yet no tie of love must keep you now,
or all is lost.
In breasts where honor dwells there is
no room in times like these
To dally at a lady’s side, kneel
at a lady’s knees.
To arms, to arms,
my captains!
Sound, clarions;
trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering
kettle-drum
Give challenge
to the foe.
“Yes, in the hour of peril away
with pleasure’s thrall!
Let honor take the lance and steed to
meet our country’s call.
For those who craven in the fight refuse
to meet the foe
Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck
by a bitterer blow;
In moments when fair honor’s crown
is offered to the brave
And dangers yawn around our State, deep
as the deadly grave,
’Tis right strong arms and sturdy
hearts should take the sword of might,
And eagerly for Fatherland descend into
the fight.
To arms, to arms,
my captains!
Sound, clarions;
trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering
kettle-drum
Give challenge
to the foe.
“Then lay aside the silken robes,
the glittering brocade;
Be all in vest of leather and twisted
steel arrayed;
On each left arm be hung the shield, safe
guardian of the breast,
And take the crooked scimitar and put
the lance in rest,
And face the fortune of the day, for it
is vain to fly,
And the coward and the braggart now alone
are doomed to die.
And let each manly bosom show, in the
impending fray,
A valor such as Mars himself in fury might
display.
To arms, to arms,
my captains!
Sound, clarions;
trumpets, blow;
And let the thundering
kettle-drum
Give challenge
to the foe.
He spoke, and at his valiant words, that
rang through all the square,
The veriest cowards of the town resolved
to do and dare;
And stirred by honor’s eager fire
forth from the gate they stream,
And plumes are waving in the air, and
spears and falchions gleam;
And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and
smiles in anger quenched,
And sweating steeds and flashing spurs
and hands in fury clenched,
Follow the fluttering banners that toward
the vega swarm,
And many a voice re-echoes the words of
wild alarm.
To
arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound,
clarions; trumpets, blow;
And
let the thundering kettle-drum
Give
challenge to the foe.
And, like the timid lambs that crowd with
bleatings in the fold,
When they advancing to their throats the
furious wolf behold,
The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but
flashing eyes,
Are crowded in a public square and fill
the air with cries;
And tho’, like tender women, ’tis
vain for them to arm,
Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the
alarm.
To heaven they cry for succor, and, while
to heaven they pray,
They call the knights they love so well
to arm them for the fray.
To
arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound,
clarions; trumpets, blow;
And
let the thundering kettle-drum
Give
challenge to the foe.
The foremost Moorish nobles, Molina’s
chosen band,
Rush forward from the city the invaders
to withstand.
There marshalled in a squadron with shining
arms they speed,
Like knights and noble gentlemen, to meet
their country’s need.
Twelve thousand Christians crowd the plain,
twelve thousand warriors
tried,
They fire the homes, they reap the corn,
upon the vega wide;
And the warriors of Molina their furious
lances ply,
And in their own Arabian tongue they raise
the rallying cry.
To
arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound,
clarions; trumpets, blow;
And
let the thundering kettle-drum
Give
challenge to the foe.
THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA
Where Antequera’s city stands, upon
the southern plain,
The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns
her lot in vain.
While Chico, proud Granada’s King,
nor night nor day can rest,
For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja
he loves best;
And while naught can give her solace and
naught can dry her tear,
’Tis not the task of slavery nor
the cell that brings her fear;
For while in Antequera her body lingers
still,
Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra’s
hill.
There, while the Moorish monarch longs
to have her at his side,
More keen is Vindaraja’s wish to
be a monarch’s bride.
Ah! long delays the moment that shall
bring her liberty,
A thousand thousand years in every second
seem to fly!
For she thinks of royal Chico, and her
face with tears is wet,
For she knows that absence oft will make
the fondest heart forget.
And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion
feel,
For the loved one in some distant land
whose heart is firm as steel.
And now to solve her anxious doubts, she
takes the pen one day
And writes to royal Chico, in Granada
far away.
Ah! long the letter that she wrote to
tell him of her state,
In lonely prison cell confined, a captive
desolate!
She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed
it with her ring;
He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside
the King,
And he had come sent by the King to Antequera’s
tower,
To learn how Vindaraja fared within that
prison bower.
The Moor was faithful to his charge, a
warrior stout and leal,
And Chico took the note of love and trembling
broke the seal;
And when the open page he saw and read
what it contained,
These were the words in which the maid
of her hard lot complained:
“Ah, hapless is the love-lorn maid
like me in captive plight,
For freedom once was mine, and I was happy
day and night.
Yes, happy, for I knew that thou hadst
given me thy love,
Precious the gift to lonely hearts all
other gifts above.
Well mightest thou forget me, though ’twere
THE LETTER OF THE KING
“Thy words have done me grievous
wrong, for, lovely Mooress, couldst thou
think
That he who loves thee more than life
could e’er to such a treachery
sink?
His life is naught without the thought
that thou art happy in thy lot;
And while the red blood at his heart is
beating thou art ne’er forgot!
Thou woundest me because thy heart mistrusts
me as a fickle fool;
Thou dost not know when passion true has
one apt pupil taken to school.
Oblivion could not, could not cloud the
image on his soul impressed,
Unless dark treachery from the first had
been the monarch of his breast
And if perhaps some weary hours I thought
that Vindaraja’s mind
Might in some happier cavalier the solace
of her slavery find,
I checked the thought; I drove away the
vision that with death was rife,
For e’er my trust in thee I lost,
in battle I’d forego my life!
Yet even the doubt that thou hast breathed
gives me no franchise to
forget,
And were I willing that thy face should
cease to fill my vision, yet
’Tis separation’s self that
binds us closer though the centuries roll,
And forges that eternal chain that binds
together soul and soul!
And even were this thought no more than
the wild vision of my mind,
Yet in a thousand worlds no face to change
for thine this heart could
find.
Thro’ life, thro’ death ’twere
all the same, and when to heaven our
glance
we raise,
Full in the very heart of bliss thine
eyes shall meet my ardent gaze.
For eyes that have beheld thy face, full
readily the truth will own
That God exhausted, when he made thee,
all the treasures of his throne!
And my trusting heart will answer while
it fills my veins with fire
Upon Toledo’s loftiest towers
Sevilla kept the height;
So wondrous fair was she that love
Was blinded at the sight.
She stood amid the battlements,
And gazed upon the scene
Where Tagus runs through woodland
And flowers and glades of
green.
And she saw upon the wide highway
The figure of a knight;
He rode upon a dappled steed,
And all his arms were bright.
Seven Moors in chains he led with him,
And one arm’s length
aloof
Came a dog of a Moor from Morocco’s
shore
In arms of double proof.
His steed was swift, his countenance
In a warlike scowl was set,
And in his furious rage he cursed
The beard of Mahomet!
He shouted, as he galloped up:
“Now halt thee, Christian
hound;
I see at the head of thy captive band
My sire, in fetters bound.
“And the rest are brothers of my
blood,
And friends I long to free;
And if thou wilt surrender all,
I’ll pay thee gold and
fee.”
When Peranzuelos heard him,
He wheeled his courser round.
With lance in rest, he hotly pressed
To strike him to the ground;
His sudden rage and onset came
Swift as the thunder’s
sound.
The Moor at the first encounter reeled
To earth, from his saddle
bow;
And the Christian knight, dismounting,
Set heel on the neck of his
foe.
He cleft his head from his shoulders,
And, marshalling his train,
Made haste once more on his journey
Across Toledo’s plain.
CELIN’S FAREWELL
He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions
high,
The towers and fretted battlements that
soar into the sky;
And Celin, whom the King in wrath has
from Granada banned
Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his
own dear native land;
No hope has he his footsteps from exile
to retrace;
No hope again to look upon his lady’s
lovely face.
Then sighing deep he went his way, and
as he went he said:
“I see thee
shining from afar,
As in heaven’s
arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen
and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament,
and mourn for my distress.
“I see outstretched before my eyes
thy green and beauteous shore,
Those meadow-lands and gardens that with
flowers are dappled o’er.
The wind that lingers o’er those
glades received the tribute given
By many a trembling calyx, wet with the
dews of heaven.
From Genil’s banks full many a bough
down to the water bends,
Yon vega’s green and fertile line
from flood to wall extends;
There laughing ladies seek the shade that
yields to them delight,
And the velvet turf is printed deep by
many a mounted knight.
I see thee shining
from afar,
As in heaven’s
arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen
and town of loveliness,
Listen to my lament,
and mourn for my distress.
“Ye springs and founts that sparkling
well from yonder mountain-side,
And flow with dimpling torrent o’er
mead and garden wide,
If e’er the tears that from my breast
to these sad eyes ascend
Should with your happy waters their floods
of sadness blend,
Oh, take them to your bosom with love,
for love has bidden
These drops to tell the wasting woe that
in my heart is hidden.
I see thee shining
from afar,
As in heaven’s
arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen
and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament,
and mourn for my distress.
“Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose
sound is in the rippling trees,
Whose scented breath brings back to me
a thousand memories,
Ye sweep beneath the arch of heaven like
to the ocean surge
That beats from Guadalquivir’s bay
to earth’s extremest verge.
Oh, when ye to Granada come (and may great
Allah send
His guardian host to guide you to that
sweet journey’s end!),
Carry my sighs along with you, and breathe
them in the ear
Of foes who do me deadly wrong, of her
who holds me dear.
Oh, tell them all the agony I bear in
banishment,
That she may share my sorrow, and my foe
the King relent.
I see thee shining
from afar,
As in heaven’s
arch some radiant star.
Granada, queen
and crown of loveliness,
Listen to my lament,
and mourn for my distress.”
Now Celin would be merry, and appoints
a festal day,
When he the pang of absence from his lady
would allay:
The brave Abencerrages and Gulanes straight
he calls,
His bosom friends, to join him as he decks
his stately halls.
And secretly he bids them come, and in
secret bids them go;
For the day of merriment must come unnoticed
by his foe;
For peering eyes and curious ears are
watching high and low,
But he only seeks one happy day may reparation
bring
For the foul and causeless punishment
inflicted by the King.
“For in
the widest prison-house is misery for me,
And the stoutest
heart is broken unless the hand is free.”
His followers all he bade them dress in
Christian array,
With rude and rustic mantles of color
bright and gay;
With silken streamers in their caps, their
caps of pointed crown,
With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine
of brown.
But he himself wore sober robes of white
and lion gray,
The emblems of the hopeless grief in which
the warrior lay.
And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words
and glancing eyes,
Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint
his dark disguise.
And he came with purpose to perform some
great and glorious deed,
To drive away the saddening thoughts that
made the bosom bleed.
“For in
the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest
heart is broken unless the arm be free.”
There streams into Granada’s gate
a stately cavalcade
Of prancing steeds caparisoned, and knights
in steel arrayed;
And all their acclamations raise, when
Celin comes in sight—
“The foremost in the tournament,
the bravest in the fight”—
And Moorish maiden Cegri straight to the
window flies,
To see the glittering pageant and to hear
the joyous cries.
She calls her maidens all to mark how,
from misfortune free,
The gallant Celin comes again, the ladies’
knight is he!
They know the story of his fate and undeserved
disgrace,
And eagerly they gaze upon the splendor
of his face.
Needs not his exploit in the fields, his
valorous deeds to tell—
The ladies of Granada have heard and know
them well!
“For in
the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest
heart must break unless the warrior’s arm be
free.”
The beauty of Granada crowds Elvira’s
gate this night;
There are straining necks and flushing
cheeks when Celin comes in sight;
And whispered tales go round the groups,
and hearts indignant swell,
As they think what in Granada that hero
knight befell.
Now a thousand Moorish warriors to Celin’s
fame aspire,
And a thousand ladies gaze on him with
passionate desire.
And they talk of Adalifa, to whom he made
his vow,
Though neither speech nor written page
unites them longer now.
“For in
the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest
heart must break unless the warrior’s arms be
free.”
The city waits his coming, for the feast
has been prepared,
By rich and poor, by high and low the
revel shall be shared;
And there are warriors high in hope to
win the jousting prize,
And there are ladies longing for a smile
from Celin’s eyes.
But when the news of gladness reached
Adalifa’s ear,
Her loving heart was touched with grief
and filled with jealous fear;
And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to
hold no revel high,
For the thought of such rejoicing brought
the tear-drop to her eye;
The Moor received the letter as Granada
came in sight,
And straight he turned his courser’s
head toward Jaen’s towering height,
And exchanged for hues of mourning his
robe of festal white.
“For in
the widest prison-house is misery to me,
And the stoutest
heart is broke unless the warrior’s arm be free.”
BAZA REVISITED
Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him
the castelain
Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama’s
windy plain.
He came to see great Baza, where he in
former days
Had won from Zara’s father that
aged warrior’s praise.
The Moor gazed on that fortress strong,
the towers all desolate,
The castle high that touched the sky,
the rampart and the gate.
The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed
its native land,
For there his bliss had been complete
while Zara held his hand.
And Fortune’s cruel fickleness he
furiously reviled,
For his heart sent madness to his brain
and all his words were wild.
“O goddess who controllest on earth
our human fate,
How is it I offend thee, that my life
is desolate?
Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara’s
hands I bore,
When in the joust or in the dance she
smiled on me of yore.
And now, while equal fortune incessantly
I chase,
Naught can I gather from thy hand but
disaster and disgrace.
Since King Fernando brought his host fair
Baza to blockade,
My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish
unalloyed.
Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his
kingly art,
He won my body to his arms, he could not
win my heart.”
While thus he spoke the mantle that he
wore he cast away;
’Twas green, ’twas striped
with red and white, ’twas lined with dismal
gray.
“Best suits my fate, best suits
the hue, in this misfortune’s day;
Not green, not white nor purple, but the
palmer’s garb of gray.
I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature’s
living green,
For hope has vanished from my life of
that which might have been!
And from my target will I blot the blazon
that is vain—
The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the
prey that it would gain.
For the glances that I cast around meet
fortune’s foul disdain;
And I will blot the legend, as an accursed
screed.
’Twas writ in Christian letters
plain that all the world might read:
‘My good right arm can gain me more
altho’ its range be short,
Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless
range of thought.’
The blue tahala fluttering bright upon
my armored brow
In brilliant hue assorts but ill with
the lot I meet with now.
I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the
purple dye;
Not that my love is faithless, for I own
her constancy;
But for the fear that there may be, within
the maiden’s sight,
A lover worthier of her love than this
unhappy knight.”
With that he took his lance in hand, and
placed it in its rest,
And o’er the plain with bloody spur
the mournful Celin pressed.
On his steed’s neck he threw the
reins, the reins hung dangling low,
That the courser might have liberty to
choose where he would go;
And he said: “My steed, oh,
journey well, and make thy way to find
The bliss which still eludes me, tho’
’tis ever in my mind.
Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy
course across the lea,
For the curb and the bridle I only use
from infamy to flee.”
In Palma there was little joy, so lovely
Zara found;
She felt herself a slave, although by
captive chain unbound.
In Palma’s towers she wandered from
all the guests apart;
For while Palma had her body, ’twas
Baza held her heart.
And while her heart was fixed on one,
her charms no less enthralled
The heart of this brave cavalier, Celin
Andalla called.
Ah, hapless, hapless maiden, for in her
deep despair
She did not know what grief her face had
caused that knight to bear;
And though the Countess Palma strove with
many a service kind
To show her love, to soothe the pang that
wrung the maiden’s mind,
Yet borne upon the tempest of the captive’s
bitter grief,
She never lowered the sail to give her
suffering heart relief.
And, in search of consolation to another
captive maid,
She told the bitter sorrow to no one else
displayed.
She told it, while the tears ran fast,
and yet no balm did gain,
For it made more keen her grief, I ween,
to give another pain.
And she said to her companion, as she
clasped her tender hand:
“I was born in high Granada, my
loved, my native land;
For years within Alhambra’s courts
my life ran on serene;
I was a princess of the realm and handmaid
to a queen.
Within her private chamber I served both
night and day,
And the costliest jewels of her crown
in my protection lay.
To her I was the favorite of all the maids
she knew;
And, ah! my royal mistress I loved, I
loved her true!
No closer tie I owned on earth than bound
me to her side;
No closer tie; I loved her more than all
the world beside.
But more I loved than aught on earth,
the gallant Moorish knight,
Brave Celin, who is solely mine, and I
his sole delight.
Yes, he was brave, and all men own the
valor of his brand;
Yes, and for this I loved him more than
monarchs of the land.
For me he lived, for me he fought, for
me he mourned and wept,
When he saw me in this captive home like
a ship to the breakers swept.
He called on heaven, and heaven was deaf
to all his bitter cry,
For the victim of the strife of kings,
of the bloody war, was I;
It was my father bade him first to seek
our strong retreat.
Would God that he had never come to Baza’s
castle seat!
Would God that he had never come, an armored
knight, to stand
Amid the soldiers that were ranked beneath
my sire’s command.
He came, he came, that valiant Moor, beneath
our roof to rest.
His body served my father; his heart,
my sole behest;
What perils did he face upon that castle’s
frowning height!
Winning my father’s praise, he gained
more favor in my sight.
And when the city by the bands of Christians
was assailed,
My soul ’neath terrors fiercer still
in lonely terror quailed.
THE JEALOUS KING
’Twas eight stout warriors matched
with eight, and ten with valiant ten,
As Aliatare formed a band allied with
Moslem men,
To joust, with loaded canes, that day
in proud Toledo’s ring,
Against proud Adelifa’s host before
their lord the King.
The King by proclamation had announced
the knightly play,
For the cheerful trumpets sang a truce
upon that very day;
And Zaide, high Belchite’s King,
had sworn that war should cease,
And with Tarfe of Valentia had ratified
the peace.
But others spread the news, that flew
like fire from tongue to tongue,
That the King was doting-mad with love,
for then the King was young;
And had given to Celindaja the ordering
of the day.
And there were knights beside the King
she loved to see at play.
And now the lists are opened and, lo!
a dazzling band,
The Saracens, on sorrel steeds leap forth
upon the sand;
Their trailing cloaks are flashing like
the golden orange rind,
The hoods of green from their shoulders
hang and flutter in the wind.
They carry targets blazoned bright with
scimitars arow,
But each deadly blade is deftly made into
a Cupid’s bow.
A shining legend can be seen in letters
The other band came forth to save Azarque
from his foes,
But the stout Moor waves his hand to them
ere they in battle close.
Then calmly cries: “Tho’
love, it seems, has no respect for law,
’Tis right that ye keep peace to-day
and from the lists withdraw!
Nay, gentlemen, your lances lower before
it be too late;
And let our foes their lances raise, in
sign of passion’s hate;
Thus without blood accorded be a victory
and defeat.
’Tis only bloodshed makes the one
more bitter or more sweet,
For arms or reason unavailing
prove
To curb the passions of a
king in love.”
At last they seize the struggling Moor,
the chains are on his hands;
And the populace, with anger filled, arrange
themselves in bands.
They place a guard at every point, in
haste to set him free,
But where the brave commander who shall
lead to victory?
And where the leader who shall shout and
stir their hearts to fight?
These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers
of the night,
Cut-throats and needy idlers—and
so the tumult ends—
Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his
friends.
For, ah, both arms and reason
powerless prove
To turn the purpose of a king
in love.
Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd
implore,
“Oh, save him, save him, generous
friends, give back to me my Moor.”
She stands upon the balcony and from that
lofty place
Would fling herself upon the stones to
save him from disgrace.
Her mother round the weeping girl has
flung her withered arm.
“O fool,” she whispers in
her ear, “in Mary’s name be calm!”
Thou madly rushest to thy death by this
distracted show.
Surely thou knowest well this truth, if
anyone can know,
How arms and reason powerless
prove
To turn the purpose of a king
in love.
Then came a message of the King, in which
the monarch said
That a house wherein his kindred dwelt
must be a prison made.
Then Celindaja, white with rage:
“Go to the King and say
I choose to be my prison-house for many
and many a day,
The memory of Azarque, in which henceforth
I live:
But the treachery of a monarch my heart
will not forgive.
For the will of one weak woman
shall never powerless prove
To turn the foolish purpose
of a king who is in love.
“Alas for thee, Toledo! in former
times they said
That they called thee for vengeance upon
a traitor’s head.
But now ’tis not on traitors, but
on loyal men and true
That they call to thee for vengeance,
which to caitiff hearts are due.
And Tagus gently murmurs in his billows
fresh and free
And hastens from Toledo to reach the mighty
sea.”
E’er she said more, they seized
the dame, and led her to the gate,
Where the warden of the castle in solemn
judgment sate.
The brave Hamete reined his steed and
from the crupper bent,
To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with
content,
The daughter of Zulema, who had many a
foe repelled
From the castle on the hill, which he
in Archidora held;
For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian
host at bay,
A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest
foes’ array.
And now adown the well-known path, a secret
path and sure,
Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant
Moor.
The sentinels beneath the wall were careless,
or they slept;
They heeded not Hamete as down the slope
he crept.
And when he reached the level plain, full
twenty feet away,
He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should
farther stray.
Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as
if to speak,
Around her waist he flung his arms and
kissed her on the cheek.
“O goddess of my heart,” he
said, “by actions I will prove,
If thou wilt name some high emprise, how
faithful is my love!
And in Granada I am great, and have much
honored been,
Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his
Queen.
My name is high, my lineage long, yet
none of all my line
Have reached the pitch of glory which
men allow is mine.
Narvarez is a knight of name, in love
and arms adept,
In Antequera’s castle he well the
marches kept.
Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa
well,
And oft the maiden visited within her
prison cell.
And, if the thing with honor and virtuous
heart may be,
What he did with Jarifa, that would I
do with thee.”
A star was shining overhead upon the breast
of night,
The warrior turned his course, and led
the lady by its light.
They reached the foot of one tall rock,
and stood within the shade,
Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower
of beauty made.
They heard the genet browsing and stamping
as he fed,
And smiling Love his pinions over the
lovers spread.
But ere they reached the pleasant bower,
they saw before them stand,
Armed to the teeth, with frowning face,
a strange and savage band.
Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded
dame and knight,
The robbers of the mountain, and they
trembled at the sight!
With one accord these freebooters upon
Hamete fell,
Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush
at the hunter’s call,
TARFE’S TRUCE
“Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers
Who eye Granada day and night,
On whose left shoulder is the cross,
The crimson cross, your blazon
bright.
“If e’er your youthful hearts
have felt
The flame of love that brings
delight,
As angry Mars, in coat of steel,
Feels the fierce ardor of
the fight;
“If ’tis your will, within
our walls,
To join the joust, with loaded
reed,
As ye were wont, beneath these towers
The bloody lance of war to
speed;
“If bloodless tumult in the square
May serve instead of battle’s
fray,
And, donning now the silken cloak,
Ye put the coat of steel away;
“Six troops of Saracens are here;
Six Christian troops, with
targe and steed
Be ready, when the day is fixed,
To join the jousting of the
reed.
“For ’tis not right that furious
war,
Which sets the city’s
roofs in flames,
Should kindle with a fruitless fire
The tender bosom of our dames.
“In spite of all we suffer here
Our ladies are with you arrayed,
They pity you in this fierce war,
This labor of the long blockade.
“Amid the hardships of the siege
Let pleasure yield a respite
brief;
(For war must ever have its truce)
And give our hardships some
relief.
“What solace to the war-worn frame,
To every soul what blest release,
To fling aside the targe and mail,
And don one hour the plumes
of peace!
“And he who shall the victor be
Among the jousters of the
game,
I pledge my knightly word to him,
In token of his valorous fame,
“On his right arm myself to bind
The favor of my lady bright;
’Twas given me by her own white
hand,
The hand as fair as it is
white.”
’Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor,
His proclamation wrote at
large;
He, King Darraja’s favored squire,
Has nailed the cartel to his
targe.
’Twas on the day the truce was made,
By Calatrava’s master
bold,
To change the quarters of his camp,
And with his foes a conference
hold.
Six Moorish striplings Tarfe sent
In bold Abencerraje’s
train—
His kindred both in race and house—
To meet the leaguers on the
plain.
In every tent was welcome warm;
And when their challenge they
display,
The master granted their request
To join the joust on Easter
day.
In courteous words that cartel bold
He answered; and a cavalcade
Of Christians, with the Moorish guards,
Their journey to Granada made.
The guise of war at once was dropped;
The armory closed its iron
door;
And all put on the damask robes
That at high festival they
wore.
The Moorish youths and maidens crowd,
With joyful face, the city
square;
These mount their steeds, those sit and
braid
Bright favors for their knights
to wear.
Those stern antagonists in war,
Like friends, within the town
are met;
And peacefully they grasp the hand,
And for one day the past forget.
And gallant Almarada comes
(Not Tarfe’s self more
brave, I ween),
Lord of a lovely Moorish dame,
Who rules her lover like a
queen.
A hundred thousand favors she
In public or in private gives,
To show her lover that her life
Is Almarada’s while
she lives!
And once upon a cloudy night,
Fit curtain for his amorous
mood,
The gallant Moor the high hills scaled
And on Alhambra’s terrace
stood.
Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid
Stand at a window opened wide;
He gave her many a precious gem;
He gave her many a gift beside.
He spoke and said: “My lady
fair,
Though I have never wronged
him, still
Darraja stands upon the watch,
By fair or foul, to do me
ill.
“Those eyes of thine, which hold
more hearts
Than are the stars that heaven
displays;
That slay more Moors with shafts of love
Than with his sword the master
slays;
“When will they soften at my smile?
And when wilt thou, my love,
relent?
Let Tarfe go, whose words are big,
While his sword-arm is impotent!
“Thou seest I am not such as he;
His haughty words, so seldom
true,
Are filled with boasting; what he boasts
This sturdy arm of mine can
do.
“My arm, my lance, ah! well ’tis
known
How oft in battle’s
darkest hour
They saved Granada’s city proud
From yielding to the Christian’s
power.”
Thus amorous Almarada spoke
When Tarfe came and caught
the word;
And as his ear the message seized,
His right hand seized upon
his sword.
Yet did he deem some Christian troop
Was in the darkness hovering
by;
And at the thought, with terror struck,
He turned in eager haste to
fly!
Darraja roused him at the din;
And with loud voice to Tarfe
spoke;
He knew him from his cloak of blue,
For he had given the Moor
that cloak!
Upon two mares both strong and fleet,
White as the cygnet’s
snowy wing,
Beneath Granada’s arching gate
Passed Tarfe and Belchite’s
King.
Like beauty marks the dames they serve;
Like colors at their spear-heads
wave;
While Tarfe kneels at Celia’s feet,
The King is Dorelice’s
slave.
With belts of green and azure blue
The gallant knights are girded
fair;
Their cloaks with golden orange glow,
And verdant are the vests
they wear.
And gold and silver, side by side,
Are glittering on their garment’s
hem;
And, mingled with the metals, shine
The lights of many a costly
gem.
Their veils are woven iron-gray,
The melancholy tint of woe—
And o’er their heads the dusky plumes
Their grief and desolation
show.
And each upon his target bears
Emblazoned badges, telling
true
Their passion and their torturing pangs,
In many a dark and dismal
hue.
The King’s device shines on his
shield—
A seated lady, passing fair;
A monarch, with a downcast eye,
Before the dame is kneeling
there.
His crown is lying at her feet
That she may spurn it in disdain;
A heart in flames above is set;
And this the story of his
pain.
“In frost is born this flame of
love”—
Such legend circles the device—
“And the fierce fire in which I
burn
Is nourished by the breath
of ice.”
Upon her brow the lady wears
A crown; her dexter hand sustains
A royal sceptre, gilded bright,
To show that o’er all
hearts she reigns.
An orb in her left hand she bears,
For all the world her power
must feel;
There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame
Halts with her foot the whirling
wheel.
But Tarfe’s shield is blank and
bare,
Lest Adelifa should be moved
With jealous rage, to learn that he
Her Moorish rival, Celia,
loved.
He merely blazons on his targe
A peaceful olive-branch, and
eyes
That sparkle in a beauteous face,
Like starlets in the autumn
skies.
And on the branch of olive shines
This legend: “If
thy burning ray
Consume me with the fire of love,
See that I wither not away.”
They spurred their horses as they saw
The ladies their approach
surveyed;
And when they reached their journey’s
end
The King to Dorelice said:
“The goddesses who reign above
With envy of thy beauty tell;
When heaven and glory are thy gifts,
Why should I feel the pangs
of hell?
“Oh, tell me what is thy desire?
And does heaven’s light
more pleasure bring
Than to own monarchs as thy slaves,
And be the heiress to a king?
“I ask from thee no favor sweet;
Nor love nor honor at thy
hand;
But only that thou choose me out
The servant of thy least command.
“The choicest nobles of the realm
The glory of this office crave;
The lowliest soldier, with delight,
Would die to prove himself
thy slave.
“Each life, each heart is at thy
feet;
Thou with a thousand hearts
mayst live;
And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer,
Oh, take the warning that
I give.
“For there are ladies in the court
To my desires would fain consent,
And lovely Bendarrafa once
These jealous words but lately
sent:
“’Those letters and those
written lines,
Why dost thou not their sense
divine?
Are they not printed on thy heart
As thy loved image is on mine?
“’Why art thou absent still
so long?
It cannot be that thou art
dead?’”
Then ceased the King and silent stood,
While Tarfe to his Celia said:
“Celestial Celia be thy name;
Celestial calm is on thy brow;
Yet all the radiance of thy face
Thy cruelty eclipses now.
“A witch like Circe dost thou seem;
For Circe could o’ercloud
the sky;
Oh, let the sun appear once more,
And bid the clouds of darkness
fly!
“Ah, would to God that on the feast,
The Baptist’s consecrated
day,
I might my arms about thee fling
And lead thee from thy home
away.
“Yet say not that ’tis in
thy power
To yield or all my hopes to
kill;
For thou shalt learn that all the world,
In leaguer, cannot bend my
will.
“And France can tell how many a
time
I fought upon the tented field,
And forced upon their bended knee
Her loftiest paladins to yield.
“I vanquished many a valiant knight
Who on his shield the lilies
bore;
And on Vandalia’s plain subdued
Of Red Cross warriors many
a score.
“The noblest I had brought to yield
Upon Granada’s gory
plain,
Did I not shrink with such vile blood
The honor of my sword to stain.”
At this the trumpets called to arms;
Without one farewell word
each knight
Turned from the lady of his heart
And spurred his steed in headlong
flight.
THE KING’S DECISION
Amid a thousand sapient Moors
From Andalusia came,
Was an ancient Moor, who ruled the land,
Rey Bucar was his name.
And many a year this sage had dwelt
With the lady he loved best;
And at last he summoned the Cortes,
As his leman made request.
The day was set on which his lords
And commoners should meet,
And they talked to the King of his wide
realm’s need,
As the King sat in his seat.
And many the laws they passed that day;
And among them a law that
said
That the lover who took a maid for his
love
The maid of his choice must
wed;
And he who broke this ordinance
Should pay for it with his
head.
And all agreed that the law was good;
Save a cousin of the King,
Who came and stood before him,
With complaint and questioning;
“This law, which now your Highness
Has on your lieges laid,
I like it not, though many hearts
It has exultant made.
“Me only does it grieve, and bring
Disaster on my life;
For the lady that I love the best,
Is already wedded wife;
“Wedded she is, wedded amiss;
Ill husband has she got.
And oft does pity fill my heart
For her distressful lot.
“And this one thing I tell thee,
King,
To none else has it been told:
If I think her love is silver,
She thinks my love is gold.”
Then spake Rey Bucar in reply,
This sentence uttered he:
“If thy love be wedded wife, the
law
Hath no penalty for thee.”
The King Almanzor slept one night,
And, oh! his sleep was blest;
Not all the seven Moorish kings
Could dare to break his rest.
The infante Bobalias
Bethought of him and cried:
“Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle
dear!
And hasten to my side.
“And bid them fetch the ladders
Owned by my sire the King;
And the seven mules that carry them
Into my presence bring.
“And give to me the seven stout
Moors
Who shall their harness set,
For the love, the love of the countess
I never can forget.”
“Ill-mannered art thou, nephew,
And never wilt amend;
The sweetest sleep I ever slept,
Thou bringest to an end.”
Now they have brought the ladders
Owned by his sire the King.
And, to bear the load along the road,
Seven sturdy mules they bring;
And seven stout Moors, by whom the mules
In housings are arrayed.
And to the walls of the countess
Their journey have they made.
There, at the foot of yonder tower,
They halt their cavalcade.
In the arms of the count Alminique
The countess lay at rest;
The infante has ta’en her by the
hand,
And caught her to his breast.
THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS
Beneath the shade of an olive-tree
Stood the infanta fair;
A golden comb was in her hands,
And well she decked her hair.
To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw,
That early morning-tide,
A clump of spears and an armored band
From Guadalquivir ride.
Alfonzo Ramos with them came,
The admiral of Castile.
“Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos!
Now welcome, steed and steel,
What tidings do you bring of my fleet,
What tidings of woe or weal?”
“I’ll tell thee tidings, lady,
If my life thou wilt assure.”
“Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos,
Thy life shall be secure.”
“Seville, Seville has fallen,
To the arms of the Berber
Moor.”
“But for my word thy head this day
To the vultures had been tost!”
“If head of mine were forfeited,
Tis thine must pay the cost.”
He was a valorous gentleman, a gay and
gallant knight,
Like stars on heaven’s fifth circle
was the splendor of his might.
In peace, accomplished in the arts of
great Apollo’s choir,
In war, the brilliant swordsman that Mars
might well admire.
His great exploits were written on history’s
brightest page,
And rightly was he reckoned as the mirror
of his age;
Great deeds he did with point of lance
and won bright honor’s crown,
Before the year when each red cheek was
clothed in manly down.
And such he was through all the world
by minstrel harps extolled,
Both for the vigor of his arm and for
his bearing bold.
His very foes, whom he had made surrender
in the fight,
While trembling at his valor, asked blessings
on the knight.
And Fame herself, whose pace is swift,
whose voice like fire can run,
THE RENEGADE
Through the mountains of Moncayo,
Lo! all in arms arrayed,
Rides pagan Bobalias,
Bobalias the renegade.
Seven times he was a Moor, seven times
To Christ he trembling turned;
At the eighth, the devil cozened him
And the Christian cross he
spurned,
And took back the faith of Mahomet,
In childhood he had learned.
He was the mightiest of the Moors,
And letters from afar
Had told him how Sevila
Was marshalling for war.
He arms his ships and galleys,
His infantry and horse,
And straight to Guadalquivir’s flood
His pennons take their course.
The flags that on Tablada’s plain
Above his camp unfold,
Flutter above three hundred tents
Of silk brocade and gold.
In the middle, the pavilion
Of the pagan they prepare;
On the summit a ruby stone is set,
A jewel rich and rare.
It gleams at morn, and when the night
Mantles the world at length,
It pours a ray like the light of day,
When the sun is at its strength.
Brave Arbolan a prisoner lay
Within the Tower of Gold;
By order of the King there stood
Four guards to keep the hold.
’Twas not because against his King
He played a treacherous part;
But only that Guhala’s charms
Had won the captive’s
heart.
“Guhala,
Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful
vow I utter now—
To see thee or to die.”
No longer free those sturdy limbs!
Revenge had bid them bind
The iron chain on hands and feet;
They could not chain his mind!
How dolorous was the warrior’s lot!
All hope at last had fled;
And, standing at the window,
With sighing voice he said:
“Guhala,
Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful
vow I utter now—
To see thee or to die.”
He turned his eyes to where the banks
Of Guadalquivir lay;
“Inhuman King!” in grief he
cried,
“Thy mandates I obey;
Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel;
Thy cruel sentinel
Keeps watch beside my prison door;
Yet who my crime can tell?
“Guhala,
Guhala,
My longing heart must cry;
This mournful
vow I utter now—
To see thee or to die.”
THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR
No azure-hued tahalia now
Flutters about each warrior’s brow;
No crooked scimitars display
Their gilded scabbards to the day.
The Afric turbans, that of yore
Were fashioned on Morocco’s shore,
To-day their tufted crown is bare;
There are no fluttering feathers there.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
The phoenix that would shine in gold
On the high banner’s fluttering
fold,
Scarce can the breeze in gladness bring
To spread aloft its waving wing.
It seemed as if the fire of death
For the first time had quenched her breath.
For tribulation o’er the world
The mantle of despair had furled;
There was no breeze the ground to bless,
The plain lay panting in distress;
Beneath the trailing silken shroud
Alfarez carried through the crowd.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
For Aliatar, one sad morn,
Mounted his steed and blew his horn;
A hundred Moors behind him rode;
Fleeter than wind their coursers strode.
Toward Motril their course is made,
While foes the castle town blockade;
There Aliatar’s brother lay,
Pent by the foes that fatal day.
Woe work the hour, the day, when he
Vaulted upon his saddle-tree!
Ne’er from that seat should he descend
To challenge foe or welcome friend,
Nor knew he that the hour was near,
His couch should be the funeral bier.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
That day the master’s knights were
sent,
As if on sport and jousting bent;
And Aliatar, on his way,
By cruel ambush they betray;
With sword and hauberk they surround
And smite the warrior to the ground.
And wounded deep from every vein
He bleeding lies upon the plain.
The furious foes in deadly fight
His scanty followers put to flight,
In panic-stricken fear they fly,
And leave him unavenged to die.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
Ah sadly swift the news has flown
To Zaida in the silent town;
Speechless she sat, while every thought
Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought;
Then flowed her tears in larger flood,
Than from his wounds the tide of blood.
Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak
The pallid beauty of her cheek.
Say, Love, and didst thou e’er behold
A maid more fair and knight more bold?
And if thou didst not see him die,
And Zaida’s tears of agony,
The bandage on thine orbs draw tight—
That thou mayst never meet the sight!
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
Not only Zaida’s eyes are wet,
For him her soul shall ne’er forget;
But many a heart in equal share
The sorrow of that lady bare.
Yes, all who drink the water sweet
Where Genil’s stream and Darro meet,
All of bold Albaicins’s line,
Who mid Alhambra’s princes shine—
The ladies mourn the warrior high,
Mirror of love and courtesy;
The brave lament him, as their peer;
The princes, as their comrade dear;
The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed,
Their shelter in the time of need.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums
tempestuous beat.
It was the Moorish maiden, the fairest
of the fair,
Whose name amid the Moorish knights was
worshipped everywhere.
And she was wise and modest, as her race
has ever been,
And in Alhambra’s palace courts
she waited on the Queen,
A daughter of Hamete—of royal
line was he,
And held the mighty castle of Baja’s
town in fee.
Now sad and mournful all the day the maiden
weeping sat,
And her captive heart was thinking still
of the distant caliphat,
Which in the stubborn straits of war had
passed from Moslem reign,
And now was the dominion of King Ferdinand
of Spain.
She thought upon the dreary siege in Baja’s
desert vale
When the fight was long and the food of
beasts and men began to fail,
And her wretched father, forced to yield,
gave up his castle hold,
For falling were the towers, falling fast
his warriors bold.
And Zara, lovely Zara, did he give into
the care
Of the noble Countess Palma, who loved
the maiden fair.
And the countess had to Baja come when
Queen Isabella came,
The lovely vega of the town to waste with
sword and flame.
And the countess asked of Zara if she
were skilled in aught,
The needle, or the ’broidery frame,
to Christian damsels taught.
And how she made the hours go by when,
on Guadalquivir’s strand,
She sat in the Alhambra, a princess of
the land.
And, while her eyes were full of tears,
the Moorish maid replied:
“’Twas I the silver tinsel
fixed on garments duly dyed;
’Twas I who with deft fingers with
gold lace overlaid
The dazzling robes of flowery tint of
velvet and brocade.
And sometimes would I take my lute and
play for dancers there;
And sometimes trust my own weak voice
in some romantic air;
But now, this moment, I retain but one,
one mournful art—
To weep, to mourn the banishment that
ever grieves my heart.
And since ’tis thou alone whose
bread, whose roof my life didst save,
I weep the bitterest tears of all because
I am a slave!
Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to
make more light to me
The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in
dark captivity,—
I bid thee build for me, if thou approve
HAMETE ALI
Hamete Ali on his way toward the city
goes,
His tunic is a brilliant green with stripes
of crimson rose,
In sign that no despondency this daring
wanderer knows.
His arm, that wears the twisted steel,
reflects the sunlight sheen,
And bound to it by many a knot is hung
his hood of green.
And o’er his bonnet azure-blue,
two feathery plumes there fly;
The one is green as the summer and one
is blue as sky.
He does not wear these hues to show that
he is passion’s slave,
They are emblems of the life that beats
within his bosom brave.
Yet dusky is his lance’s hue and
dusky is his shield,
On which are serpents scattered upon a
golden field.
Their venomed tongues are quivering and
ears before them stand,
To show how slanderous hearts can spread
their poison o’er the land.
A lettered motto in the midst which everyone
may read,
Is written in Arabian script, ah! good
that all should heed!
“’Tis naught but innocence
of heart can save me from the blow
With which the slanderous serpents would
lay their victim low.”
Upon a piebald colt he rode along the
valley’s side,
The bravest of the valiant Moors and once
Granada’s pride.
In furious rage descending from bold Ubeda’s
steep,
He crossed the vale and mounted to Baza’s
castle keep.
Defiant still of Fortune’s power,
his thoughts at last found vent,
For Fortune had been cruel, and in words
of discontent,
As if he blamed the serpent upon his shield
“Permit it not that in the generous
breasts of those whose blood
Flows in my veins, who by my side as faithful
champions stood,
Those cursed asps, whose effigies my shield’s
circumference fill,
Could plant the thoughts of villany by
which they work me ill.
Just heaven forbids their words should
blot the honor of my name,
For pure and faithful is my heart, howe’er
my foes defame;
And Zaida, lovely Zaida, at a word that
did me wrong,
Would close her ears in scornful ire and
curse the slanderous tongue.
And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.
“Nay, Fortune, turn no more thy
wheel, I care not that it rest,
Nor bid thee draw the nail that makes
it stand at man’s behest
Oh, may I never say to thee, when for
thy aid I call,
Let me attain the height of bliss whate’er
may be my fall!
And when I roam from those I love, may
never cloud arise
To dim my hope of a return and hide me
from their eyes.
Yet doubtless, ’tis the absent are
oftenest forgot,
Till those who loved when they were near
in absence love them not.
And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.
“And since ’tis my unhappy
lot, through slander’s cruel wiles,
I should be robbed so many years of Zaida’s
cheering smiles,
Yet those who say that I am false, and
name Celinda’s name,
Oh, may they gain no end at length but
obloquy and shame!
It is not just that to these words and
to these anxious fears,
These wild complaints, the god of love
should close his heedless ears!
Yes, I deserve a better fate, the fate
that makes more sure;
The fame of those whose slanderous tongue
in banishment endure.
And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.”
He spoke, and, lo! before him he saw the
city stand,
With walls and towers that frowned in
might upon that fertile land.
And he saw the glittering banners of Almanzor
set on high,
And swaying in the gentle breeze that
filled the summer sky.
And those who stood upon the walls, soon
as he came in sight,
Streamed forth from the portcullis with
welcome for the knight,
For they marvelled at the prancing steed
that rushed across the plain,
They marvelled at his thundering voice
and words of deep disdain.
And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.
And as he rode into the town and galloped
to the square,
Upon the balconies he saw bright dames
with faces bare;
They stood, they gazed with eyes of love
and gestures of delight,
For they joyed to see among them so stout,
so fair a knight.
And all of Baza’s people with cries
his coming greet,
And follow at his horse’s tail from
street to crowded street.
His heart with gratitude was filled, his
bosom filled with pride,
And with doffed bonnet, lo, he bowed and
once again he cried:
“And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.”
They led him to the warden’s house,
and there was feasting high.
Brave men and beauteous women in crowds
were standing by.
The trumpets blew in merry strain, the
Moorish horns resound,
And the strain of joy was echoed from
every castle round.
And from his colt dismounting he laid
his lance aside,
And greeted all the multitude that filled
the plaza wide.
Then to the strong tower of the place
he hurried from the street,
And as he went a thousand times his lips
would still repeat:
“And, Fortune,
do thy worst; it is not meant,
By Allah, that
his knight should die in banishment.”
Then Zaide stood enraptured and gazed
with placid eye,
For the moment when his heart’s
desire should be fulfilled was nigh.
Propitious was the moment, and happy was
the hour,
When all that he had longed for had come
into his power.
And he said: “Thrice happy
is the wall, and happy is the bar,
Tho’ from my fond embraces, Zaida,
it keeps thee far;
For long as thou shalt live on earth,
my Zaida, thou art mine;
And the heart that in my bosom beats,
long as it beats, is thine.
And happy is the green, green sod on which
thy feet are set,
For the pressure of thy tender foot the
grass shall ne’er forget,
Shall ne’er forget the white, white
heel that o’er the pathway came,
Leaving behind it, everywhere, the print
of snow and flame.
But far more happy is the knight, if e’er
should Allah send
To this dark separation a bright and peaceful
ZAIDA’S JEALOUSY.
Kind friend of Bencerraje’s line,
what judgment dost thou hold
Of all that Zaida’s changeful moods
before thine eyes unfold?
Now by my life I swear that she to all
would yield her will;
Yet by my death I swear that she to all
is recreant still.
Come near, my friend, and listen while
I show to you this note,
Which to the lovely lady in bitter grief
I wrote;
Repeat not what I read to thee, for ’twere
a deadly shame,
Since thou her face admirest, should slander
smirch her name:
“O Moorish maiden, who like time,
forever on the wing,
Dost smiles and tears, with changing charm,
to every bosom bring,
Thy love is but a masquerade, and thou
with grudging hand
Scatterest the crumbs of hope on all the
crowds that round thee stand.
With thee there is no other law of love
and kindliness
But what alone may give thee joy and garland
of success.
With each new plume thy maidens in thy
dark locks arrange,
With each new tinted garment thy thoughts,
thy fancies change.
I own that thou art fairer than even the
fairest flower
That at the flush of early dawn bedecks
the summer’s bower.
But, ah, the flowers in summer hours change
even till they fade,
And thou art changeful as the rose that
withers in the shade.
And though thou art the mirror of beauty’s
glittering train,
Thy bosom has one blemish, thy mind one
deadly stain;
For upon all alike thou shed’st
the radiance of thy smile,
And this the treachery by which thou dost
the world beguile.
I do not plead in my complaint thy loveliness
is marred,
Because thy words are cruel, because thy
heart is hard;
Would God that thou wert insensible as
is the ocean wild
And not to all who meet thee so affable
and mild;
Ah, sweetest is the lingering fruit that
latest comes in time,
Ah, sweetest is the palm-tree’s
nut that those who reach must climb.
Alas! ’twas only yesterday a stranger
reached the town—
Thou offeredst him thy heart and bade
him keep it for his own!
O Zaida, tell me, how was this? for oft
I heard thee say
That thou wert mine and ’twas to
me thy heart was given away.
Hast thou more hearts than one, false
girl, or is it changefulness
That makes thee give that stranger guest
the heart that I possess?
One heart alone is mine, and that to thee
did I resign.
If thou hast many, is my love inadequate
to thine?
O Zaida, how I fear for thee, my veins
with anger glow;
O Zaida, turn once more to me, and let
the stranger go.
As soon as he hath left thy side his pledges,
thou wilt find,
Were hollow and his promises all scattered
to the wind.
And if thou sayst thou canst not feel
the pains that absence brings,
’Tis that thy heart has never known
love’s gentle whisperings.
’Tis that thy fickle mind has me
relinquished here to pine,
Like some old slave forgotten in this
Upon a gilded balcony, which decked a
mansion high,
A place where ladies kept their watch
on every passer-by,
While Tagus with a murmur mild his gentle
waters drew
To touch the mighty buttress with waves
so bright and blue,
Stands Zaida, radiant in her charms, the
flower of Moorish maids,
And with her arching hand of snow her
anxious eyes she shades,
Searching the long and dusty road that
to Ocana leads,
For the flash of knightly armor and the
tramp of hurrying steeds.
The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek
with rosy red,
Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous
brow o’er-spread;
For she looks to see if up the road there
rides a warrior tall—
The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves
the best of all.
At every looming figure that blots the
vega bright,
She starts and peers with changing face,
and strains her eager sight;
For every burly form she sees upon the
distant street
Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom
longs to greet.
And many a distant object that rose upon
her view
Filled her whole soul with rapture, as
ZAIDE REBUKED
“See, Zaide, let me tell you not
to pass along my street,
Nor gossip with my maidens nor with my
servants treat;
Nor ask them whom I’m waiting for,
nor who a visit pays,
What balls I seek, what robe I think my
beauty most displays.
’Tis quite enough that for thy sake
so many face to face
Aver that I, a witless Moor, a witless
lover chase.
I know that thou art a valiant man, that
thou hast slaughtered more,
Among thy Christian enemies, than thou
hast drops of gore.
Thou art a gallant horseman, canst dance
and sing and play
Better than can the best we meet upon
a summer’s day.
Thy brow is white, thy cheek is red, thy
lineage is renowned,
And thou amid the reckless and the gay
art foremost found.
I know how great would be my loss, in
losing such as thee;
I know, if I e’er won thee, how
great my gain would be:
And wert thou dumb even from thy birth,
and silent as the grave,
Each woman might adore thee, and call
herself thy slave.
But ’twere better for us both I
turn away from thee,
Thy tongue is far too voluble, thy manners
far too free;
Go find some other heart than mine that
will thy ways endure,
O fairest Zaida, thou whose face brings
rapture to mine eyes!
O fairest Zaida, in whose smile my soul’s
existence lies!
Fairest of Moorish maidens, yet in revengeful
mood,
Above all Moorish maidens, stained by
black ingratitude.
’Tis of thy golden locks that love
has many a noose entwined,
And souls of free men at thy sight full
oft are stricken blind;
Yet tell me, proud one, tell me, what
pleasure canst thou gain
From showing to the world a heart so fickle
and so vain?
And, since my adoration thou canst not
fail to know,
How is it that thy tender heart can treat
thy lover so?
And art thou not content my fondest hopes
to take away,
But thou must all my hope, my life, destroy,
in utter ruin lay?
My faithful love, sweet enemy! how ill
dost thou requite!
And givest in exchange for it but coldness
and despite;
Thy promises, thy pledge of love, thou
ZAIDE’S DESOLATION
It was the hour when Titan from Aurora’s
couch awoke,
And on the world her radiant face in wonted
beauty broke,
When a Moor came by in sad array, and
Zaide was his name.
Disguised, because his heart was sad with
love’s consuming flame;
No shield he bore, he couched no lance,
he rode no warrior steed;
No plume nor mantle he assumed, motto
or blazon screed;
Still on the flank of his mantle blank
one word was written plain,
In the Moorish of the people, “I
languish through disdain.”
A flimsy cape his shoulders clad, for,
when the garb is poor,
Nobility is honored most because ’tis
most obscure.
If he in poverty appeared, ’twas
love that made him so;
Till love might give the wealth he sought
thus mourning would he go.
And still he journeys through the hills
and shuns the haunts of men;
None look upon his misery in field or
lonely fen.
Fair Zaida ne’er forgets that he
is prince of all the land,
And ruler of the castles that at Granada
stand;
But gold or silver or brocade can ne’er
supply the lack
Of honor in a noble line whose crimes
have stained it black;
For sunlight never clears the sky when
night has spread her cloak,
But only when the glory of the morning
has awoke.
He lives secure from jealous care, holding
the priceless dower
Which seldom falls to loving hearts or
sons of wealth and power.
Poor is his garb, yet at his side a costly
blade appears,
’Tis through security of mind no
other arms he bears.
’Tis love that from Granada’s
home has sent him thus to rove,
And for the lovely Zaida he languishes
with love—
The loveliest face that by God’s
grace the sun e’er shone above.
From court and mart he lives apart, such
is the King’s desire;
Yet the King’s friend Alfaqui is
the fair maiden’s sire.
Friend of the King, the throne’s
support, a monarch’s son is he,
And he has sworn that never Moor his daughter’s
spouse shall be.
He has no ease till the monarch sees his
daughter’s loveliness.
But she has clasped brave Zaide’s
hand, and smiled to his caress,
And said that to be his alone is her sole
happiness.
And after many journeys wide, wearied
of banishment,
He sees the lofty tower in which his Moorish
maid is pent.
Now the hoarse trumpets of the morn were
driving sleep away;
They sounded as the fleeting night gave
truce unto the day.
The hubbub of the busy crowd ceased at
that dulcet sound,
In which one moment high and low peace
and refreshment found.
The hoot of the nocturnal owl alone the
silence broke,
While from the distance could be heard
the din of waking folk;
And, in the midst of silence, came the
sound as Zaida wept,
For all night long in fear of death she
waked while others slept.
And as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy
strain;
“And who would wish to die,”
she said, “though death be free from pain?”
For evil tongues, who thought to win her
favor with a lie,
Had told her that the bold Gazul ordained
that she should die;
And so she donned a Moor’s attire,
and put her own away,
And on the stroke of midnight from Xerez
took her way.
And
as she sighed, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
She rode a nimble palfrey and scarce could
great Gazul
Excel the ardent spirit with which her
heart was full.
Yet at every step her palfrey took, she
turned her head for fear,
To see if following on her track some
enemy were near.
And
as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
To shun suspicion’s eye, at last
she left the king’s highway,
And took the journey toward Seville that
thro’ a bypath lay;
With loosened rein her gallant steed right
swiftly did she ride,
Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock
on the rough wayside.
And
as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
So secretly would she proceed, her very
breath she held,
Tho’ with a rising storm of sighs
her snowy bosom swelled.
And here and there she made a halt, and
bent her head to hear
If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed
her swift career.
And
as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
Her fancy in the silent air could whispering
voices hear;
“I’ll make of thee a sacrifice,
to Albenzaide dear;”
This fancy took her breath away, lifeless
she sank at length,
And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had
sapped her spirit’s strength.
And
as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
She came in sight of proud Seville; but
the darkness bade her wait
Till dawn; when she alighted before a
kinsman’s gate.
Swift flew the days, and when at last
the joyful truth she learned,
That she had been deceived; in joy to
Xerez she returned.
And
as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
“And
who would wish to die,” she said, “though
death be free from
pain?”
ZAIDA’S CURSE
And Zaida Cegri, desolate,
Whom by the cruel cast of fate,
Within one hour, the brandished blade
From wife had mourning widow made,
On Albenzaide’s corse was bowed,
Shedding hot tears, with weeping loud.
Bright as the gold of Araby
Shone out her locks unbound;
And while, as if to staunch the blood,
Her hand lay on the wound,
She fixed her glances on Gazul,
Still by his foes attacked.
“’Twas cruel rage, not jealous
love,
That urged this wicked act.”
(Thus she began with trembling voice.)
“And I to God will pray
That for thy treacherous violence
Thy dastard life shall pay.
And midway, on thy journey down
To fair Sidonia’s castled town,
Mayst thou alone, with no retreat,
The valiant Garci-Perez meet;
And mayst thou, startled at the sight,
Lose all the vigor of thy might;
Thy reins with palsied fingers yield;
And find no shelter in thy shield.
There sudden death or captive shame
Blot all thy valor but the name.
Thy warrior garb thou turnest
To the livery of the slave;
Thy coat of steel is no cuirass,
No harness of the brave;
When to Sidonia thou art come,
To meet thy amorous mate,
May foul suspicion turn her heart
From love to deadly hate.
Begone! no more the course pursue
Of faithless love and vows untrue.
To remain true to such as thee
Were naught but blackest perjury.
I fear not, hound, thy sword of might;
Turn, traitor, turn and leave my sight,
By Zaide has a feast been pledged to all
Granada’s dames,
For in his absence there had been dire
lack of festive games,
And, to fulfil the promise the noble man
had made,
He called his friends to join him in dance
and serenade.
There should be sport of every kind; the
youths in white arrayed
Were, to the ladies all unknown, to lead
the camisade.
And ere the radiance of dawn could tint
the valley-side,
The merry Moor had come abroad, his friends
were at his side.
He gathered round a company, they formed
a joyous train;
There were fifty gentlemen, the noblest
names in Spain.
Before the dawn they sallied forth the
ladies to surprise
And all that snowy gowns conceal to see
with open eyes.
They bound their brows with garlands of
flowerets sweet and bright,
In one hand each a cane-stalk bore, in
one a taper white,
And the clarions began to blow, and trump
and Moorish horn,
And whoop and shout and loud huzzas adown
the street were borne.
From right to left the clamor spread along
the esplanade.
And envious Abaicin a thousand echoes
made.
The startled horses galloped by, amid
the people’s yells;
The town to its foundation shook with
the jingle of their bells.
Amid the crowd some run, some shout, “Stop,
stop!” the elders say;
Then all take order and advance to Alcazaba’s
way;
Others from Vavataubin to Alpujarra fare,
Down the street of the Gomelas or to Vivarrambla
Square.
Now the whole town is on its feet, from
wall to towering wall
They surge with shouts or flock around
the tower and castle tall.
The ladies who are tenderest and given
most to sleep
Awaken at the hubbub and from their windows
peep.
And there are seen dishevelled locks clasped
by the lily hand;
And snowy throat and bosom bare, revealed
in public, stand;
And in their drowsy disarray, and in their
anxious fear,
Each Moorish lady is surprised with many
a sudden tear;
And many a heart was filled that night
ZAIDE’S COMPLAINT
Brave Zaide paces up and down impatiently
the street
Where his lady from the balcony is wont
her knight to greet,
And he anxiously awaits the hour when
she her face will show
Before the open lattice and speak to him
below.
The Moor is filled with desperate rage,
for he sees the hour is fled
When day by day the dazzling ray of sunlight
gilds that head,
And he stops to brood in desperate mood,
for her alone he yearns
Can aught soothe the fire of fierce desire
with which his bosom burns.
At last he sees her moving with all her
wonted grace,
He sees her and he hastens to their old
trysting-place;
For as the moon when night is dark and
clouds of tempest fly
Rises behind the dim-lit wood and lights
the midnight sky,
Or like the sun when tempests with inky
clouds prevail,
He merges for one moment and shows his
visage pale;
So Zaida on her balcony in gleaming beauty
stood,
And the knight for a moment gazed at her
and checked his angry mood.
Zaide beneath the balcony with trembling
heart drew near;
He halted and with upward glance spoke
to his lady dear:
“Fair Moorish maiden, may thy life,
by Allah guarded still,
Bring thee the full fruition of that that
thou dost will;
And if the servants of thy house, the
pages of my hall,
Have lied about thine honor, perdition
seize them all;
For they come to me and murmur low and
whisper in my ear
That thou wishest to disown me, thy faithful
cavalier;
And they say that thou art pledged to
one a Moor of wealth and pride,
Who will take thee to his father’s
house and claim thee as his bride,
For he has come to woo thee from the wide
lands of his sire;
And they say that his scimitar is keen
and his heart a flame of fire.
And if, fair Zaida, this is true, I kneel
before thy feet
Imploring thou wilt tell me true, and
fling away deceit;
For all the town is talking, still talking
of our love,
And the tongues of slander, to thy blame,
to my derision move.”
The lady blushed, she bowed her head,
then to the Moor replied:
“Dear heart of mine, of all my friends
the most undoubted friend,
The time has come our friendship should
The bravest youth that e’er drew
rein
Upon Granada’s flowery plain,
A courteous knight, of gentle heart,
Accomplished in the jouster’s art;
Well skilled to guide the flying steed,
And noted for each warlike deed;
And while his heart like steel was set
When foeman in the battle met,
’Twas wax before his lady’s
eyes
And melted at her amorous sighs;
And he was like a diamond bright
Amid the sword-thrusts of the fight,
And in the zambra’s festive hour
Was gracious as the summer’s flower.
In speech he showed the generous mind,
Where wit and wisdom were combined;
And, while his words no envy woke,
He weighed each sentence that he spoke.
And yet his mantle was of blue,
And tinged with sorrow’s violet
AZARCO OF GRANADA
Azarco left his heart behind
When he from Seville passed,
And winsome Celindaja
As hostage held it fast.
The heart which followed with the Moor
Was lent him by the maid,
And at their tearful parting,
“Now guard it well,”
she said.
“O light of my distracted eyes,
When thou hast reached the
fight,
In coat of double-proof arrayed,
As fits a gallant knight,
Let loyal love and constancy
“Draw rein, draw rein one moment,
And calm thy hurrying steed,
Who bounds beneath the furious spur
That makes his flank to bleed.
Here would I, by my grief distraught,
Upon the very spot,
Remind thee of the happy hours
Thou, faithless, hast forgot.
When thou, upon thy prancing barb,
Adown this street would pace,
And only at my window pause
To gaze into my face.
At thought of all thy cruelty
A stricken slave I pine;
My heart is burning since it touched
That frozen breast of thine.
How many pledges didst thou give,
To win me for thine own!
Our oaths were mutual; I am true,
Whilst thou art recreant grown.
My eyes, they thrilled thee yesterday,
To-day thou hast no fears;
For love is not alike two days
Within a thousand years.
I thought thy name a pledge to me
Of fondest hope; no less
That thou wouldst take as pledges true
My kiss and soft caress.
What were thy glowing words but lures
Thy victim’s eyes to
blind?
Now safe from treachery’s hour I
bear
No rancor in my mind.
But better had I known the truth,
When I desired to know,
And listened to thy pleading words,
And read thy written vow.
Nay, give me no excuses vain,
For none of them I ask,
Plead truth to her thou cozenest now—
They’ll serve thee in
the task.
And if my counsel thou wilt take,
Forget these eyes, this heart,
Forget my grief at thy neglect—
Forget me—and depart.”
Thus to the Moor, Azarco,
The lovely Zaida cried,
And closed her lattice, overwhelmed
With sorrow’s rising
tide.
He spurred his barb and rode away,
Scattering the dust behind,
And cursed the star that made his heart
Inconstant as the wind.
ADELIFA’S FAREWELL
Fair Adelifa tore her hair,
Her cheeks were furrowed o’er with
care,
When brave Azarco she descried
Ascending the tall galley’s side.
She flung the dust upon her head,
She wrung her lily hands and shed
Hot tears, and cursed the bitter day
That bore her heart’s delight away.
“Thou, who my glory’s captain
art,
And general of my bleeding heart,
Guardian of every thought I know,
And sharer of my lot of woe;
Light that illumes my happy face,
The bliss of my soul’s dwelling-place;
Why must thou disappear from me,
Thou glass wherein myself I see?
Azarco, bid me understand
What is it thou dost command—
Must I remain and wait for thee?
Ah, tedious will that waiting be.
To war thou farest, but I fear
Another war awaits thee here.
Thou thinkest in some rural nest
Thou’lt set me to be safe at rest.
Ah, if my absence cause thee pain,
My love attend thee on yon plain.
Thy valiant arms’ unaided might
Shall win thee victory in the fight.
My faith, Azarco, is thy shield;
It will protect thee in the field.
Thou shalt return with victory,
For victory embarks with thee.
But thou wilt say, Azarco dear,
That women’s lightness is to fear.
As with armed soldiers, so you find,
Each woman has a different mind.
And none shall ever, without thee,
Me in the dance or revel see;
Nor to the concert will I roam,
But stay in solitude at home.
The Moorish girls shall never say
I dress in robes of holiday;
’Twere vain to make the body fine
Whose soul is on the sea with thine.”
With this Celinda came in sight,
Bahata’s sister tall and bright;
This to an end her farewell brought,
But not her dark and anxious thought.
“Now saddle me the silver gray,
The steed of noble race,
And give to me the shield of Fez,
And my strong corslet lace;
Give me a double-headed lance,
With points of temper fine;
And, with the casque of stubborn steel,
That purple cap of mine.
Its plumes unite the saffron’s tint
With heron’s crest of
snow,
And one long spray of fluttering gray.
Then give it e’er I
go,
And I’ll put on the hood of blue
That Celin’s daughter
fair,
My Adelifa, best-beloved,
Once gave to me to wear.
And the square boss of metal bring,
That circling boughs entwine
With laurels, in whose leaves of gold
The clustered emeralds shine.
Adonis, hastening to the hunt,
His heavenly mistress shuns,
The mountain boars before him flee,
And, ‘Die,’ the
motto runs.”
’Twas thus the Moor Azarco spoke,
Just as the war begun,
To stout Almoralife
CELINDA’S COURTESY
Azarco on his balcony
With humble Cegri stood.
He talked, and Cegri listened
In a sad and listless mood;
For of his own exploits he read,
Writ in an open scroll,
But envious Cegri heard the tale
With rage and bitter dole.
And thro’ Elvira’s gate, where
spreads
A prospect wide and free,
He marked how Phoebus shot his rays
Upon the Spanish sea;
And bending to the land his eye
To notice how the scene
Of summer had its color changed
To black from radiant green,
He saw that, thro’ the gate there
passed
A light that was not day’s,
Whose splendor, like a dazzling cloud,
Eclipsed the solar rays.
That presence changed the tint of earth,
Drew off the dusky veil,
And turned to living verdure
The leafage of the dale.
“Till now,” Azarco said, “the
scene
Has filled my heart with pain;
’Tis freshened by Celinda’s
face,
Or passion turns my brain.
Ah, well may men her beauty praise,
For its transcendent might
Elates the human spirit,
And fills it with delight.”
And as he saw her coming in,
The Moor his bonnet doffed,
And bowed to do her honor,
And spoke in accents soft.
Scarce half a league from Gelva the knight
dismounted stood,
Leaning upon his upright spear, and bitter
was his mood.
He thought upon Celinda’s curse,
and Zaida’s fickle mind,
“Ah, Fortune, thou to me,”
he cried, “hast ever proved unkind.”
And from his valiant bosom burst a storm
of angry sighs,
And acts and words of anguish before his
memory rise.
“Celinda’s loss I count as
naught, nor fear her wicked will;
I were a fool, thus cursed by her, to
love the lady still.”
In rage from out the sod he drew his spear-head,
as he spoke,
And in three pieces shivered it against
a knotted oak.
He tore away the housings that ’neath
his saddle hang,
He rent his lady’s favor as with
a lion’s fang—
The silken ribbon, bright with gold, which
in his crest he bore,
By loved Celinda knotted there, now loved
by him no more.
He drew, as rage to madness turned, her
portrait from his
breast;
He spat on it, and to that face derisive
jeers addressed.
“Why should I dress in robes of
joy, whose heart is wounded
sore,
By curses, that requite so ill the duteous
love I bore?
Stripped as I am of every hope, ’tis
better I go bare,
For the black mantle of my soul is but
tormenting care;
I vengeance take on yonder oak, pierced
by my lance’s steel—
I dote, for, ah! the trees I wound, cannot,
like women, feel.”
He took the bridle off his steed, “Roam
as thou wilt,” said he.
“As I gave Zaida her release, I
give release to thee.”
The swift horse galloped out of sight;
in melancholy mood,
The knight, unhorsed and helmetless, his
lonely path pursued.
GAZUL IN LOVE
Not greater share did Mars acquire of
trophies and renown,
Than great Gazul took with him from Gelva’s
castled town;
And when he to Sanlucar came his lady
welcomed him,
His cup of happiness at last was beaded
to the brim.
Alone the joyful lovers stood within a
Gazul, like some brave bull that stands
at bay to meet his fate,
Has fled from fair Celinda’s frown
and reached Sanlucar’s gate.
The Moor bestrides a sorrel mare, her
housings are of gray,
The desperate Moor is clad in weeds that
shall his grief display.
The white and green that once he wore
to sable folds give room,
Love’s purple tints are now replaced
by those of grief and gloom.
His Moorish cloak is white and blue, the
blue was strewn with stars,
But now a covering like a cloud the starry
radiance mars.
And from his head with stripes of black
his silken streamers flow,
His bonnet blue he dyes anew in tints
of grief and woe.
Alone are seen the tints of green upon
his sword-belt spread,
For by that blade the blood of foes in
vengeance shall be shed.
The color of the mantle which on his arm
he bore
Is like the dark arena’s dust when
it is drenched in gore.
Black as the buskins that he wears, and
black his stirrup’s steel,
And red with rust of many a year the rowels
at his heel.
He bears not lance or headed spear, for
that which once he bore
Was shivered into splinters beside Celinda’s
door.
He bears a rounded target, whose quarterings
display
The full moon darting through the clouds
her ineffectual ray.
For though her orb be full the clouds
eclipse her silver light;
The motto: “Fair but cruel,
black-hearted though so bright.”
And as Celinda stripped the wings which
on adventure brave
Sustained his flight—no more
shall plume above his helmet wave.
’Twas noon one Wednesday when Gazul
to Gelva’s portal came,
And straight he sought the market-place
to join the jousting game;
The ruler of the city looked at him with
surprise,
And never lady knew the knight, so dark
THE BULL-FIGHT
The zambra was but ended, and now Granada’s
King
Abdeli called his court to sit on Vivarrambla’s
ring;
Of noble line the bride and groom whose
nuptials bade prepare,
The struggle between valiant knights and
bulls within the square.
And, when on the arena the mighty bull
was freed,
Straight to the deadly conflict one warrior
spurred his steed;
His mantle was of emerald of texture damascene,
And hope was in his folded hood as in
his mantle green;
Six squires went with him to the ring
beside their lord to stand;
Their livery was brilliant green, so did
their lord command.
Hope was the augury of his love; hope’s
livery he wore;
Yet at his side each squire of his a trenchant
rapier bore.
Each rapier true was black in hue and
sheathed in silver ore;
At once the people knew the knight from
his audacious mien—
Gazul the brave was recognized as soon
as he was seen!
With graceful dignity he took his station
on the sand,
And like a second Mars he seized his rapier
in his hand;
With courage strong he eyed the bull,
who pawed the ground till high
The dust of the arena was mingled with
the sky.
All at the sight were terrified, and now
with deadly speed,
His horns as keen as points of steel,
he rushes at the steed.
The brave Gazul was on the watch, to ward
the threatened blow,
And save his steed, and with one stroke
to lay the assailant low.
The valiant bull, with lowered head advancing
to the strife,
Felt from skilled hand the tempered brand
pierce to his very life.
Deep wounded to the gory ground, where
he had stoutly stood,
The horned warrior sank at last, bathed
in his own heart’s blood.
Still, on his ruddy couch he lay, his
courage quenched at last.
At this exploit the plaudits of the assembly
filled the blast;
They hailed the knight whose bravery and
skill had done the deed,
And slain the hero of the ring, and saved
his goodly steed,
And done such pleasure to the King, and
to Celinda fair,
To the Queen of Spain and all her train
who sat assembled there.
Soon as in rage Celinda had closed her
lattice fast
And scorned the Moor ungrateful for his
service in the past,
Her passion with reflection turns and
in repentance ends;
She longs to see the Moor again and make
to him amends;
For in the dance of woman’s love
through every mood they range
And those whose hearts are truest are
given most to change.
And when she saw the gallant knight before
the people all
Shiver his lance to splinters against
her palace wall,
And when she saw his cloak of green was
changed to mourning gray,
She straightway took her mantle with silver
buttons gay,
She took her hood of purple pleached with
the gold brocade,
Whose fringes and whose borders were all
in pearls arrayed,
She brought a cap with sapphires and emeralds
bespread;
The green was badge of hope, the blue
of jealous rancor dead.
With waving plumes of green and white
she decked a snowy hood,
And armed with double heads of steel a
lance of orange-wood—
For colors of the outer man denote the
inner mood.
A border too of brilliant green around
a target set,
The motto this, “Tis folly a true
lover to forget.”
And first she learned where bold Gazul
was entertained that day,
And they told her how his coming had put
off the tilters’ play,
And at her pleasure-house she bade him
meet her face to face;
And they told him how Celinda longed for
his loved embrace,
And thrice he asked the messenger if all
were not a jest,
For oft ’tis dangerous to believe
the news we love the best,
For lovers’ hopes are often thorns
of rancor and unrest.
They told him that the words were true;
and without further speech
The glory of his lady’s eyes he
sallied forth to reach.
He met her in a garden where sweet marjoram
combined
With azure violets a scent that ravished
every wind.
The musk and jasmine mingled in leaf and
branch and flower,
Building about the lovers a cool and scented
bower.
The white leaf matched her lily skin,
the red his bounding heart.
For she was beauty’s spotless queen,
he valor’s counterpart.
For when the Moor approached her he scarcely
raised his eye,
Dazed by the expectation that she had
raised so high.
Celinda with a trembling blush came forth
and grasped his hand;
They talked of love like travellers lost
in a foreign land.
Then said the Moor, “Why give me
now love’s sweetest paths to trace,
Who in thy absence only live on memories
of thy face?
If thou should speak of Xerez,”
he said with kindling eye,
“Now take my lance, like Zaida’s
spouse this moment let me die,
And may I some day find thee in a rival’s
arms at rest,
And he by all thy arts of love be tenderly
caressed;
Unless the Moor whose slander made me
odious in thy eyes
CALL TO ARMS
What time the sun in ocean sank, with
myriad colors fair,
And jewels of a thousand hues tinted the
clouds of air,
Brave Gazul at Acala, with all his host,
drew rein—
They were four hundred noblemen, the stoutest
hearts in Spain—
And scarcely had he reached the town when
the command was given:
“Now let your shots, your cross-bows,
sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions
blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis’ King, now lands upon
the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello
and his train.”
And though at night he entered no torch
or lamp he hath,
For glorious Celinda is the sun upon his
path;
And as he enters in the town at once the
word is given:
“Now let your shots, your cross-bows,
sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions
blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis’ King, now lands upon
the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello
and his train.”
Gazul dismounted from his steed and hastened
to his bride;
She sat there mournful and alone and at
his sight she sighed;
He flung his arms about the girl; she
shrank from his embrace,
And while he looked in wonder, she hid
her blushing face;
He said, “And can it be that thou
should’st shrink from my embrace?”
Before she answered with one voice the
air around was riven—
“Now let your shots, your cross-bows,
sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions
blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis’ King, now lands upon
the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello
and his train.”
“Ah, traitor,” she replied
to him, “four months wert thou away,
And I in vain expected some tidings day
by day.”
And humbly did the Moor reply, “Do
I deserve the blame?
Who drops the lance to take the pen, he
does a deed of shame.”
They sank into each other’s arms
just as the word was given:
“Now let your shots, your cross-bows,
sound to the vault of heaven!
Let kettle-drums and trumpets and clarions
blend their strain;
Zulema, Tunis’ King, now lands upon
the coast of Spain,
And with him ride, in arms allied, Marbello
and his train.”
Gazul, despairing, issues
From high Villalba’s
gate,
Cursing the evil fortune
That left him desolate.
Unmoved he in Granada saw
What feuds between the
foes
The great Abencerrajes
And the Andallas rose.
He envied not the Moors who stood
In favor with the King!
He did not crave the honors
That rank and office
bring.
He only cared that Zaida,
Her soft heart led astray
By lying words of slander,
Had flung his love away.
And thinking on her beauteous face,
Her bearing proud and
high,
The bosom of the valiant Moor
Heaved with a mournful
sigh.
“And who has brought me this disdain,
And who my hope betrayed,
And thee, the beauteous Zaida,
False to thy purpose
made?
And who has caused my spoils of war,
The palm and laurel leaf,
To wither on my forehead, bowed
Beneath the load of grief?’
’Tis that some hearts of treachery
black
With lies have crossed thy
way,
And changed thee to a lioness,
By hunters brought to bay.
O tongues of malediction!
O slanderers of my fame!
Thieves of my knightly honor!
Ye lay up naught but shame.
Ye are but citadels of fraud,
And castles of deceit;
When ye your sentence pass, ye tread
The law beneath your feet.
May Allah on your cruel plots
Send down the wrath divine,
That ye my sufferings may feel,
In the same plight as mine.
And may ye learn, ye pitiless,
How heavy is the rod
That brings on human cruelty
The chastisement of God.
Ye who profess in word and deed
The path of truth to hold
Are viler than the nightly wolves
That waste the quiet fold.”
So forth he rode, that Moorish knight,
Consumed by passion’s
flame,
Scorned and repulsed by Zaida,
The lovely Moorish dame.
Then spake he to the dancing waves
Of Tagus’ holy tide,
“Oh, that thou hadst a tongue, to
speak
My story far and wide!
That all might learn, who gaze on thee
At evening, night, or morn,
Westward to happy Portugal,
The sufferings I have borne.”
GAZUL’S DESPAIR
Upon Sanlucar’s spacious square
The brave Gazul was seen,
Bedecked in brilliant array
Of purple, white, and green.
The Moor was starting for the joust,
Which many a warrior brings
To Gelva, there to celebrate
The truce between the kings.
A fair Moor maiden he adored,
A daughter of the brave,
Who struggled at Granada’s siege;
Granada was their grave.
And eager to accost the maid,
He wandered round the square;
With piercing eyes he peered upon
Not Rodamont the African,
The ruler of Argel,
And King of Zarza’s southern coast,
Was filled with rage so fell,
When for his darling Doralice
He fought with Mandricard,
As filled the heart of bold Gazul
When, past Sidonia’s
guard,
He sallied forth in arms arrayed,
With courage high prepared
To do a deed that mortal man
Never before had dared.
It was for this he bade them bring
His barb and coat of mail;
A sword and dusky scabbard
’Neath his left shoulder
trail;
In Fez a Christian captive
Had forged it, laboring
At arms of subtile temper
As bondsman of the King.
More precious ’twas to bold Gazul
Than all his realms could
bring.
A tawny tinted alquizel
Beneath his arms he wore;
And, to conceal his thoughts of blood,
No towering spear he bore.
He started forth for Jerez,
And hastening on his course,
Trampled the vega far and wide
With hoof-prints of his horse.
And soon he crossed the splashing ford
Of Guadelate’s tide,
Hard by the ancient haven
Upon the valley-side.
They gave the ford a famous name
The waters still retain,
Santa Maria was it called,
Since Christians conquered
Spain.
The river crossed, he spurred his steed,
Lest he might reach the gate
Of Jarez at an hour unfit,
Too early or too late.
For Zaida, his own Zaida,
Had scorned her lover leal,
Wedding a rich and potent Moor
A native of Seville;
The nephew of a castellan,
A Moorish prince of power,
Who in Seville was seneschal
Of castle and of tower.
By this accursed bridal
Life’s treasure he had
lost;
The Moor had gained the treasure,
And now must pay the cost.
The second hour of night had rung
When, on his gallant steed,
He passed thro’ Jerez’ gate
resolved
Upon a desperate deed.
And lo! to Zaida’s dwelling
With peaceful mien he came,
Pondering his bloody vengeance
Upon that house of shame.
For he will pass the portal,
GAZUL AND ALBENZAIDE
“Tho’ thou the lance can hurl
as well
As one a reed might cast,
Talk not of courage for thy crimes
Thy house’s honor blast.
Seek not the revel or the dance,
Loved by each Moorish dame.
The name of valor is not thine,
Thou hast a coward’s
name;
And lay aside thy mantle fair
Thy veil and gaberdine,
And boast no more of gold and gems—
Thou hast disgraced thy line.
And see thine arms, for honor fit,
Are cheap and fashioned plain;
Yet such that he whose name is lost
May win it back again.
And Albenzaide keep thy tastes
Proportioned to thy state;
For oft from unrestrained desires
Spring hopes infatuate.
Flee from thy thoughts, for they have
wings,
Whose light ambition lifts
Thy soul to empty altitudes,
Where purpose veers and drifts.
Fling not thyself into the sea,
From which the breezes blow
Now with abrupt disdain, and now
With flattering whispers low.
For liberty once forfeited
Is hard to be regained,
And hardest, when the forfeit falls
On heart and hand unstained.”
Thus spake Gazul, the Moorish lord
Of fame and honor bright;
Yet, as a craven beggar,
Fair Zaida scorned the knight.
“Now scour for me my coat of mail,
Without delay, my page,
For, so grief’s fire consumes me,
Thy haste will be an age;
And take from out my bonnet
The verdant plumes of pride,
Which once Azarco gave me,
When he took to him his bride.
And in their place put feathers black,
And write this motto there:
’Heavy as lead is now his heart,
Oppressed with a leaden care,’
And take away the diamonds,
And in their place insert
Black gems, that shall to all proclaim
The deed that does me hurt,
For if thou take away those gems
It will announce to all
The black and dismal lot that does
Unfortuned me befall.
And give to me the buskins plain,
Decked by no jewels’
glow,
For he to whom the world is false
Had best in mourning go.
And give to me my lance of war,
Whose point is doubly steeled,
And, by the blood of Christians,
Was tempered in the field.
For well I wish my goodly blade
Once more may burnished glow;
And if I can to cleave in twain
The body of my foe.
And hang upon my baldric,
The best of my ten swords.
Black as the midnight is the sheath,
And with the rest accords.
Bring me the horse the Christian slave
Gave to me for his sire,
At Jaen; and no ransom
But that did I require.
And even though he be not shod,
Make haste to bring him here;
Though treachery from men I dread,
From beasts I have no fear.
The straps with rich enamel decked
I bid you lay aside;
And bind the rowels to my heel
With thongs of dusky hide.”
Thus spake aloud the brave Gazul,
One gloomy Tuesday night;
Gloomy the eve, as he prepared
For victory in the fight.
For on that day the news had come
That his fair Moorish maid
Had wedded with his bitterest foe,
The hated Albenzaide.
The Moor was rich and powerful,
But not of lineage high,
His wealth outweighed with one light maid
Three years of constancy.
Touched to the heart, on hearing this,
He stood in arms arrayed,
Nor strange that he, disarmed by love,
’Gainst love should
draw his blade.
And Venus, on the horizon,
Had shown her earliest ray
When he Sidonia left, and straight
To Jerez took his way.
THE TOURNAMENT
His temples glittered with the spoils
and garlands of his love,
When stout Gazul to Gelvas came, the jouster’s
skill to prove.
He rode a fiery dappled gray, like wind
he scoured the plain;
Yet all her power and mettle could a slender
bit restrain;
The livery of his pages was purple, green,
and red—
Tints gay as was the vernal joy within
The young Abenumeya, Granada’s royal
heir,
Was brave in battle with his foe and gallant
with the fair.
By lovely Felisarda his heart had been
ensnared,
The daughter of brave Ferri; the captain
of the guard.
He through the vega of Genii bestrode
his sorrel steed,
Alone, on melancholy thoughts his anxious
soul to feed,
The tints that clothed the landscape round
were gloomy as the scene
Of his past life, wherein his lot had
naught but suffering been.
His mantle hue was of iron gray bestrewn
with purple flowers,
Which bloomed amid distress and pain,
like hope of happier hours.
And on his cloak were columns worked,
(his cloak was saffron hued,)
To show that dark suspicion’s fears
had tried his fortitude;
His shield was blazoned with the moon,
a purple streak above,
To show that fears of fickleness are ever
born with love.
He bore an azure pennant ’neath
the iron of his spear,
To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived
by jealous fear.
The hood he wore was wrought of gold and
silk of crimson clear;
His bonnet crest was a heron plume with
an emerald stone beneath;
And under all a motto ran, “Too
long a hope is death.”
He started forth in such array, but armed
from head to heel
With tempered blade and dagger and coat
of twisted steel.
And hangling low at his saddle-bow was
the helmet for his head;
And as he journeyed on his way the warrior
sighed and said:
“O Felisarda, dearest maid, him
in thy memory keep
Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters
dark and deep.
Think that for thee in coat of mail he
ever rides afield,
In his right hand the spear must stand,
his left must grasp the shield.
And he must skirmish in the plain and
broil of battle brave,
And wounded be, for weapons ne’er
from jealousy can save.”
And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out
his mantle’s fold
With many a sigh, that scorched the air,
a lettered page unrolled.
He tried in vain to read it but his eyes
with tears were blind,
And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the
letters from his mind.
The page was moistened by the tears that
flowed in plenteous tide,
But by the breath of sighs and sobs the
softened page was dried.
Fresh wounds he felt at sight of it, and
when the cause he sought,
His spirit to Granada flew upon the wings
of thought.
He thought of Albaicin, the palace of
the dame,
With its gayly gilded capitals and its
walls of ancient fame.
And the garden that behind it lay in which
the palm was seen
Swaying beneath the load of fruit its
coronet of green.
“O mistress of my soul,” he
said, “who callest me thine own,
How easily all bars to bliss thy love
might trample down!
But time, that shall my constancy, thy
fickleness will show,
THE DESPONDENT LOVER
He leaned upon his sabre’s hilt,
He trod upon his shield,
Upon the ground he threw the lance
That forced his foes to yield.
His bridle hung at saddle-bow,
And, with the reins close
bound,
His mare the garden entered free
To feed and wander round.
Upon a flowering almond-tree
He fixed an ardent gaze;
Its leaves were withered with the wind
That flowers in ruin lays.
Thus in Toledo’s garden park,
Did Abenamar wait,
Who for fair Galliana
Watched at the palace gate.
The birds that clustered on the towers
Spread out their wings to
fly,
And from afar his lady’s veil
He saw go floating by.
And at this vision of delight,
Which healed his spirit’s
pain,
The exiled Moor took courage,
And hope returned again.
“O Galliana, best beloved,
Whom art thou waiting now?
And what has treacherous rendered
My fortune and thy vow?
Thou swearedst I should be thine own,
Yet ’twas but yesterday
We met, and with no greeting
Thou wentest on thy way.
Then, in my silence of distress,
I wandered pondering—
If this is what to-day has brought,
What will to-morrow bring?
Happy the Moor from passion free,
In peace or turmoil born,
Who without pang of hate or love,
Can slumber till the morn.
O almond-tree, thou provest
That the expected hours
Of bliss may often turn to bane,
As fade thy dazzling flowers.
A mournful image art thou
Of all that lays me low,
And on my shield I’ll bear thee
As blazon of my woe.
For thou dost bloom in many a flower,
Till blasted by the wind,
And ’tis of thee this word is true—
‘The season was not
kind.’”
He spoke and on his courser’s head
He slipped the bridle rein,
And while he curbed his gentle steed
He could not curb his pain,
And to Ocana took his course,
O’er Tagus’ verdant
plain.
“Unless thou wishest in one hour
Thine April hope shouldst
blighted be,
Oh, tell me, Tarfe, tell me true,
How I may Zaida chance to
see.
I mean the foreigner, the wife
New wedded, her with golden
hair,
And for each lock a charm besides
THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO
Upon the loftiest mountain height
That rises in its pride,
And sees its summits mirrored
In Tagus’ crystal tide,
The banished Abenamar,
Bound by a captive chain,
Looks on the high-road to Madrid
That seams the dusty plain.
He measures, with his pining eyes,
The stretching hills that
stand
Between his place of banishment
And his sweet native land.
His sighs and tears of sorrow
No longer bear restraint,
And thus in words of anguish
He utters his complaint:
“Oh, dismal is the exile
That wrings the heart with
woes
And locks the lips in silence,
Amid unfeeling foes.
O road of high adventure,
That leadest many a band
To yon ungrateful country where
My native turrets stand,
The country that my valor
Did oft with glory crown,
The land that lets me languish here,
Who won for her renown.
Thou who hast succored many a knight,
Hast thou no help for me,
Who languish on Toledo’s height
In captive misery?
’Tis on thy world-wide chivalry
I base my word of blame,
’Tis that I love thee most of all,
Thy coldness brings me shame.
Oh, dismal is the exile,
That wrings my heart with
woes,
And locks my lips in silence
Among unfeeling foes.
The warden of fierce Reduan
With cruelty more deep
That that of a hidalgo,
Has locked this prison keep;
And on this frontier set me,
To pine without repose,
To watch, from dawn to sunset,
Over his Christian foes.
Here like a watch-tower am I set
For Santiago’s lord,
And for a royal mistress
Who breaks her plighted word.
And when I cry with anguish
And seek in song relief,
With threats my life is threatened,
Till silence cloak my grief.
Oh, dismal is the exile,
That wrings my heart with
woes,
And locks my lips in silence
Among unfeeling foes.
And when I stand in silence,
Me dumb my jailers deem,
And if I speak, in gentle words,
They say that I blaspheme.
Thus grievously perverting
The sense of all I say,
Upon my lips the raging crowd
The gag of silence lay.
Thus heaping wrong on wrong my foes
Their prisoner impeach,
Until the outrage of my heart
Deprives my tongue of speech.
And while my word the passion
Of my sad heart betrays,
My foes are all unconscious
Of what my silence says.
By gloomy fortune overcast,
Vassal of one he held in scorn,
Complaining of the wintry world,
And by his lady left forlorn,
The wretched Abenamar mourned,
Because his country was unkind,
Had brought him to a lot of woe,
And to a foreign home resigned.
A stranger Moor had won the throne,
And in Granada sat in state.
Many the darlings of his soul
He claimed with love insatiate,
He, foul in face, of craven heart,
Had won the mistress of the
knight;
Her blooming years of beauteous youth
Were Abenamar’s own
by right.
But royal favor had decreed
A foreign tyrant there should
reign,
For many a galley owned him lord
And master, in the seas of
Spain.
Oh, haply ’twas that Zaida’s
self,
Ungrateful like her changing
sex,
Had chosen this emir, thus in scorn
Her Abenamar’s soul
to vex.
This was the thought that turned to tears
The eyes of the desponding
knight,
As on his sufferings past he thought,
His labors and his present
plight;
His hopes, to disappointment turned;
His wealth, now held in alien
hands,
His agony o’er love betrayed,
Lost honor, confiscated lands.
And as his loyalty had met
Such ill requital from the
King,
He called his page and bade him straight
A limner deft before him bring.
For he would have him paint at large,
In color, many a new device
And write his sufferings on his shield.
No single blazon would suffice.
And first a green field parched and seared;
A coal, in myriad blazes burned,
And like his ardent hopes of yore,
At length to dust and ashes
turned.
And then a miser, rich in gold,
Who locks away some jewel
bright,
For fear the thief a gem may steal,
Which yet can yield him no
delight.
A fair Adonis done to death
Beneath the wild boar’s
cruel tusk.
A wintry dawn on pallid skies,
A summer’s day that
turns to dusk.
A lovely garden green and fair
Ravaged and slashed by strokes
of steel;
Or wasted in its trim parterres
And trampled by the common
heel.
So spake the brave heart-broken Moor;
Until his tears and struggling
sighs
Turned to fierce rage; the painting then
He waited for with eager eyes.
He asks that one would fetch a steed,
Of his good mare no more he
recks,
For womankind have done him wrong,
And she is woman in her sex.
The plumes of yellow, blue, and white
WOMAN’S FICKLENESS
A stout and valorous gentleman,
Granada knew his worth,
And rich with many a spoil of love,
Went Abenamar forth.
Upon his bonnet, richly dyed,
He bore a lettered scroll,
It ran, “’Tis only love that
makes
The solace of my soul.”
His bonnet and his brow were hid
Beneath a hood of green,
And plumes of violet and white
Above his head were seen.
And ’twixt the tassel and the crown
An emerald circlet shone.
The legend of the jewel said,
“Thou art my hope alone.”
He rode upon a dappled steed
With housings richly dight,
And at his left side clanking hung
A scimitar of might.
And his right arm was sleeved in cloth
Of tawny lion’s hue,
And at his lance-head, lifted high,
A Turkish pennon flew.
And when he reached Daraja’s camp
He saw Daraja stand
Beside his own perfidious love,
And clasp her by the hand.
He made to her the wonted sign,
Then lingered for a while,
For jealous anguish filled his heart
To see her tender smile.
He spurred his courser to the blood;
One clattering bound he took,
The Moorish maiden turned to him.
Ah, love was in her look!
Ah, well he saw his hopeless fate,
And in his jealous mood
The heart that nothing feared in fight
Was whelmed in sorrow’s
flood.
“O false and faithless one,”
he said,
“What is it that I view?
Thus the foreboding of my soul
I see at last come true;
Shame that a janizary vile,
Of Christian creed and race,
A butt of bright Alhambra’s feasts,
Has taken now my place.
Where is the love thou didst avow,
The pledge, the kiss, the
tear,
And all the tender promises
Thou whisperedst in my ear?
Thou, frailer than the withered reed,
More changeful than the wind,
More thankless than the hardest heart
In all of womankind;
I marvel not at what I see,
Nor yet for vengeance call;
For thou art woman to the core,
And in that name is all.”
The gallant Moor his courser checked,
His cheek with anger burned,
Men saw, that all his gallant mien
To gloom and rage was turned.
“Abenamar, Abenamar,” said
the monarch to the knight,
“A Moor art thou of the Moors, I
trow, and the ladies’ fond delight,
And on the day when first you lay upon
your mother’s breast,
On land and sea was a prodigy, to the
Christians brought unrest;
The sea was still as a ruined mill and
the winds were hushed to rest.
And the broad, broad moon sank down at
noon, red in the stormy west.
If thus thou wert born thou well mayst
scorn to ope those lips of thine,
That out should fly a treacherous lie,
to meet a word of mine.”
“I have not lied,” the Moor
replied, and he bowed his haughty head
Before the King whose wrath might fling
his life among the dead.
“I would not deign with falsehood’s
stain my lineage to betray;
Tho’ for the truth my life, in sooth,
should be the price I pay.
I am son and squire of a Moorish sire,
who with the Christians strove,
And the captive dame of Christian name
was his fair wedded love;
And I a child from that mother mild, who
taught me at her knee
Was ever told to be true and bold with
a tongue that was frank and free,
That the liar’s art and the caitiff
heart would lead to the house of
doom;
And still I must hear my mother dear,
for she speaks to me from the tomb.
Then give me my task, O King, and ask
what question thou mayst choose;
I will give to you the word that is true,
for why should I refuse?”
“I give you grace for your open
face, and the courteous words you use.
What castles are those on the hill where
grows the palm-tree and the
pine?
They are so high that they touch the sky,
and with gold their pinnacles
shine.”
“In the sunset’s fire there
glisten, sire, Alhambra’s tinted tiles;
And somewhat lower Alijire’s tower
upon the vega smiles,
And many a band of subtile hand has wrought
its pillared aisles.
The Moor whose thought and genius wrought
those works for many moons
Received each day a princely pay—five
hundred gold doubloons—
Each day he left his labor deft, his guerdon
was denied;
Nor less he lost than his labor cost when
he his hand applied.
And yonder I see the Generalife with its
orchard green and wide;
There are growing there the apple and
pear that are Granada’s pride.
There shadows fall from the soaring wall
of high Bermeja’s tower;
It has flourished long as a castle strong,
the seat of the Soldan’s
power.”
The King had bent and his ear had lent
to the words the warrior spoke,
And at last he said, as he raised his
head before the crowd of folk:
“I would take thee now with a faithful
vow, Granada for my bride,
King Juan’s Queen would hold, I
ween, a throne and crown of pride;
That very hour I would give thee dower
that well would suit thy will;
Cordova’s town should be thine own,
ABENAMAR’S JEALOUSY
Alhambra’s bell had not yet pealed
Its morning note o’er tower and
field;
Barmeja’s bastions glittered bright,
O’ersilvered with the morning light;
When rising from a pallet blest
With no refreshing dews of rest,
For slumber had relinquished there
His place to solitary care,
Brave Abenamar pondered deep
How lovers must surrender sleep.
And when he saw the morning rise,
While sleep still sealed Daraja’s
eyes,
Amid his tears, to soothe his pain,
He sang this melancholy strain:
“The morn is up,
The heavens alight,
My jealous soul
Still owns the
sway of night.
Thro’ all the night I wept forlorn,
Awaiting anxiously the morn;
And tho’ no sunlight strikes on
me,
My bosom burns with jealousy.
The twinkling starlets disappear;
Their radiance made my sorrow clear;
The sun has vanished from my sight,
Turned into water is his light;
What boots it that the glorious sun
From India his course has run,
To bring to Spain the gleam of day,
If from my sight he hides away?
The morn is up,
The heavens are
bright,
My jealous soul
Still owns the
sway of night.”
Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by
jealous flames,
Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish
dames.
And if they chance to speak to him, or
take him by the hand,
She swoons to see her own beloved with
other ladies stand.
When with companions of his own, the bravest
of his race,
He meets the bull within the ring, and
braves him to his face,
Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying
from his tent
Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament,
She sits apart from all the rest, and
when he wins the prize
She smiles in answer to his smile and
devours him with her eyes.
And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra’s
halls,
She follows as he treads the dance at
merry Moorish balls.
And when the tide of battle is rising
o’er the land,
And he leaves his home, obedient to his
honored King’s command,
With tears and lamentation she sees the
warrior go
With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous
foe.
Though ’tis to save his country’s
towers he mounts his fiery steed
She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing
and godspeed;
And were there some light pretext to keep
him at her side,
In chains of love she’d bind him
there, whate’er the land betide.
Or, if ’twere fair that dames should
dare the terrors of the fight,
She’d mount her jennet in his train
and follow with delight.
For soon as o’er the mountain ridge
his bright plume disappears,
She feels that in her heart the jealous
smart that fills her eyes with
tears.
Yet when he stands beside her and smiles
beneath her gaze,
Her cheek is pale with passion pure, though
few the words she says.
Her thoughts are ever with him, and they
fly the mountain o’er
When in the shaggy forest he hunts the
bristly boar.
In vain she seeks the festal scene ’mid
dance and merry song,
Her heart for Abenamar has left that giddy
throng.
For jealous passion after all is no ignoble
fire,
It is the child of glowing love, the shadow
of desire.
Ah! he who loves with ardent breast and
constant spirit must
Feel in his inmost bosom lodged the arrows
of distrust.
And as the faithful lover by his loved
one’s empty seat
Knows that the wind of love may change
e’er once again they meet,
So to this sad foreboding do fancied griefs
appear
As he who has most cause to love has too
most cause for fear.
And once, when placid evening was mellowing
into night,
The lovely Adelifa sat with her darling
knight;
And then the pent-up feeling from out
her spirit’s deeps
Rose with a storm of heavy sighs and trembled
on her lips:
“My valiant knight, who art, indeed,
the whole wide world to me,
Clear mirror of victorious arms and rose
of chivalry,
Thou terror of thy valorous foe, to whom
all champions yield,
The rampart and the castle of fair Granada’s
field,
In thee the armies of the land their bright
example see,
And all their hopes of victory are founded
upon thee;
And I, poor loving woman, have hope in
thee no less,
For thou to me art life itself, a life
of happiness.
Yet, in this anxious trembling heart strange
pangs of fear arise,
Ah, wonder not if oft you see from out
these faithful eyes
The tears in torrents o’er my cheek,
e’en in thy presence flow.
Half prompted by my love for thee and
half by fears of woe,
These eyes are like alembics, and when
with tears they fill
It is the flame of passion that does that
dew distil.
And what the source from which they flow,
but the sorrow and the care
That gather in my heart like mist, and
forever linger there.
And when the flame is fiercest and love
is at its height,
The waters rise to these fond eyes, and
rob me of my sight,
For love is but a lasting pain and ever
goes with grief,
And only at the spring of tears the heart
can drink relief.
Thus fire and love and fear combined bring
to my heart distress,
With jealous rage and dark distrust alarm
FUNERAL OF ABENAMAR
The Moors of haughty Gelves have changed
their gay attire.
The caftan and the braided cloak, the
brooch of twisted wire,
The gaudy robes, the mantles of texture
rich and rare,
The fluttering veils and tunic bright
the Moors no longer wear.
And wearied is their valorous strength,
their sinewy arms hang down;
No longer in their lady’s sight
they struggle for the crown.
Whether their loves are absent or glowing
in their eyes,
They think no more of jealous feud nor
smile nor favor prize;
For love himself seems dead to-day amid
that gallant train
And the dirge beside the bier is heard
and each one joins the strain,
And silently they stand in line arrayed
in mourning black
For the dismal pall of Portugal is hung
on every back.
And their faces turned toward the bier
where Abenamar lies,
The men his kinsmen silent stand, amid
the ladies’ cries
And thousand thousands ask and look upon
the Moorish knight,
By his coat of steel they weeping kneel,
then turn them from the sight.
And some proclaim his deeds of fame, his
spirit high and brave,
And the courage of adventure that had
brought him to the grave.
Some say that his heroic soul pined with
a jealous smart,
That disappointment and neglect had broke
that mighty heart;
That all his ancient hopes gave way beneath
the cloud of grief,
Until his green and youthful years were
withered like a leaf;
And he is wept by those he loved, by every
faithful friend,
And those who slandered him in life speak
evil to the end.
They found within his chamber where his
arms of battle hung
A parting message written all in the Moorish
tongue:
“Dear friends of mine, if ever in
Gelves I should die,
I would not that in foreign soil my buried
ashes lie.
But carry me, and dig my grave upon mine
own estate,
And raise no monument to me my life to
celebrate,
For banishment is not more dire where
evil men abound,
Than where home smiles upon you, but the
good are never found.”
Three mortal wounds, three currents red,
The Christian spear
Has oped in head and thigh and head—
Brave Albayaldos feels that
death is near.
The master’s hand had dealt the
blow,
And long had been
And hard the fight; now in his heart’s
blood low
He wallows, and the pain,
the pain is keen.
He raised to heaven his streaming face
And low he said:
“Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace,
Unharmed to make this passage
to the dead.
“Oh, let me now my sins recount,
And grant at last
Into thy presence I may mount,
And thou, dear mother, think
not of my past.
“Let not the fiend with fears affright
My trembling soul;
Though bitter, bitter is the night
Whose darkling clouds this
moment round me roll.
“Had I but listened to your plea,
I ne’er had met
Disaster; though this life be lost to
me,
Let not your ban upon my soul
be set.
“In him, in him alone I trust,
To him I pray,
Who formed this wretched body from the
dust.
He will redeem me in the Judgment
Day.
“And Muza, one last service will
I ask,
Dear friend of mine:
Here, where I died, be it thy pious task
To bury me beneath the tall
green pine.
“And o’er my head a scroll
indite, to tell
How, on this sod,
Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell.
And tell King Chico how I
turned to God,
“And longed to be a Christian at
the last,
And sought the light,
So that the accursed Koran could not cast
My soul to suffer in eternal
night.”
THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN
Two thousand are the Moorish knights
that ’neath the banner stand
Of mighty Reduan, as he starts in ravage thro’
the land.
With pillage and with fire he wastes the fields
and fruitful farms,
And thro’ the startled border-land is heard
the call to arms;
By Jaen’s towers his host advance and, like
a lightning flash,
Ubeda and Andujar can see his horsemen dash,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
“Arm! Arm!”
Rings on the night the loud alarm.
So silently they gallop, that gallant
cavalcade,
The very trumpet’s muffled tone has no disturbance
made.
It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes
on their way,
The rattle of their harness and the charger’s
joyous neigh.
But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets
stream
And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and
hauberk gleam.
From post to post the signal along the border flies
And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled
burghers rise,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
“Arm! Arm!”
Rings on the night the loud alarm.
Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has
fallen upon the prey,
Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for
the foe,
And doughty knights their lances seize and scour
their coats of mail,
The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant
with his flail.
And Jaen’s proud hidalgos, Andujar’s
yeomen true,
And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue;
And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs
in flight,
And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers’
deeds of might,
While in Baeza every bell
Does the appalling tidings tell,
“Arm! Arm!”
Rings on the night the loud alarm.
The gates of dawn are opened and
sunlight fills the land,
The Christians issuing from the gates in martial
order stand,
They close in fight, and paynim host and Christian
knights of Spain,
Not half a league from the city gate, are struggling
on the plain.
Now Reduan gazes from afar on Jaen’s ramparts high,
And tho’ he smiles in triumph yet fear is in his eye,
And vowed has he, whose courage none charged with a default,
That he would climb the ramparts and take it by assault,
Yet round the town the towers and walls the city’s streets impale,
And who of all his squadrons that bastion can scale?
He pauses until one by one his hopes have died away,
And his soul is filled with anguish and his face with deep dismay.
He marks the tall escarpment, he measures with his eye
The soaring towers above them that seem to touch the sky.
Height upon height they mount to heaven, while glittering from afar
Each cresset on the watch-towers burns like to a baleful star.
His eyes and heart are fixed upon the rich and royal town,
And from his eye the tear of grief, a manly tear, flows down.
His bosom heaves with sighs of grief and heavy discontent,
As to the royal city he makes his sad lament:
“Ah, many a champion have I lost, fair Jaen, at thy gate,
Yet lightly did I speak of thee with victory elate,
The prowess of my tongue was more than all that I could do,
And my word outstripped the lance and sword of my squadron strong and
true.
And yet I vowed with courage rash thy turrets I would bring
To ruin and thy subjects make the captives of my King.
That in one night my sword of might, before the morrow’s sun,
Would do for thy great citadel what centuries have not done.
I pledged my life to that attempt, and vowed that thou shouldest fall,
Yet now I stand in impotence before thy castle tall.
For well I see, before my might shall win thee for my King,
That thou, impregnable, on me wilt rout and ruin bring,
Ah, fatal is the hasty tongue that gives such quick consent,
And he who makes the hasty vow in leisure must repent.
Ah! now too late I mourn the word that sent me on this quest,
For I see that death awaits me here whilst thou livest on at rest,
For I must enter Jaen’s gates a conqueror or be sent
Far from Granada’s happy hills in hopeless banishment;
But sorest is the thought that I to Lindaraja swore:
If Jaen should repulse me I’d return to her no more;
No more a happy lover would I linger at her side,
Until Granada’s warrior host had humbled Jaen’s pride.”
Then turning to his warriors, the Moorish cavalier
Page 98
Asks for their counsel and awaits their answer while with fear.
Five thousand warriors tried and true the Moors were standing near,
All armed with leathern buckler, all armed with sword and spear.
“The place,” they answer, “is too strong, by walls too high ’tis bound,
Too many are the watch-towers that circle it around.
The knights and proud hidalgos who on the wall are seen,
Their hearts are bold, their arms are strong, their swords and spears are
keen.
Disaster will be certain as the rising of the day,
And victory and booty are a slippery prize,” they say,
“It would be wise in this emprise the conflict to forego;
Not all the Moors Granada boasts could lay proud Jaen low.”
THE DEATH OF REDUAN
He shrank not from his promise, did Reduan
the brave,
The promise to Granada’s King with
daring high he gave;
And when the morning rose and lit the
hills with ruddy glow,
He marshalled forth his warriors to strike
a final blow.
With shouts they hurry to the walls, ten
thousand fighting men—
Resolved to plant the crescent on the
bulwarks of Jaen.
The bugle blast upon the air with clarion
tone is heard,
The burghers on the city wall reply with
scoffing word;
And like the noise of thunder the clattering
squadrons haste,
And on his charger fleet he leads his
army o’er the waste.
In front of his attendants his march the
hero made,
He tarried not for retinue or clattering
cavalcade,
And they who blamed the rash assault with
weak and coward minds
Deserted him their leader bold or loitered
far behind.
And now he stands beneath the wall and
sees before him rise
The object of the great campaign, his
valor’s priceless prize;
He dreams one moment that he holds her
subject to his arms,
He dreams that to Granada he flies from
war’s alarms,
Each battlement he fondly eyes, each bastion
grim and tall,
And in fancy sees the crescents rise above
the Christian wall.
But suddenly an archer has drawn his bow
of might,
And suddenly the bolt descends in its
unerring flight,
Straight to the heart of Reduan the fatal
arrow flies,
The gallant hero struck to death upon
the vega lies.
And as he lies, from his couch of blood,
in melancholy tone,
Thus to the heavens the hero stout, though
fainting, makes his moan,
And ere his lofty soul in death forth
from its prison breaks,
Brave Reduan a last farewell of Lindaraja
takes:
“Ah, greater were the glory had
it been mine to die,
Not thus among the Christians and hear
their joyful cry,
But in that happy city, reclining at thy
feet,
Where thou with kind and tender hands
hast wove my winding-sheet.
Ah! had it been my fate once more to gaze
upon thy face,
And love and pity in those eyes with dying
glance to trace,
’Twas from a lofty balcony Arselia
looked down
On golden Tagus’ crystal stream
that hemmed Toledo’s town;
And now she watched the eddies that dimpled
in the flood
And now she landward turned her eye to
gaze on waste and wood,
But in all that lay around her she sought
for rest in vain,
For her heart, her heart was aching, and
she could not heal the pain.
’Tis of no courtly gallant the Moorish
damsel dreams,
No lordly emir who commands the fort by
Tagus’ streams,
’Twas on the banks of Tornes stood
the haughty towers of note
Where the young alcayde loved by the maid
from cities dwelt remote.
And never at Almanzor’s court had
he for honor sought,
Though he dwelt in high Toledo in fair
Arselia’s thought;
And now she dreams of love’s great
gift, of passion’s deep delight,
When far away from her palace walls a
stranger came in sight.
It was no gallant lovelorn youth she saw
approaching fast,
It was the hero Reduan whose vernal years
were past.
He rode upon a sorrel horse and swiftly
he came nigh,
And stood where the dazzling sun beat
down upon her balcony;
FICKLENESS REBUKED
While in the foeman’s ruddy gore
I waded to the breast,
And for mine own, my native shore
Fought braver than the best,
While the light cloak I laid aside,
And doffed the damask fold,
And donned my shirt of mail, the spoil
Of foeman brave and bold,
Thou, fickle Mooress, puttest on
Thine odorous brocade,
And hand in hand with thy false love
Wert sitting in the shade.
Ah, fortune’s targe and butt was
he,
On whom were rained the strokes
from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes
of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring
oar,
Now, ’mid a garden’s leafy
boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish
sore.
“O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
They took me from the galley bench;
A gardener’s slave they
set me here,
That I might tend the fruit and flowers
“They took me from the galley’s
hold;
It was by heaven’s all-pitying
grace.
Yet, even in this garden glade,
Has fortune turned away her
face.
Though lighter now my lot of toil,
Yet is it heavier, since no
more
My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern,
Across the sea, my native
shore.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
“And you, ye exiles, who afar
In many a foreign land have
strayed;
And from strange cities o’er the
sea
A second fatherland have made—
Degenerate sons of glorious Spain!
One thing ye lacked to keep
you true,
The love no stranger land could share;
The courage that could fate
subdue.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.”
THE CAPTIVE’S LAMENT
Where Andalusia’s plains at length
end in the rocky shore,
And the billows of the Spanish sea against
her boundaries roar,
A thousand ruined castles, that were once
the haughty pride
Of high Cadiz, in days long past, looked
down upon the tide.
And on the loftiest of them all, in melancholy
mood,
A solitary captive that stormy evening
stood.
For he had left the battered skiff that
near the land wash lay,
And here he sought to rest his soul, and
while his grief away,
While now, like
furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash
of thunder the billows broke below.
Ah, yes, beneath the fierce levant, the
wild white horses pranced;
With rising rage the billows against those
walls advanced;
But stormier were the thoughts that filled
his heart with bitter pain,
As he turned his tearful eyes once more
to gaze upon the main.
“O hostile sea,” these words
at last burst from his heaving breast;
“I know that I return to die, but
death at least is rest.
Then let me on my native shore again in
freedom roam,
For here alone is shelter, for here at
last is home.”
And now, like
furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash
of thunder the billows broke below.
‘Twas Tagus’ banks to me a
child my home and nurture gave;
Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed
as a slave.
For now to-day, a dying man, am I come
back again,
And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest
shore of Spain.
It is not only exile’s sword that
cuts me to the heart;
It is not only love for her from whom
they bade me part;
Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every
friend,
But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings
me to my end.”
And now, like
furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash
of thunder the billows broke below.
“The fire with which my bosom burns,
alas! thy coolest breeze
Can never slake, nor can its rage thy
coolest wave appease;
The earth can bring no solace to the ardor
of my pain,
And the whole ocean waters were poured
on it in vain.
For it is like the blazing sun that sinks
in ocean’s bed,
And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next
morning rears its head.
Thus from the sea my suffering’s
flame has driven me once more,
And here I land, without a hope, upon
this arid shore.”
And
now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And
with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
“Oh, call me not, oh, call me not,
thou voice of other years,
The fire that flames within my heart has
dried the spring of tears.
And, while my eyes might well pour forth
those bitter drops of pain,
The drought of self-consuming grief has
quenched the healing rain.
Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once
I called mine own,
For well I wot that loving maid for me
has made her moan.
’Tis for her sake my flight I urge
across the sea and land,
And now ’twixt shore and ocean’s
roar I take my final stand.”
And
now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And
with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
Then stooping to the earth he grasped
the soil with eager hand,
He kissed it, and with water he mixed
the thirsty sand.
“O thou,” he said, “poor
soil and stream, in the Creator’s plan
Art the end and the beginning of all that
makes us man!
From thee rise myriad passions, that stir
the human breast,
To thee at last, when all is o’er,
they sink to find their rest.
Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and
when these pangs are o’er,
Thou shalt become my prison-house whence
I can pass no more.”
And now, like
furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash
of thunder the billows broke below.
And now he saw the warring winds that
swept across the bay
Had struck the battered shallop and carried
it away.
“O piteous heaven,” he cried
aloud, “my hopes are like yon bark:
Scattered upon the storm they lie and
never reach their mark.”
And suddenly from cloudy heavens came
A Turkish bark was on the sea, the sunny
sea of Spain,
In sight of cliffs that Hercules made
boundaries of the main;
And one, Celimo’s captive slave,
as fierce the billows grew,
Was listening as the ship-master this
order gave the crew:
“Strike
sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is
rising fast! Strike sail!”
Fierce fell on them the opposing winds,
the ship was helpless driven;
And with the ocean’s flood were
blent the thunder-drops of heaven.
And as the inky clouds were rent, the
fiery lightning flared,
And ’mid the terror-stricken crew
one voice alone was heard:
“Strike
sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is
rising fast! Strike sail!”
And one there sat upon the deck, in captive
misery,
Whose tears ran mingling with the flood,
the flood of sky and sea.
Lost in the tempest of his thoughts, he
fondly breathed a prayer,
Whose mournful words were echoed by the
mount of his despair:
“Strike
sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is
rising fast! Strike sail!”
“If I am captive and a slave, the
time shall come when God
Will bring me freed, to tread once more
my own, my native sod!
Then all my ancient glory shall return
to me for aye.
Till then, my soul, be patient and wait
that happy day!”
“Strike
sail! Strike sail! The furious gale
Is
rising fast! Strike sail!”
THE CAPTIVE’S ESCAPE
The fair Florida sat at ease, upon a summer’s
day,
Within a garden green and fair that by
the river lay,
And gayly asked that he her spouse would
tell his darling wife
The cause of his captivity, the history
of his life.
“Now tell me, dearest husband, I
pray thee tell me true,
Who were thy parents, and what land thy
birth and nurture knew?
And wherefore did they take thee a captive
from that place,
And who has given thee liberty, thy homeward
path to trace?”
“Yes, I will tell thee, gentle wife,
and I will tell thee true,
For tender is the light I see within thine
Right gallant was that gentleman, the
warlike knight of Spain,
Who served the King in Oran, with sword
and lances twain;
But, with his heart’s devotion and
passion’s ardent fire,
He served a gentle Afric maid of high
and noble sire.
And she was fair as noble, and well could
she requite
The devotion of a lover and the courage
of a knight.
And when one summer evening they paid
their vows again,
They heard the alarum ring to arms across
the darkling plain;
For the foes’ approach had roused
the watch and caused the war-like
MOORISH ROMANCES
[Metrical Translation by J. Lockhart]
THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL
[Gazul is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in the “Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.” The following ballad is one of very many in which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in the bull-fight is described. The reader will observe that the shape, activity, and resolution of the unhappy animal destined to furnish the amusement of the spectators, are enlarged upon, just as the qualities of a modern race-horse might be among ourselves: nor is the bull without his name. The day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussulmans, as well as among Christians.]
King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid
the trumpet sound,
He hath summonded all the Moorish lords,
from the hills and plains
around;
From vega and sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of
gold and twisted steel.
Tis the holy Baptist’s feast they
hold in royalty and state,
And they have closed the spacious lists
beside the Alhambra’s gate;
In gowns of black and silver laced, within
the tented ring,
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed
in presence of the King.
Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with
stalwart arm and true,
The onset of the beasts abide, as they
come rushing through;
The deeds they’ve done, the spoils
they’ve won, fill all with hope and
trust,
Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun
they all have bit the dust.
Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then
clangs the loud tambour,
Make room, make room for Gazul—throw
wide, throw wide the door;
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still,
more loudly strike the drum,
The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull
doth come.
And first before the King he passed, with
reverence stooping low,
And next he bowed him to the Queen, and
the Infantas all a-row;
Then to his lady’s grace he turned,
and she to him did throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter
than the snow.
With the life-blood of the slaughtered
lords all slippery is the sand,
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en
his stand;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and
lords with anxious eye,
But firmly he extends his arm—his
look is calm and high.
Three bulls against the knight are loosed,
and two come roaring on,
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching
his rejon;
Each furious beast upon the breast he
deals him such a blow
He blindly totters and gives back, across
the sand to go.
“Turn, Gazul, turn,” the people
cry—the third comes up behind,
Low to the sand his head holds he, his
nostrils snuff the wind;
The mountaineers that lead the steers,
without stand whispering low,
“Now thinks this proud alcayde to
stun Harpado so?”
From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not
from Xenil,
From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves
of the hill;
But where from out the forest burst Xarama’s
waters clear,
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this
proud and stately steer.
Dark is his hide on either side, but the
blood within doth boil,
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire,
as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet, and they are set in
crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare
of brass upon the foe.
Upon the forehead of the bull the horns
stand close and near,
From out the broad and wrinkled skull,
like daggers they appear;
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some
old knotted tree,
Whereon the monster’s shaggy mane,
like billows curled, ye see.
His legs are short, his hams are thick,
his hoofs are black as night,
Like a strong flail he holds his tail
in fierceness of his might;
Like something molten out of iron, or
hewn from forth the rock,
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the
alcayde’s shock.
Now stops the drum—close, close
they come—thrice meet, and thrice give
back;
The white foam of Harpado lies on the
charger’s breast of black—
The white foam of the charger on Harpado’s
front of dun—
Once more advance upon his lance—once
more, thou fearless one!
Once more, once more;—in dust
and gore to ruin must thou reel—
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand
with furious heel—
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I
see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the
stern alcayde’s dagger!
They have slipped a noose around his feet,
six horses are brought in,
And away they drag Harpado with a loud
and joyful din.
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand,
and the ring of price bestow
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado
low.
[The reader cannot need to be reminded of the fatal effects which were produced by the feuds subsisting between the two great families, or rather races, of the Zegris and the Abencerrages of Granada. The following ballad is also from the “Guerras Civiles.”]
Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is
Lisaro,
To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin
to throw;
From the place of his dominion, he ere
the dawn doth go,
From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed
of woe.
He rides not now as he was wont, when
ye have seen him speed
To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his
lusty reed;
No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery
Of gold-wrought robe or turban—nor
jewelled tahali.
No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his
brow,
No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave
at Tunis, decks him now;
The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but
the sheathed blade is bright;
They have housened his barb in a murky
garb, but yet her hoofs are light.
Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood,
with Lisaro go out;
No flashing spear may tell them near,
but yet their shafts are stout;
In darkness and in swiftness rides every
armed knight—
The foam on the rein ye may see it plain,
but nothing else is white.
Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet
doffeth he,
Between its folds a sprig it holds of
a dark and glossy tree;
That sprig of bay, were it away, right
heavy heart had he—
Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token
privily.
And ever as they rode, he looked upon
his lady’s boon.
“God knows,” quoth he, “what
fate may be—I may be slaughtered soon;
Thou still art mine, though scarce the
sign of hope that bloomed whilere,
But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda’s
token dear.”
Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward
on the path,
He well could see them riding slow; then
pricked he in his wrath.
The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda’s
hateful house,
Fought well that day, yet in the fray
the Zegri won his spouse.
[The following ballad has been often imitated by modern poets, both in Spain and in Germany:
“Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa
la manga que labras,
Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galan Andalla.”
etc.]
“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the
golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze
with all the town.
From gay guitar and violin the silver
notes are flowing,
And the lovely lute doth speak between
the trumpet’s lordly blowing,
And banners bright from lattice light
are waving everywhere,
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin’s
bridegroom floats proudly in the
air:
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa,
lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window,
and gaze with all the town.
“Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla’s
face,
He bends him to the people with a calm
and princely grace.
Through all the land of Xeres and banks
of Guadalquivir
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he,
so brave and lovely never.
Yon tall plume waving o’er his brow
of purple mixed with white,
I guess ’twas wreathed by Zara,
whom he will wed to-night;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa,
lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window,
and gaze with all the town.
“What aileth thee, Xarifa, what
makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze
with all the town?
I’ve heard you say on many a day,
and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer, among all
Granada’s youth.
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white
horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately
step and slow;
Then rise, oh, rise, Xarifa,
lay the golden cushion down;
Unseen here through the lattice,
you may gaze with all
the town.”
The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her
cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with
all the town;
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee,
in vain her fingers strove,
And though her needle pressed the silk,
no flower Xarifa wove;
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before
the noise drew nigh—
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping
from her eye.
“No—no,”
she sighs—“bid me not rise, nor lay
my cushion down,
To gaze upon Andalla with
all the gazing town.”
“Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay
your cushion down?
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the
gazing town?
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells,
and how the people cry!
He stops at Zara’s palace gate—why
sit ye still—oh, why?”
“At Zara’s gate stops Zara’s
mate; in him shall I discover
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth
with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with dreary
eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze on false Andalla with
all the gazing town!”
“My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they’ve
dropped into the well,
And what to say to Muca, I cannot, cannot
tell.”
‘Twas thus, Granada’s fountain
by, spoke Albuharez’ daughter,
“The well is deep, far down they
lie, beneath the cold blue water—
To me did Muca give them, when he spake
his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas!
I cannot tell.
“My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they
were pearls in silver set,
That when my Moor was far away, I ne’er
should him forget,
That I ne’er to other tongue should
list, nor smile on other’s tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure
as those ear-rings pale—
When he comes back, and hears that I have
dropped them in the well,
Oh, what will Muca think of me, I cannot,
cannot tell.
“My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he’ll
say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold
and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond
shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance
insincere—
That changeful mind unchanging gems are
not befitting well—
Thus will he think—and what
to say, alas! I cannot tell.
“He’ll think when I to market
went, I loitered by the way;
He’ll think a willing ear I lent
to all the lads might say;
He’ll think some other lover’s
hand, among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them,
my rings of pearl unloosed;
He’ll think, when I was sporting
so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in,—and what
to say, alas! I cannot tell.
“He’ll say, I am a woman,
and we are all the same;
He’ll say I loved when he was here
to whisper of his flame—
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth
had broken,
And thought no more of Muca, and cared
not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless,
luckless well,
For what to say to Muca, alas! I
cannot tell.
“I’ll tell the truth to Muca,
and I hope he will believe—
That I thought of him at morning, and
thought of him at eve;
That, musing on my lover, when down the
sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the
fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o’er the sea,
when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart,
as they lie in the well.”
THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN
At the gate of old Granada, when all its
bolts are barred,
At twilight at the Vega gate there is
a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses
treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy
sound of woe.
“What tower is fallen, what star
is set, what chief come these
bewailing?”
“A tower is fallen, a star is set.
Alas! alas for Celin!”
Three times they knock, three times they
cry, and wide the doors they
throw;
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully
they go;
In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath
the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black
and flaming torch;
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all
around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery. “Alas!
alas for Celin!”—
Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje’s
blood,
’Twas at the solemn jousting, around
the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies
bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the
haughty sight to share;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies
are bewailing,
For he was Granada’s darling knight.
“Alas! alas for Celin!”
Before him ride his vassals, in order
two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread, most
pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped
in sable veil,
Between the tambour’s dismal strokes
take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their
brotherless bewailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry—“Alas!
alas for Celin!”
Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above
the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada’s youth,
the loveliest of them all;
His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy
lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim
upon his burnished mail,
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks
in upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound—“Alas!
alas for Celin!”
The Moorish maid at the lattice stands,
the Moor stands at his door,
One maid is wringing of her hands, and
one is weeping sore—
Down to the dust men bow their heads,
and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments of crimson,
green, and blue—
Before each gate the bier stands still,
then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice, high and low—“Alas!
alas for Celin!”
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she
hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn
her glazed eye.
Twas she that nursed him at her breast,
that nursed him long ago;
She knows not whom they all lament, but
soon she well shall know.
With one deep shriek she thro’ doth
break, when her ears receive their
wailing—
“Let me kiss my Celin ere I die—Alas!
alas for Celin!”
[Translated by Rene Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
The Taleb Sidi Brahim, son of Amhammed of Massat, in the province of Sous, tells the following story about himself: When he was still a child at his father’s house he went to the mosque to read with a taleb. He studied with him for twelve and a half years. His father gave him bread and kouskous, and he ate eight deniers’ worth a day. I will make known the country of Massat. It contains seventeen towns. In the middle of these is a market. The Jews have a refuge in the village of the chief named Mobarek-ben-Mahomet. He lives with a sheik called Brahim-Mahomet-Abon-Djemaa. These two chiefs levy a tax on the Jews. They receive from them four ounces per family at the beginning of each month. If the festival of the Mussulmans coincides with the Sabbath of the Jews, the latter pay to each of the chiefs one ounce for a Jew or a Jewess, boy or girl, little or big. The following are the details of the population of Massat. It includes 1,700 men. As to the women, little boys or girls, only the Lord knows their number. There are 1,250 houses. The horses amount to 180. They ride them and make them work like oxen and mules. They also fight on horseback. The country has trees, vines, figs, cacti, dates, oranges, lemons, apples, apricots, melons, and olives. There is a river which flows from there to the sea. The commerce is considerable. There are Jews and Mussulmans. The number of books in the mosque is unknown, unless it be by God. The teachers are numerous as well as the pilgrims, the descendants of Mahomet, and the saints. May God aid us with his blessing!
We will now speak of the tribute which the people of Massat pay yearly to Prince Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman. Up to our days they had, for fifty-one years, given him 5,000 livres of silver. The prince said to them, “You must pay 1,000 livres more.” They answered, “By the Lord, we will only give you as before, 5,000 livres, a slave, a servant, and a horse.” The kaid Abd-el-Cadik, who was caliph of the King of Taroundant, hastened to send against them forty-five horsemen, and said to them: “You must give me six thousand livres of silver, and a slave, a servant, and a horse in addition.” They refused and drove away the cavalry, saying, “Return to the kaid who sent you against us, and say to him that we will not increase our tribute as he demands.” The horsemen returned and arrived at Taroundant. The kaid asked him, “Tell me what happened to you with the people of Massat.” They answered him, “They read in their assembly the letter that you sent them, and told us to go back, and that they would pay no larger sum.” The kaid called a council and asked what had better be done with the people of Massat. The sheiks of the Achtouks answered, “Make complaints to the Sultan
Information about the country of Tazroualt. The Taleb Sidi Brahim, son of Mahomet, of Massat in Sous, tells the following: He started for the zaouiah of Tazroualt, to study there during seven months with the taleb Sidi Mahomet Adjeli, one of the greatest lights. The number of students was seventy-four. Forty-two of these studied the law. The others read the Koran. None of the students paid for his living. It was furnished by the chief of the country, Hecham. He gave to the zaouiah mentioned, six servants and six slaves to cook the food of the students. The number of the villages of this country is nine. The Kashlah of Hecham is situated in the middle of the country. The Jewish quarter is at the left. The market is held every day
The sheik Sidi Hammad, son of Mahomet Mouley Ben-Nacer, has written his book in Amazir. It is entitled the “Kitab-amazir.” This work treats of obligations and traditions of things permitted and forbidden.
There are 3,500 men in the Aglou country. They have 2,200 houses and 960 horses. This district is on the sea-coast and possesses a stone-harbor. There are barks which are used in fishing. The inhabitants were living in tranquillity when one day, as they were starting out to fish, a ship arrived off shore. They fled in fear and left it in the sea. The ship waited till midnight. Then it entered the port and ran up a red flag. It remained at anchor for fifteen days. The people of Aglou assembled day and night, big and little, even the horsemen before it. No one was missing. The chiefs of the town wrote letters which they sent to all the villages. They sent one to Sidi Hecham couched in these words: “Come at once. The Christians have made an expedition against us, and have taken this port.” Sidi Hecham sent messengers to all the provinces over which he ruled and said in his letters: “You must accompany me to the country of Aglou, for the Christians have made an expedition against us.” All the neighboring tribes assembled to march against the Christians. When Sidi Hecham had joined them he said, “You must raise a red flag like theirs.”
They raised it. When it was seen by those on the ship, a sailor came ashore in a small boat and approached the Mussulmans there assembled.
“Let no one insult the Christian,” said Sidi Hecham, “until we learn his purpose in landing here.”
They asked him, “What do you want?”
The Christian replied, “We wish to receive, in the name of God, pledges of security.”
All who were present said, “God grants to you security with us.”
The Christian then continued, “My object is to trade with you.”
“That is quite agreeable to us,” answered Hecham. Then Hecham asked the Christian what he wanted to purchase.”
“Oil, butter, wheat, oxen, sheep, and chickens,” said he.
When the Mussulmans heard this they gathered together wheat, oil, oxen, and everything he had mentioned. He made his purchases, and was well supplied. The master of the ship then said:
“Our business is finished. We must go back home. But we shall return to you.” Hecham answered:
“That which I have done for you is not pleasing to the people of Aglou. It is only on account of the pledge of security that I have been able to restrain them. I have given you all you asked. Next time you come, bring us fifty cannons and ten howitzers.”
“Very well,” answered the Christian, “I shall return this time next year.”
“Do as you promise,” replied Hecham, “and I will give you whatever you want in the country of the Mussulmans.”
A STORY ABOUT THE COUNTRY OF AIT-BAMOURAN
There arrived in this country at the beginning of the year another ship which stopped at a place called Ifni, in the tribe of Ait-Bamouran, and stayed there three days. Then one of the sailors got into a small boat, came ashore, and said to the inhabitants, “I will buy bread, meat, and water from you.”
The Mussulmans brought him bread, figs, and water, saying: “You must send two of your men ashore while we go on board the ship with you.”
“It is well,” replied the Christian. Then he went to get two of his men whom he brought ashore and said to the Mussulmans: “You must give me one of your men.”
They gave him a hostage to remain on board the Christian ship. Then they filled a boat, and boarded the ship themselves to deliver what they had sold. They ran all over the ship looking at everything. Then they said, “Come with us to the spring and we will draw water.” The Christians accompanied them to the fountain to fill their water-casks. The other natives, to the number of fifteen, got into a boat and went to the ship. With the water-party and the hostages ashore there were only four Christians on the ship when the Mussulmans boarded it.
“Don’t come aboard till our men have come back,” said the Christians.
“We will come aboard by force,” he was answered, and the attack began. One of the Christians killed a native with a gun. Then they fought until the Christians were overcome. Two Christians were killed and the rest captured and taken ashore and imprisoned with the others of the water-party. The ship was sold for 180 mithkals. The Christians were all sold and dispersed among the tribes. The news of this spread to Taccourt. The merchants there sent to Ait-Bamouran and bought all the Christians at any price. They secured seven. Three were missing, of whom two were in the country of Ait-bou-Bekr with the chief of that tribe named Abd-Allah, son of Bou-Bekr. The third, who was a boy, was with the sheik of Aglou, who said:
“I will not sell this one, for he has become as dear to me as a son.” Then addressing the young boy he said, “I wish to convert you; be a Mussulman.” The boy acquiesced and embraced Islamism. The day of his abjuration the sheik killed in his honor an ox for a festival, and gave to the convert the name of Mahomet. Then he sent to say to all his tribe:
“Come to my house. I have prepared a repast.” The Mussulmans came and diverted themselves with their horses and gunpowder. The chief told them, “I have given a fourth of my possessions, a slave, and a servant to this young man.” He added, “He shall live with my son.” They both occupied the same room, and the master taught the young convert the whole Koran. The Mussulmans called him Sidi Mahomet, son of AH. Seven Christians were ransomed and sent back to their own country.
Information about the country Tiznit: This place is a kind of a city surrounded on all sides by a wall, and having only two gates. The water is in the centre, in a fountain. The fortress is built above the fountain, in the middle of the city. It is entirely constructed of mortar, cut stone, marble, and beams, all from Christian countries. It was the residence of the khalifah of the King in the time of Mouley-Soliman. When this prince died, the people of Tiznit revolted, drove away the lieutenant, and made a concerted attack upon the citadel, which they completely destroyed. They took the stones and beams and built a mosque on the spot, near the fountain of which we have spoken. But when Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman came to the throne he sent a caliph to Tiznit. He gave him 300 horsemen. When the caliph arrived near the town he waited three days and they gave him food and barley. At the end of this time he made a proclamation summoning all the people to him. When they came he read them the royal edict and said:
“I must enter your city to occupy the fortress of the King!” They said: “No; go back whence you came and say to your master: ’You shall not rule over us. Your fortress is totally destroyed, and with the material we have built a big mosque in the middle of our city.’”
Prince Mouley-Abd-Er-Rahman sent at once against them his son Sidi-Mahomet with the khalifah and 6,000 horsemen. The people of Tiznit were informed of the approach of the army under the Sultan’s son, and that the advancing guard was near. The soldiers arrived in the middle of the country of the Achtouks and camped in the city of Tebouhonaikt near the river Alras. There was a day’s march between them and Tiznit. The inhabitants, frightened, sent deputies to the other districts, saying:
“Come and help us, for the Sultan’s son has come and ordered us to build him a fort in the space of one month or he will fall upon us, cut a passage, and destroy our city.” The tribes around Tiznit assembled and marched against the royal army. The Sultan’s son stayed twenty-two days at Tebouhonaikt, then he crossed the river Alras and marched against the rebels. He surrounded Tiznit on all sides. The inhabitants made a sortie, engaged in battle, and fought till the morning star. At the fall of day the battle recommenced. The royal army was defeated and driven across the river Alras. The son of the Sultan killed eight rebels and thirty-five horses, but many of his soldiers fell. He retreated to Morocco.
Information about the country of Taragoust: This is a unique district situated near the source of the Ourd-Sous. It is distant from Taroundant about a day and a half’s march. When a young man becomes of age his father buys him a gun and a sabre. The market is in the middle of the country. But no man goes there without his weapons. The sheiks judge each one in the market for four months in the year in turn and during their period of office. They decided who was guilty and demanded price of blood for those killed in the market. One of them said:
“I will give nothing. Find the murderer. He will give you the price of blood.”
The sheik replied: “Pay attention. Give us part of your goods.”
“I will give you nothing,” he answered.
In this way they quarrelled, until they began fighting with guns. Each tried to steal the other’s horses and oxen in the night and kill the owner. They kept acting this way toward each other until Ben-Nacer came to examine the villages where so many crimes were committed, and he reestablished peace and order.
Concerning guns and sabres: They were all brought into the city of Adjadir in the government of Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Alla. They introduced guns, poniards, sabres, English powder, and everything one can mention from the country of the Christians. Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Allah sent there his khalifah, called Ettaleb Calih. He busied himself during his administration in amassing a great fortune. The guns imported into the provinces were called merchandise of the taleb Calih. This officer revolted against the Sultan, sent him no more money, and consulted him no longer in the administration of affairs. When the prince ordered him to do such and such a thing with the Christians, Mussulmans, or others, he replied:
“I shall do as I please, for all the people of Sous are under my hand. I leave the rest to you.” The Sultan sent much money to Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Allah, and ordered him with troops against the rebel. The latter fought against the divan until he was captured and put in fetters and chains. The partisans of the Emperor said to him:
“We have captured your khalifah Ettaleb Calih and his accomplices.”
The prince responded: “Make him a bonnet of iron and a shirt of iron, and give him but a loaf of bread a day.” In a letter that he sent he said also:
“Collect all the goods you can find and let the Christian ships take them all to Taccourt, leaving nothing whatever.” Guns, sabres, powder, sulphur, linens, cottons, everything was transported.
During the reign of Sidi Mouley Soliman he built the city as it is at present. He increased it, and said to the Christians:
“You must bring me cannons, mortars, and powder, and I will give you in exchange wheat, oil, wool, and whatever you desire.”
The Christians answered: “Most willingly, we shall return with our products.” They brought him cannons, mortars, and powder. In return he supplied them with woollens, wheat, oil, and whatever they desired.
The Ulmas reproached him, saying: “You are not fulfilling the law in giving to the Christians wheat, oil, and woollens. You are weakening the Mussulmans.”
He answered them: “We must make sacrifices of these goods for two or three years, until the Christians have stocked us with cannons, powder, and so forth. These I will place in the coast towns to drive off the infidels when they arrive.”
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.
[Translated by G. Mercier and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
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.
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.
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.”
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 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.”
[Translated by M.C. Sonneck and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
[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.
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
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.
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 Aissaoua.
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.
[A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and copier of manuscripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of his city.
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 Aissaoua.
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
Qettar
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 Batata—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 Mostafa ben el Meddah 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 cafekeeper, 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 Sayd, 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 Bou 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.
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.
[1] This elegy is the work of a celebrated sheik of Tlemcen, Mahomet-Ben-Sahla, whose period was the first half of the eighteenth century. He left a son, Ben Medien, a poet, too, and his descendants still live, near Tlemcen, in a village called Feddan-es-Seba.
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.
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.
POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS
[Translated by Rene Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
THE TURTLE, THE FROG, AND THE SERPENT
Once upon a time the turtle married a frog. One day they quarrelled. The frog escaped and withdrew into a hole. The turtle was troubled and stood in front of his door very much worried. In those days the animals spoke. The griffin came by that way and said: “What is the matter with you? You look worried this morning.”
“Nothing ails me,” answered the turtle, “except that the frog has left me.”
The griffin replied, “I’ll bring him back.”
“You will do me a great favor.”
The griffin took up his journey and arrived at the hole of the frog. He scratched at the door.
The frog heard him and asked, “Who dares to rap at the door of a king’s daughter?”
“It is I, the griffin, son of a griffin, who lets no carrion escape him.”
“Get out of here, among your corpses. I, a daughter of the King, will not go with you.”
He departed immediately.
The next day the vulture came along by the turtle and found it worrying before its door, and asked what was the trouble. It answered: “The frog has gone away.”
“I’ll bring her back,” said the vulture.
“You will do me a great favor.”
The vulture started, and reaching the frog’s house began to beat its wings.
The frog said: “Who conies to the east to make a noise at the house of the daughter of kings, and will not let her sleep at her ease?”
“It is I, the vulture, son of a vulture, who steals chicks from under her mother.”
The frog replied: “Get away from here, father of the dunghill. You are not the one to conduct the daughter of a king.”
The vulture was angry and went away much disturbed. He returned to the turtle and said: “The frog refuses to come back with me. Seek someone else who can enter her hole and make her come out. Then I will bring her back even if she won’t walk.”
The turtle went to seek the serpent, and when he had found him he began to weep. “I’m the one to make her come out,” said the serpent. He quickly went before the hole of the frog and scratched at the door.
“What is the name of this other one?” asked the frog.
“It is I, the serpent, son of the serpent. Come out or I’ll enter.”
“Wait awhile until I put on my best clothes, gird my girdle, rub my lips with nut-shells, put some koheul in my eyes; then I will go with you.”
“Hurry up,” said the serpent. Then he waited a little while. Finally he got angry, entered her house, and swallowed her. Ever since that time the serpent has been at war with the frog. Whenever he sees one he chases her and eats her.
* * * * *
Once upon a time the jackal went in search of the hedgehog and said to it: “Come along. I know a garden of onions. We will fill our bellies.”
“How many tricks have you?” asked the hedgehog.
“I have a hundred and one.”
“And I,” said the other, “have one and a half.”
They entered the garden and ate a good deal. The hedgehog ate a little and then went to see if he could get out of the entrance or not. When he had eaten enough so that he could just barely slip out, he stopped eating. As for the jackal, he never stopped eating until he was swollen very much.
As these things were going on, the owner of the garden arrived. The hedgehog saw him and said to his companion:
“Escape! the master is coming.” He himself took flight. But in spite of his exhortations the jackal couldn’t get through the opening. “It is impossible,” he said.
“Where are those one hundred and one tricks? They don’t serve you now.”
“May God have mercy on your parents, my uncle, lend me your half a trick.” “Lie down on the ground,” answered the hedgehog. “Play dead, shut your mouth, stretch out your paws as if you were dead, until the master of the garden shall see it and cast you into the street, and then you can run away.”
On that the hedgehog departed. The jackal lay down as he had told him until the owner of the garden came with his son and saw him lying as if dead. The child said to his father:
“Here is a dead jackal. He filled his belly with onions until he died.”
Said the man, “Go, drag him outside.”
“Yes,” said the child, and he took him and stuck a thorn into him.
“Hold on, enough!” said the jackal. “They play with reeds, but this is not sport.”
The child ran to his father and said, “The jackal cried out, ’A reed! a reed!’”
The father went and looked at the animal, which feigned death. “Why do you tell me that it still lives?”
“It surely does.”
“Come away and leave that carrion.” The child stuck another thorn into the jackal, which cried, “What, again?” The child went to his father. “He has just said, ‘What, again?’”
“Come now,” said the man, and he sent away his son. The latter took the jackal by the motionless tail and cast him into the street. Immediately the animal jumped up and started to run away. The child threw after him his slippers. The jackal took them, put them on, and departed.
On the way he met the lion, who said, “What is that footwear, my dear?”
“You don’t know, my uncle? I am a shoemaker. My father, my uncle, my mother, my brother, my sister, and the little girl who was born at our house last night are all shoemakers.”
“Won’t you make me a pair of shoes?” replied the lion.
“I will make you a pair. Bring me two fat camels. I will skin them and make you some good shoes.”
The lion went away and brought the two fat camels. “They are thin,” said the jackal. “Go change them for others.”
He brought two thin ones.
“They are fat,” said the jackal. He skinned them, cut some thorns from a palm-tree, rolled the leather around the lion’s paws and fastened it there with the thorns.
“Ouch!” screamed the lion.
“He who wants to look finely ought not to say, ‘Ouch.’”
“Enough, my dear.”
“My uncle, I will give you the rest of the slippers and boots.” He covered the lion’s skin with the leather and stuck in the thorns. When he reached the knees, “Enough, my dear,” said the lion. “What kind of shoes are those?”
“Keep still, my uncle, these are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothes.”
When he came to the girdle the lion said, “What kind of shoes are those?”
“My uncle, they are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothing.” In this way he reached the lion’s neck. “Stay here,” he said, “until the leather dries. When the sun rises look it in the face. When the moon rises, too, look it in the face.”
“It is good,” said the lion, and the jackal went away.
The lion remained and did as his companion had told him. But his feet began to swell, the leather became hard, and he could not get up. When the jackal came back he asked him, “How are you, my uncle?”
“How am I? Wretch, son of a wretch, you have deceived me. Go, go; I will recommend you to my children.”
The jackal came near and the lion seized him by the tail. The jackal fled, leaving his tail in the lion’s mouth.
“Now,” said the lion, “you have no tail. When my feet get well I will catch you and eat you up.”
The jackal called his cousins and said to them, “Let us go and fill our bellies with onions in a garden that I know.” They went with him. Arriving he tied their tails to the branches of a young palm-tree, and twisted them well. “Who has tied our tails like this?” they asked. “No one will come before you have filled your bellies. If you see the master of the garden approach, struggle and fly. You see that I, too, am bound as you are.” But he had tied an onion-stalk on himself. When the owner of the garden arrived, the jackal saw him coming. They struggled, their tails were all torn out, and stayed behind with the branches to which they were fastened. When the jackal saw the man, he cut the onion stem and escaped the first of all.
As for the lion, when his feet were cured, he went to take a walk and met his friend the jackal. He seized him and said, “Now I’ve got you, son of a wretch.”
The other answered, “What have I done, my uncle?”
“You stuck thorns in my flesh. You said to me, ’I will make you some shoes.’ Now what shall I do to you?”
“It was not I,” said the jackal.
“It was you, and the proof is that you have your tail cut off.”
“But all my cousins are without tails, like me.”
“You lie, joker.”
“Let me call them and you will see.”
“Call them.”
At his call the jackals ran up, all without tails.
“Which of you is a shoemaker?” asked the lion.
“All of us,” they answered.
He said to them: “I am going to bring you some red pepper. You shall eat of it, and the one who says, ‘Ouch!’ that will be the one I’m looking for.”
“Go and get it.”
He brought them some red pepper, and they were going to eat it when the first jackal made a noise with his shoes, but he said to the lion, “My uncle, I did not say, ‘Ouch!’” The lion sent them away, and they went about their business.
* * * * *
It is related that a man of the Onlad Draabad married his cousin, whom he loved greatly. He possessed a single slave and some camels. Fearing lest someone should carry off his wife on account of her beauty, he resolved to take her to a place where no one should see her. He started, therefore, with his slave, his camels, and his wife, and proceeded night and day until he arrived at the shore of the great salt sea, knowing that nobody would come there.
One day when he had gone out to see his camels and his slave, leaving his wife alone in the tent, she saw a ship that had just then arrived. It had been sent by a sultan of a far country, to seek in the islands of the salt sea a more beautiful wife for him than the women of his land. The woman in the tent, seeing that the ship would not come first to her, went out first in front. The people said to her, “Come on board in order to see the whole ship.” She went aboard. Finding her to be just the one for whom they were seeking, they seized her and took her to their Sultan. On his return, the husband, not finding his wife, realized that she had been stolen. He started to find the son of Keij, the Christian. Between them there existed a friendship. The son of Keij said to him: “Bring a ship and seven men, whose guide I will be on the sea. They need not go astray nor be frightened. The city is three or four months’ journey from here.” They set sail in a ship to find the city, and were on the way the time that he had said.
Arriving they cast their anchor near the city, which was at the top of a high mountain. Their chief went ashore and saw a fire lighted by someone. He went in that direction. It was an old woman, to whom he told his story. She gave him news of his wife. They agreed to keep silence between themselves. Then the old woman added: “In this place there are two birds that devour people. At their side are two lions like to them, and two men. All of these keep guard over your wife.”
He bought a sheep, which he killed; then he went to the two birds and threw them a part of it. While they were quarrelling over it he passed by them and came near to the two lions, to which he did the same. Approaching the two men, he found them asleep. He went as far as the place where his wife was in prison, and attracted her attention by scratching her foot. He was disguised and said to her, “I have sought you to tell you something.” He took her by the hand. They both went out, and he swore that if she made the slightest noise he would kill her. He also asked her which was the swiftest boat for the journey. She pointed out the best boat there, and they embarked in it. There were some stones on board, and when he threw one at a ship it was crushed from stem to stern, and all on board perished.
He started to find the son of Keij. While they were at sea a marine monster swallowed them and the ship on which they were sailing. The chief took some pitch and had it boiled in a kettle. The monster cast up the ship on the shore of the sea. They continued their journey, proceeding by the seaside.
Behold one day they came to a deserted city. They desired to take what it contained of riches, silver, and gold. All of a sudden the image of an armed man appeared to them. They could not resist or kill him at first, but finally they destroyed him and took all the riches of the houses. When they arrived near the son of Keij he said to them: “I want only the ship.” So the other man took the treasures and returned home with his wife.
* * * * *
In former times there was a king of the At Taberchant (the son of a negress), whose city was situated at the foot of a mountain. An enormous beast came against them, entered the city, and devoured all the people. The beast established itself in the city and stayed there a century. One day it was hungry. It came out into the plain, found some Arabs with their tents, their sheep, their oxen, their mares, and their camels. The beast fell upon them in the night and ate them all up, leaving the earth all white with their bones; then it went back to the city.
A single man escaped, thanks to his good mare. He arrived at a city of the At Taberchant and, starving, began to beg. The King of the Jews said to him: “Whence do you come into our country—you who invoke the lord of men [Mahomet]? You don’t know where you are. We are Jews. If you will embrace our religion, we will give you food.”
“Give me some food,” said the Arab, “and I will give you some good advice.”
The King took him to his house and gave him some supper, and then asked him what he had to say.
“An enormous monster has fallen upon us,” said the Arab. “It ate up everybody. I will show you its city. It has two gates, one at the north and the other at the south.”
“To-morrow,” said the King.
When he awoke the next day, they mounted horses and followed the way to the gate of the monster’s city. They looked at it and went away.
“What shall we do?” said the King.
“Let us make a great trap of the size of the entrance to the city, at the southern gate. At the northern gate we will place a forty-mule load of yellow sulphur. We will set it on fire, and then escape and see what will happen.”
“Your advice is good,” said the King.
They returned to the city of the Jews, ordered the smiths to make a big trap and commanded the citizens to furnish the sulphur. When all was ready, they loaded the mules, went to the monster’s city, set the trap at the southern gate, and at the northern they placed the sulphur, which they set on fire, and then fled. The monster came out by the southern gate. Half of his body was caught in the trap that the two men had set. He was cut in two, filling the river with blood. The King and the Arab entered the city and found a considerable treasure, which they removed in eighty loads to the city of the Jews. When they had got back to the palace the King said to his companion: “Be my caliph. My fortune and thine shall be the same.”
They sat down and had supper. The prince put in the stew some poison and turned it to the Arab. The latter observed what he had done and said, “Where did that bird come from?” When the King of the Jews raised his head to look, the Arab turned the dish around, placing the poison side of it in front of the King. He did not perceive the trick, and died on the spot. The Arab went to the gate of the city and said to the inhabitants: “I am your King. You are in my power. He who will not accept my religion, I will cut off his head.” They all embraced Islamism and practised fasting and prayer.
* * * * *
In times past, when the animals spoke, there existed, they say, a laborer who owned a pair of oxen, with which he worked. It was his custom to start out with them early in the morning, and in the evening he returned with one ox. The next day he bought another and went to the fallow land, but the lion came and took one ox from him and left him only one. He was in despair, seeking someone to advise him, when he met the jackal and told him what had taken place between him and the lion. The jackal demanded:
“What will you give me if I deliver you from the lion?”
“Whatever you wish I will give it to you.”
“Give me a fat lamb,” answered the jackal. “You will follow my advice. To-morrow when the lion comes, I will be there. I will arrive on that hill on the other side. You will bring your axe very well sharpened and when I say to you, ‘What is that which I see with you now?’ you must answer, ’It is an ass which I have taken with me to carry barley.’ I will say to you, ‘I am looking for the lion, and not for an ass,’ Then he will ask you, ’Who is speaking to you?’ Answer him, ‘It is the nems!’ He will say to you, ‘Hide me, for I am afraid of him,’ When I ask you, ’Who is that stretched there before you?’ answer, ‘It is a beaver,’ I will say, ’Take your axe and strike, to know if it be not the lion,’ You will take your axe and you will strike the lion hard between the eyes. Then I will continue: ’I have not heard very well. Strike him again once more until he shall really be dead,’” The next day he came to him as before to eat an ox. When the jackal saw him he called his friend and said, “Who is that with you?”
“It is a beaver which is before me.”
The jackal answered: “Where is the lion? I am looking for him.”
“Who is talking to you?” asked the lion, of the laborer.
“The ‘nems.’”
“Hide me,” cried the lion, “for I fear him.”
The laborer said to him, “Stretch yourself out before me, shut your eyes, and don’t move.” The lion stretched out before him, shut his eyes, and held his breath.
The peasant said to the jackal, “I have not seen the lion pass to-day.”
“What is that stretched before you?”
“It is a beaver.”
“Take your axe,” said the jackal, “and strike that beaver.” The laborer obeyed and struck the lion violently between the eyes.
“Strike hard,” said the jackal again; “I did not hear very well.”
He struck him three or four times more, until he had killed him. Then he called the jackal: “See, I have killed him. Come, let me embrace you for your good advice. To-morrow you must come here to get the lamb which I will give you.” They separated and each went his way. As for the peasant, the next day, as soon as dawn, he took a lamb, put it into a sack, tied it up, went into the court-yard and hung it up. Then while he went to get his oxen to till his fields, at that moment, his wife opened the sack, set the lamb free, and replaced it by a dog. The peasant took the sack and went to his work. He attached his oxen and set to work, till the arrival of the jackal. The jackal said to him, “Where is that promise you made me?”
“It is in the sack. Open it and you’ll find the lamb which I give you.”
He followed his advice, opened the sack, and saw two eyes which shone more brightly than those of a lamb, and said to the laborer, “My friend, you have deceived me.”
“How have I deceived you?” asked the other. “As for the lamb, I put him in the sack. Open it well; I do not lie.”
The jackal followed his advice, he opened the sack, a dog jumped fiercely out. When the jackal saw the dog he ran away, but the dog caught him and ate him up.
* * * * *
Our Lord Salomon was talking one day with the genii. He said to them: “There is born a girl at Dabersa and a boy at Djaberka. This boy and this girl shall meet,” he added. The griffin said to the genii: “In spite of the will of the divine power, I shall never let them meet each other.” The son of the King of Djaberka came to Salomon’s house, but hardly had he arrived when he fell ill; then the griffin carried away the daughter of the King of Djaberka and put her upon a big tree at the shore of the sea. The wind impelled the prince, who had embarked. He said to his companions, “Put me ashore.” He went under the big tree and fell asleep. The young girl threw leaves at him. He opened his eyes, and she said to him: “Beside the griffin, I am alone here with my mother. Where do you come from?”
“From Djaberka.”
“Why,” she continued, “has God created any human beings except myself, my mother, and our Lord Salomon?”
He answered her, “God has created all kinds of human beings and countries.”
“Go,” she said, “bring a horse and kill it. Bring also some camphor to dry the skin, which you will hang on the top of the mast.” The griffin came, and she began to cry, saying, “Why don’t you conduct me to the house of our Lord Salomon?”
“To-morrow I will take you.”
She said to the son of the King, “Go hide inside the horse.” He hid there.
The next day the griffin took away the carcass of the horse, and the young girl departed also. When they arrived at the house of our Lord Salomon, the latter said to the griffin, “I told you that the young girl and the young man should be united.”
Full of shame the griffin immediately fled and took refuge in an island.
* * * * *
One day Mouley Mahomet summoned Sidi Adjille to come to Morocco, or he would put him in prison. The saint refused to go to the city until the prince had sent him his chaplit and his “dalil” as pledges of safety. Then he started on the way and arrived at Morocco, where he neither ate nor drank until three days had passed. The Sultan said to him:
“What do you want at my palace? I will give it to you, whatever it may be.”
Sidi Adjille answered, “I ask of you only one thing, that is, to fill with wheat the feed-bag of my mule.”
The prince called the guardian, and said to him, “Fill the feed-bag of his mule.” The guardian went and opened the door of the first granary and put wheat in the feed-bag until the first granary was entirely empty. He opened another granary, which was soon equally exhausted, then a third, and so on in this fashion until all the granaries of the King were emptied. Then he wanted to open the silos, but their guardian went and spoke to the Sultan, together with the guardian of the granaries.
“Lord,” they said, “the royal granaries are all empty, and yet we have not been able to fill the feed-bag of the saint’s mule.”
The donkey-drivers came from Fas and from all countries, bringing wheat on mules and camels. The people asked them,
“Why do you bring this wheat?”
“It is the wheat of Sidi Mahomet Adjille that we are taking.” The news came to the King, who said to the saint, “Why do you act so, now that the royal granaries are empty?” Then he called together the members of his council and wanted to have Sidi Mahomet’s head cut off. “Go out,” he said to him.
“Wait till I make my ablutions” [for prayer], answered the saint.
The people of the makhzen who surrounded him watched him among them, waiting until he had finished his ablutions, to take him to the council of the King and cut off his head. When Sidi Mahomet had finished washing, he lifted his eyes to heaven, got into the tub where was washing, and vanished completely from sight. When the guardians saw that he was no longer there, they went vainly to continue the search at his house at Tagountaft.
* * * * *
A man who possessed much money had two daughters. The son of the caliph of the King asked for one of them, and the son of the cadi asked for the other, but their father would not let them marry, although they desired it. He had a garden near his house. When it was night, the young girls went there, the young men came to meet them, and they passed the night in conversation. One night their father saw them. The next morning he killed his daughters, buried them in his garden, and went on a pilgrimage.
That lasted so until one night the son of the cadi and the son of the caliph went to a young man who knew how to play on the flute and the rebab. “Come with us,” they said to him, “into the garden of the man who will not give us his daughters in marriage. You shall play for us on your instruments.” They agreed to meet there that night. The musician went to the garden, but the two young men did not go. The musician remained and played his music alone. In the middle of the night two lamps appeared, and the two young girls came out of the ground under the lamps. They said to the musician: “We are two sisters, daughters of the owner of the garden. Our father killed us and buried us here. You, you are our brother for this night. We will give you the money which our father has hidden in three pots. Dig here,” they added. He obeyed, found the three pots, took them away, and became rich, while the two girls returned to their graves.
* * * * *
A woman who was named Omm Halima went one day to the stream to wash at the old spring. Alone, in the middle of the day, she began her work, when a woman appeared to her and said: “Let us be friends, you and I, and let us make a promise. When you come to this spring, bring me some herma and perfumes. Cast them into the fountain which faces the qsar. I will come forth and I will give you money.” And so the wife of Ben Sernghown returned every day and found the other woman, who gave her pieces of money. Omm Khalifah was poor. When she “became friends” with the fairy she grew rich all of a sudden. The people were curious to know how she had so quickly acquired a fortune. There was a rich man, the possessor of much property. He was called Mouley Ismail. They said to Omm Khalifah:
“You are the mistress of Mouley Ismail, and he gives you pieces of money.”
She answered, “Never have I been his mistress.” One day, when she went to the spring to bathe, the people followed her until she arrived. The fairy came to meet her as usual, and gave her money. The people surprised them together. But the fairy never came out of the fountain again.
* * * * *
There was in a city a man named Hamed-ben-Ceggad. He lived alone with his mother. He lived upon nothing but the chase. One day the inhabitants of the city said to the King:
“Hamed-ben-Ceggad is getting the better of you.”
He said to them, “Tell me why you talk thus to me, or I will cut off your heads.”
“As he only eats the flesh of birds, he takes advantage of you for his food.”
The King summoned Hamed and said to him, “You shall hunt for me, and I will supply your food and your mother’s, too.” Every day Hamed brought game to the prince, and the prince grew very proud of him.
The inhabitants of the city were jealous of him, and went to the Sultan and said: “Hamed-ben-Ceggad is brave. He could bring you the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts.”
The King said to him, “If you are not afraid, bring me the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts.”
“It is well,” said Hamed. And the next day he took away all the people of the city. When he came to the tree, he killed all the wild beasts, cut down the palm-tree, loaded it upon the shoulders of the people, and the Sultan built a house of coral-wood.
Seeing how he succeeded in everything, they said to the King, “Since he achieves all that he attempts, tell him to bring you the woman with the set of silver ornaments.”
The prince repeated these words to Hamed, who said:
“The task you give me is harsh, nevertheless I will bring her to you,” He set out on the way, and came to a place where he found a man pasturing a flock of sheep, carrying a millstone hanging to his neck and playing the flute. Hamed said to him: “By the Lord, I cannot lift a small rock, and this man hangs a millstone to his neck.” The shepherd said: “You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?”
“Who told you?”
“A bird that flew into the sky.” He added, “I will go with you.”
“Come,” said Hamed. The shepherd took the millstone from his neck, and the sheep were changed into stones.
On the way they met a naked man, who was rolling in the snow. They said [to themselves], “The cold stings us, and yet that man rolls in the snow without the cold killing him.”
The man said to them, “You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?”
“Who told you that?”
“A bird that passed flying in the sky told me. I will accompany you.”
“Come,” said Hamed. After they had pursued their way some time, they met a man with long ears.
“By the Lord,” they said, “we have only small ears, and this man has immense ones.”
“It is the Lord who created them thus, but if it pleases God I will accompany you, for you are Hamed-ben-Ceggad.”
They arrived at the house of the woman with the silver ornaments, and Hamed said to the inhabitants, “Give us this woman, that we may take her away.”
“Very well,” said her brother, the ogre. They killed an ox, placed it upon a hurdle, which they lifted up and put down with the aid of ninety-nine men.
“Give us one of your men who can lift this hurdle.”
He who wore millstones hanging from his neck said, “I can lift it.” When he had placed it on the ground, they served a couscous with this ox. The ogre said, “Eat all that we give you.” They ate a little, and the man with the long ears hid the rest of the food. The brother continued: “You give us one of you who will go to gather a branch of a tree that stands all alone on the top of a mountain two days’ march in the snow.” The one who had rolled in the snow departed, and brought back the branch.
“There remains one more proof,” said the ogre. “A partridge is flying in the sky; let one of you strike it.” Hamed-ben-Ceggad killed it.
They gave him the woman, but before her departure her brother gave her a feather and said to her, “When anyone shall try to do anything to you against your will, cast this feather on the hearth and we will come to you.”
People told the woman, “The old Sultan is going to marry you.”
She replied, “An old man shall never marry me,” and cast the feather into the fire. Her brother appeared, and killed all the inhabitants of the city, as well as the King, and gave the woman to Hamed-ben-Ceggad.
* * * * *
A taleb made a proclamation in these terms: “Is there anyone who will sell himself for 100 mitquals?” A man agreed to sell himself. The stranger took him to the cadi, who wrote out the bill of sale. He took the 100 mitquals and gave them to his mother and departed with the taleb. They went to a place where the latter began to repeat certain formulas. The earth opened and the man entered it. The other said to him, “Bring me the candlestick of reed and the box.” He took this and came out keeping it in his pocket.
“Where is the box?” asked the taleb.
“I did not find it.”
“By the Lord, let us go.” He took him to the mountains, cast a stone at him, and went away. He lay on the ground for three days. Then he came to himself, went back to his own country, and rented a house. He opened the box, found inside a silk napkin, which he opened, and in which he found seven folds. He unfolded one. Genii came around the chamber, and a young girl danced until the day dawned. The man stayed there all that day until night. The King came out that night, and, hearing the noise of the dance, he knocked at the door, with his vezir. They received him with a red h’aik. He amused himself until the day dawned. Then he went home with his vezir. The latter sent for the man and said, “Give me the box which you have at home.” He brought it to the King, who said to him: “Give me the box which you have so that I may amuse myself with it, and I will marry you to my daughter.” The man obeyed and married the Sultan’s daughter. The Sultan amused himself with the box, and after his death his son-in-law succeeded him.
* * * * *
There was a sheik who gave instruction to two talebs. One day they brought to one of them a dish of couscous with meat. The genius stole him and bore him away. When they had arrived down there he taught him. One day the child was crying. The King of the genii asked him, “Why do you cry?”
“I am crying for my father and my mother. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”
The King asked his sons, “Who will take him back?”
“I,” said one of them; “but how shall I take him back?”
“Carry him back after you have stuffed his ears with wool so that he shall not hear the angels worshipping the Lord.”
They had arrived at a certain place, the child heard the angels worshipping the Lord, and did as they did. His guide released him and he remained three days without awaking. When he came to himself, he took up his journey and found a mother-dog which slept while her little ones barked, although yet unborn. He proceeded and met next an ass attacked by a swarm of flies. Further on he saw two trees, on one perched a blue bird. Afterward it flew upon the other tree and began to sing. He found next a fountain of which the bottom was of silver, the vault of gold and the waters white. He went on and met a man who had been standing for three days without saying a word. Finally he arrived at a village protected by God, but which no one entered. He met a wise man and said to him:
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“What do you wish to ask me?”
“I found a mother-dog which was asleep while her little ones were barking, although yet unborn.”
The sage answered, “It is the good of the world that the old man should keep silence because he is ashamed to speak.”
“I saw an ass attacked by a swarm of flies.”
“It is Pjoudj and Madjoudj of God (Gog and Magog) and the Antichrist.”
“I met two trees, a blue bird perched on one, then flew upon the other and began to sing.”
“It is the picture of the man who has two wives. When he speaks to one the other gets angry.”
“I saw a fountain of which the bottom was of silver, the vault of gold, and the waters white.”
“It is the fountain of life; he who drinks of it shall not die.”
“I found a man who was praying. I stayed three days and he did not speak.”
“It is he who never prayed upon the earth and is now making amends.”
“Send me to my parents,” concluded the child.
The old man saw a light cloud and said to it, “Take this human creature to Egypt.” And the cloud bore him to his parents.
* * * * *
Here is a story that happened once upon a time. A man had seven sons who owned seven horses, seven guns, and seven pistols for hunting. Their mother was about to increase the family. They said to their father: “If we have a little sister we shall remain. If we have a little brother we shall go.” The woman had a little boy. They asked, “Which is it?”
“A boy.”
They mounted their horses and departed, taking provisions with them. They arrived at a tree, divided their bread, and ate it. The next day they started and travelled as far as a place where they found a well, from which they drew water. The older one said, “Come, let us put the young one in the well.” They united against him, put him in, and departed, leaving him there. They came to a city.
The young man remained some time in the well where they had put him, until one day a caravan passing that way stopped to draw water. While the people were drinking they heard something moving at the bottom of the well. “Wait a moment,” they said; they let down a rope, the young man caught it and climbed up. He was as black as a negro. The people took him away and sold him to a man who conducted him to his house. He stayed there a month and became white as snow. The wife of the man said:
“Come, let us go away together.”
“Never!” he answered.
At evening the man returned and asked, “What is the negro doing?”
“Sell him,” said the woman.
He said, “You are free. Go where you please.”
The young man went away and came to a city where there was a fountain inhabited by a serpent. They couldn’t draw water from this fountain without his eating a woman. This day it was the turn of the King’s daughter to be eaten. The young man asked her:
“Why do you weep?”
“Because it is my turn to be devoured to-day.”
The stranger answered, “Courage, I will kill the serpent, if it please God.”
The young girl entered the fountain. The serpent darted toward her, but as soon as he showed his head the young man struck it with his stick and made it fly away. He did the same to the next head until the serpent was dead. All the people of the city came to draw water. The King said:
“Who has done this?”
“It is he,” they cried, “the stranger who arrived yesterday.” The King gave him his daughter and named him his lieutenant The wedding-feast lasted seven days. My story is finished before my resources are exhausted.
* * * * *
In times past there was a man who had two wives, and one was wise and one was foolish. They owned a cock in common. One day they quarrelled about the cock, cut it in two, and each took half. The foolish wife cooked her part. The wise one let her part live, and it walked on one foot and had only one wing. Some days passed thus. Then the half-a-cock got up early, and started on his pilgrimage. At the middle of the day he was tired and went toward a brook to rest. A jackal came there to drink. Half-a-Cock jumped on his back, stole one of his hairs, which it put under its wing and resumed its journey. It proceeded until evening and stopped under a tree to pass the night there. It had not rested long when it saw a lion pass near the tree where it was lying. As soon as it perceived the lion it jumped on its back and stole one of its hairs, which it put with that of the jackal. The next morning it got up early and took up its journey again. Arrived at the middle of a forest, it met a boar and said:
“Give me a hair from your back, as the king of the animals and the trickiest of them have done—the jackal and the lion.”
The boar answered, “As these two personages so important among the animals have done this, I will also give you what you request.” He plucked a hair from his back and gave it to Half-a-Cock. The latter went on his way and arrived at the palace of a king. It began to crow and to say:
“To-morrow the King will die, and I will take his wife.”
Hearing these words the King gave to his negroes the command to seize Half-a-Cock, and cast him into the middle of the sheep and goat-pen to be trampled upon and killed by them, so that the King might get rid of his crowing. The negroes seized him and cast him into the pen to perish. When he got there Half-a-Cock took from under his wing the jackal’s hair and burnt it in the fire. As soon as it was near the fire the jackal came and said:
“Why are you burning my hair? As soon as I smelled it, I came running.”
Half-a-Cock replied, “You see what situation I am in. Get me out of it.”
“That is an easy thing,” said the jackal, and immediately blowed in order to summon his brothers. They gathered around him, and he gave them this command: “My brothers, save me from Half-a-Cock, for it has a hair from my back which it has put in the fire. I don’t want to burn. Take Half-a-Cock out of the sheep-pen, and you will be able to take my hair from its hands.” At once the jackals rushed to the pen, strangled everything that was there, and rescued Half-a-Cock. The next day the King found his stables deserted and his animals killed. He sought for Half-a-Cock, but in vain. The latter, the next day at the supper hour, began to crow as it did the first time. The prince called his negroes and said to them:
“Seize Half-a-Cock and cast him into the cattle-yard so that it may be crushed under their feet.”
The negroes caught Half-a-Cock and threw him into the middle of the cow-pen. As soon as it reached there, it took the lion’s hair and put it into the fire. The lion came, roaring, and said:
“Why do you burn my hair? I smelled from my cave the odor of burning hair, and came running to learn the motive of your action.”
Half-a-Cock answered: “You see my situation. Help me out of it.”
The lion went out and roared to call his brothers. They came in great haste and said to him, “Why do you call us now?”
“Take the Half-a-Cock from the ox-yard, for it has one of my hairs, which it can put into the fire. If you don’t rescue Half-a-Cock, it will burn the hair, and I don’t want to smell the odor of burning hair while I am alive.”
His brothers obeyed. They at once killed all the cattle in the pen. The King saw that his animals were all dead, and he fell into such a rage that he nearly strangled. He looked for Half-a-Cock to kill it with his own hands. He searched a long time without finding it, and finally went home to rest. At sunset Half-a-Cock came to his usual place and crowed as on the former occasions. The King called his negroes and said to them:
“This time when you have caught Half-a-Cock, put it in a house and shut all the doors till morning. I will kill it myself.”
The negroes seized him immediately and put him in the treasure-room. When it got there, it saw money under its feet. It waited till it had nothing to fear from the masters of the house, who were all sound asleep, took from under its wing the hair of the boar, started a fire, and placed the hair in it. At once the boar came running and shaking the earth. It thrust its head against the wall. The wall shook and half of it fell down, and going to Half-a-Cock the boar said:
“Why are you burning my hair at this moment?”
“Pardon me, you see the situation in which I am, without counting what awaits me in the morning, for the King is going to kill me with his own hands if you don’t get me out of this prison.”
The boar replied: “The thing is easy; fear not, I will open the door so that you may go out. In fact, you have stayed here long enough. Get up, go and take money enough for you and your children.”
Half-a-Cock obeyed. It rolled in the gold, took all that stuck to its wing and its foot, and swallowed as much as it could hold. It took the road it had followed the first day and when it had arrived near the house it called the mistress and said: “Strike now, be not afraid to kill me.” His mistress began to strike until Half-a-Cock called from beneath the mat:
“Enough now. Roll the mat.”
She obeyed and saw the earth all shining with gold.
* * * * *
At the time when Half-a-Cock returned from his pilgrimage the two women owned a dog in common. The foolish one seeing that her companion had received much money said to her:
“We will divide the dog between us.”
The wise woman answered: “We can’t do anything with it. Let it live, I will give you my half. Keep it for yourself. I have no need of it.”
The foolish one said to the dog, “Go on a pilgrimage as Half-a-Cock did and bring me some gold.”
The dog started to carry out the commands of his mistress. She began her journey in the morning and came to a fountain. As she was thirsty she started to drink. As she stopped she saw in the middle of the fountain a yellow stone. She took it in her mouth and ran back home. When she reached the house she called her mistress and said to her:
“Get ready the mats and the rods, you see that I have come back from the pilgrimage.”
The foolish one prepared the mats under which the dog ran as soon as she heard the voice of her mistress and said, “Strike gently.” The woman seized the rods and struck with all the force possible. The dog cried out to her a long while for her to stop the blows. Her mistress refused to stop until the animal was cold. She lighted up the mats and found the dog dead with the yellow stone in its mouth.
* * * * *
Once upon a time a man was on a journey and he met a mare who grazed in the meadow. She was thin, lean, and had only skin and bone. He went on until he came to a place where he found a mare which was fat, although she did not eat. He went on further until he met a sheep which kicked against a rock till evening to pass the night there. Advancing he met a serpent which hung in a hole from which it could not get out. Farther on, he saw a man who played with a ball, and his children were old men. He came to an old man who said to him:
“I will explain all that to you. The lean mare which you saw represents the rich man whose brothers are poor. The fat mare represents the poor man whose brothers are rich. The serpent which swings unable to enter nor to leave the hole is the picture of the word which once spoken and heard can never go back. The sheep which kicks against the rock to pass the night there, is the man who has an evil house. The one whose children you saw aged while he was playing ball, what does he represent? That is the man who has taken a pretty wife and does not grow old. His children have taken bad ones.”
* * * * *
In times gone by a king reigned over Maghreb. He had four sons. He started, he, his wife, and his children, for the Orient. They set sail, but their ship sank with them. The waves bore them all in separated directions. One wave took the wife; another bore the father alone to the middle of the sea on an island where he found a mine of silver. He dug out enough silver until he had a great quantity and he established himself in the country. His people after heard tell of him and learned that he dwelt in the midst of the sea. They built houses until there was a great city. He was king of that country. Whoever came poor to him he gave him pieces of money. A poor man married his wife. As for his sons, they applied themselves to a study, each in a different country. They all became learned men and feared God. The King had a search made for tolbas who should worship God. The first of the brothers was recommended to him. He sent for him. He sought also a khodja. The second brother was designated. He summoned him to the court. The prince also especially wanted an adel. Another brother was pointed to him. He made him come to him as, indeed, he also did the imam, who was none other than the fourth brother. They arrived at their father’s without knowing him or being known by him. The wife and the man who had espoused her also came to the King to make complaint. When they arrived the wife went alone that night to the palace. The prince sent for the four tolba to pass the night with him until morning. During the; night he spied upon them to see who they were. One of them said to the others, “Since sleep comes not upon us, let each one make known who he is.”
One said: “My father was a king. He had much money and four sons whose names were like yours.”
Another said: “My father was a king. My case is like yours.”
Another said: “My father was a king. My case is like yours.”
The fourth said in his turn: “My father, too, was a king. My case is like that of your three. You are my brothers.”
Their mother overheard them and took to weeping until day.
They took her to the prince, who said, “Why do you weep?”
She answered: “I was formerly the wife of a king and we had four sons. We set sail, he, our children, and I. The ship which bore us was wrecked. Each one was borne away alone, until yesterday when they spoke before me during the night and showed me what had happened to them, to their father, and to their mother.”
The King said, “Let me know your adventure.”
They told him all that had happened. Then the prince arose, weeping, and said, “You are my children,” and to the woman, “You are my wife.” God reunited them.
* * * * *
Two men, one of whom was named Beddou and the other Amkammel, went to market bearing a basket of figs. They met a man who was working, and said to him:
“God assist you!”
“Amen!” he answered. One of them wanted to wash himself, but there was no water. The laborer, him who was with him (sic), said, “What is your name?”
“Beddou.”
“By the Lord, Beddou, watch my oxen while I go to drink.”
“Go!”
When he had gone, he took away one of the oxen. On his return the laborer saw that one was missing. He went to the other traveller and asked him:
“By my father, what is your name?”
“Amkammel Ouennidhui” ("The Finisher"), he answered.
“By the Lord, Amkammel Ouennidhui, watch this ox for me while I go look for the one that is gone.”
“Go!”
He stole the other one. When the laborer returned he didn’t even find the second.
The two thieves went away, taking the oxen. They killed them to roast them. One drank all the water of the sea, the other all the fresh water, to wash it down. When they had finished, one stayed there to sleep, the other covered him with ashes. The former got up to get a drink and the ashes fell on the road. When he came back, the second covered himself with the ox-head. His brother, who had gone to get a drink, was afraid, and ran away. They divided the other ox to eat it. The one who had drunk the sea-water now drank fresh water, and the one who had drunk fresh water now drank sea-water. When they had finished their repast they took up their journey. They found an old woman who had some money, upon which she was sitting. When they arrived they fought. She arose to separate them. One of them took her place to pass the night, and pretended that he was dead. The old woman said to him:
“Get up, my son.”
He refused. In the evening one of them stole the money, and said to his brother:
“Arise! Let us go!”
They went away to a place where was sleeping the one who had taken the money. The other took away the dirkhems and departed, leaving the first asleep. When he awaked he found nothing. He started in pursuit of the other, and when he arrived he found him dying of illness. The latter had said to his wife, “Bury me.” She buried him. He who had first stolen the money went away. He said, “It is an ox.”
“It is I, my friend,” he cried. “Praise be to God, my friend! May your days pass in happiness!” Beddou said to him: “Let us go for a hunt.”
They went away alone. Beddou added: “I will shave you.”
He shaved him, and when he came to the throat he killed him and buried his head. A pomegranate-tree sprang up at this place. One day Beddou found a fruit, which he took to the King. When he arrived he felt that it was heavy. It was a head. The King asked him:
“What is that?”
“A pomegranate.”
“We know what you have been doing,” said the King, and had his head cut off. My story is finished.
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was a man who had much goods. One day he went to market. There came a greyhound, which ate some meat. The butcher gave it a blow, which made it yelp. Seeing this, the heart of the man was touched with compassion. He bought of the butcher half a piece of meat and flung it to the greyhound. The dog took it and went away. It was the son of a king of the nether world.
Fortune changed with the man. He lost all his possessions, and began to wash for people. One day, he had gone to wash something, he stretched it on the sand to dry. A jerboa appeared with a ring in its ear. The man ran after it, killed it, hid the ring, made a fire, cooked the jerboa and ate it. A woman came out of the earth, seized him, and demanded, “Haven’t you seen my son, with an ear-ring?”
“I haven’t seen anybody,” he answered; “but I saw a jerboa which had a ring in its ear.”
“It is my son.” She drew him under the earth and told him: “You have eaten my son, you have separated me from him. Now I will separate you from your children, and you shall work in the place of my son.” He who was changed into a greyhound saw this man that day, and said to him: “It is you who bought some meat for a greyhound and threw it to him?”
“It is I.”
“I am that greyhound. Who brought you here?”
“A woman,” answered the man, and he recounted all his adventure.
“Go and make a complaint to the King,” answered the other. “I am his son. I’ll tell him: ‘This man did me a good service,’ When he asks you to go to the treasure and take as much money as you wish, answer him: ’I don’t want any. I only want you to spit a benediction into my mouth,’ If he asks you, ‘Who told you that?’ answer, ‘Nobody.’”
The man went and found the King and complained of the woman. The King called her and asked her: “Why have you taken this man captive?”
“He ate my son.”
“Why was your son metamorphosed into a jerboa? When men see one of those they kill him and eat him.” Then addressing the man: “Give her back the ear-ring.” He gave it to her.
“Go,” said the King, “take this man to the place from which you brought him.”
The son of the King then said to his father: “This man did me a favor; you ought to reward him.”
The King said to him: “Go to the treasure, take as much money as you can.”
“I don’t want money,” he answered; “I want you to spit into my mouth a benediction.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody.”
“You will not be able to bear it.”
“I will be able.”
“When I have spat into your mouth, you will understand the language of beasts and birds; you will know what they say when they speak; but if you reveal it to the people you will die.”
“I will not reveal it.” So the King spat into his mouth and sent him away, saying to the woman, “Go and take him back where you found him.” She departed, and took him back there.
He mounted his ass and came back to his house. He arranged the load and took back to the people the linen he had washed. Then he remounted the beast to go and seek some earth. He was going to dig when he heard a crow say in the air:
“Dig beneath; you will sing when God has made you rich.”
He understood what the crow said, dug beneath, and found a treasure. He filled a basket with it. On the top he put a little earth and went home, but often returned to the spot. On one of these occasions his ass met a mule, which said:
“Are you working still?”
The ass replied: “My master has found a treasure and he is taking it away.”
The mule answered: “When you are in a crowd balk and throw the basket to the ground. People will see it, all will be discovered, and your master will leave you in peace.”
The man had heard every word of this. He filled his basket with earth only. When they arrived at a crowd of people the ass kicked and threw the load to the ground. Her master beat her till she had enough. He applied himself to gathering the treasure, and became a rich merchant.
He had at home some chickens and a dog. One day he went into the granary, and a hen followed him and ate the grain. A cock said to her:
“Bring me a little.”
She answered, “Eat for yourself.”
The master began to laugh. His wife asked him:
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.”
“You are laughing at me.”
“Not at all.”
“You must tell me what you are laughing at.”
“If I tell you I shall die.”
“You shall tell me, and you shall die.”
“To-night.” He brought out some grain and said to his wife, “Give alms.” He invited the people, bade them to eat, and when they had gone he brought food to the dog, but he would not eat. The neighbor’s dog came, as it did every day, to eat with his dog. To-day it found the food intact.
“Come and eat,” it said.
“No,” the dog answered.
“Why not?”
Then the dog told the other: “My master, hearing the chickens talk, began to laugh. His wife asked him: ‘Why are you laughing?’ ’If I tell you, I shall die.’ ‘Tell me and die,’ That is why,” continued the dog, “he has given alms, for when he reveals his secret he will die, and I shall never find anyone to act as he has.”
The other dog replied: “As he knows our language, let him take a stick and give it to his wife until she has had enough. As he beats her let him say: ’This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at,’ until she says to him, ‘Reveal to me nothing.’”
The man heard the conversation of the dogs, and went and got a stick. When his wife and he went to bed she said to him, “Tell me that now.”
Then he took the stick and beat her, saying: “This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at,” until she cried out:
“Don’t tell it to me. Don’t tell it to me. Don’t tell it to me.”
He left her alone. When the dogs heard that, they rejoiced, ran out on the terrace, played, and ate their food. From that day the wife never again said to her husband, “Tell me that!” They lived happy ever after. If I have omitted anything, may God forgive me for it.
* * * * *
There once lived a king who had five daughters and no sons. They grew up. He wanted them to marry, but they would not have any of the young men of the city. A youth came from a far country and stood under the castle, beneath the window of the youngest daughter. She saw him, and told her father she would marry him.
“Bring him in,” said the King.
“He will come to-morrow.”
“God be praised,” said the King, “that you are pleased with us.”
The young man answered, “Give me your daughter for a wife.”
“Advise me,” said the King.
The stranger said, “Go and wait till to-morrow.”
The next day the young man said to the King: “Make all the inhabitants of the city come out. You will stand with the clerks at the entrance to the gate. Dress your daughters and let them choose their husbands themselves.”
The people began to come out. The eldest daughter struck one of them on the chest with an apple, and they said: “That daughter has chosen a husband. Bravo!” Each one of the daughters thus selected a husband, and the youngest kept hers. A little while afterward, the King received a visit from one of his sons-in-law, who said to him, “What do you want us to give you?”
“I’ll see what my daughters want,” he answered. “Come back in six days.”
When they went to see their wives the King said to them, “I will ask of you a thing about which they have spoken to me.”
“What is it? We are anxious to know.”
“It is an apple, the odor of which gives to the one who breathes it youth, no matter what his age may be.”
“It is difficult,” they answered. “We know not where it can be found.”
“If you do not bring it to me, you cannot marry my daughter.”
They kept silent, and then consulted with each other. The youngest said to them, “Seek the means to satisfy the King.”
“Give us your advice——”
“Father-in-law, to-morrow we shall bring you the apple.” His brothers-in-law added: “Go out. To-morrow we will meet you outside the city.”
The next day they all five met together. Four of them said to the other, “Advise us or we will kill you.”
“Cut off your fingers,” he said.
The first one began, and the three others did the same. The youngest one took them and put them into his game-bag, and then he added, “Wait near the city till I come back.”
He went out into the desert and came to the city of the ogress. He entered, and found her ready to grind some wheat. He said to the ogress, “Show me the apple whose color gives eternal youth to the old man who smells it.”
“You are in the family of ogres,” she said. “Cut a hair from the horse of their King. When you go into the garden cast this hair into the fire. You will find a tree, from which you must pick five fruits. When plucking them do not speak a word, and keep silence on your return. It is the smallest fruit that possesses the magic power.”
He took the apple and went back to the city, where he found his companions. He concealed in his breast the wonderful fruit, and gave the others to his brothers-in-law, one to each. They entered the palace of the King, who was overjoyed to see them, gave them seats, and asked them, “Have you brought it or not?”
“We have brought it,” they answered.
He said to the eldest, “Give me your apple first.”
He took a mirror in his left hand, and the fruit in the right hand, bent down, and inhaled the odor of the apple, but without results. He threw it down upon the ground. The others gave him their apples, with no more success.
“You have deceived me,” he said to them. “The apples do not produce the effect that I sought.”
Addressing, then, the stranger, he said, “Give me your apple.”
The other son-in-law replied: “I am not of this country. I will not give you my fruit.”
“Give it to me to look at,” said the King. The young man gave it to him, saying, “Take a mirror in your right hand and the apple in your left hand.”
The King put the apple to his nose, and, looking at his beard, saw that it became black. His teeth became white. He grew young again. “You are my son,” he said to the young man. And he made a proclamation to his subjects, “When I am dead he shall succeed me on the throne.” His son-in-law stayed some time with him, and after the death of the King he reigned in his place and did not marry the other daughters of the King to his companions.
[Translated by J. Riviere and Chauncey C. Starkweather]
Ali and Ou Ali were two friends. One day they met at the market. One of them bore ashes and the other carried dust. The first one had covered his goods with a little flour. The other had concealed his merchandise under some black figs. “Come, I will sell you some flour,” said Ali.
“Come, I will sell you some black figs,” answered Ou Ali.
Each regained his own horse. Ali, who thought he was carrying flour, found, on opening his sack, that it was only ashes. Ou Ali, who thought he was bearing black figs, found on opening his sack that it was nothing but dust. Another day they again greeted each other in the market. Ali smiled. Ou Ali smiled, and said to his friend:
“For the love of God, what is your name?”
“Ali; and yours?”
“Ou Ali.”
Another time they were walking together, and said to each other:
“Let us go and steal.”
One of them stole a mule and the other stole a rug. They passed the night in the forest. Now, as the snow was falling, Ali said to Ou Ali:
“Give me a little of your rug to cover me.”
Ou Ali refused. “You remember,” he added, “that I asked you to put my rug on your mule, and you would not do it.” An instant afterward Ali cut off a piece of the rug, for he was dying of cold. Ou Ali got up and cut the lips of the mule. The next morning, when they awaked, Ou Ali said to Ali:
“O my dear friend, your mule is grinning.”
“O my dear friend,” replied Ali, “the rats have gnawed your rug.”
And they separated. Some time afterward they met anew. Ali said to Ou Ali:
“Let us go and steal.”
They saw a peasant, who was working. One of them went to the brook to wash his cloak there, and found it dry. He laid the blade of his sabre so that it would reflect the rays of the sun, and began to beat his cloak with his hands as if to wash it. The laborer came to the brook also, and found the man who was washing his cloak without water.
“May God exterminate you,” said he, “who wash without water.”
“May God exterminate you,” answered the washer, “who work without a single ox.”
The other robber watched the laborer, and had already stolen one of his oxen. The laborer went back to his plough, and said to the washer, “Keep this ox for me while I go and hunt for the other.” As soon as he was out of sight the robber took away the ox left in his charge. The laborer returned, and seizing the goad by one end he gave a great blow on the plough-handle, crying:
“Break, now. It matters little.”
The robbers met in a wood and killed the oxen. As they lacked salt, they went to purchase it. They salted the meat, roasted it, and ate it. Ali discovered a spring. Ou Ali not being able to find water, was dying of thirst.
“Show me your spring,” he said to Ali, “and I will drink.”
“Eat some salt, my dear friend,” answered Ali. What could he do? Some days afterward Ou Ali put ashes on the shoes of Ali. The next day he followed the traces of the ashes, found the spring, and discovered thus the water that his friend was drinking. He took the skin of one of the oxen and carried it to the fountain. He planted two sticks above the water, hung the skin on the sticks, and placed the horns of the ox opposite the road. During the night his friend went to the spring. At the sight of the skin thus stretched out, fear seized him, and he fled.
“I am thirsty,” said Ou Ali.
“Eat some salt, my dear friend,” answered Ali, “for salt removes thirst.”
Ali retired, and, after having eaten, ran to examine the skin that he had stretched out. Ou AH ate the salt, and was dying of thirst.
“For the love of God,” he said finally, “show me where you drink.”
Ali was avenged. “Come, Jew-face, and I will show you the water.” He made him drink at the spring, and said to him: “See what you were afraid of.” The meat being finished, they started away. Ou Ali went to the house of Ali, and said to him:
“Come, we will marry you to the daughter of an old woman.”
Now, the old woman had a herd of oxen. She said to Ali: “Take this drove to the fields and mount one of the animals.” Ali mounted one of the oxen. He fell to the ground; the oxen began to run and trample on him. Ou Ali, who was at the house, said to the old woman:
“O my old woman, give me your daughter in marriage.”
She called her daughter. “Take a club,” she said to her, “and we will give it to him until he cries for mercy.”
The daughter brought a club and gave Ou AH a good beating. Ali, who was watching the herd, came at nightfall and met his friend.
“Did the old woman accept you?” he asked him.
“She accepted me,” answered Ali. “And is the herd easy to watch?”
“From morning till night I have nothing to do but to repose. Take my place to-morrow, and mount one of the oxen.”
The next day Ou Ali said to the old woman, “To-day I will take care of the herd.” And, on starting, he recommended Ali to ask the old woman for her daughter’s hand.
“It is well,” answered Ali. Ou Ali arrived in the fields; one of the oxen seized him with his horns and tossed him into the air. All the others did the same thing. He regained the horse half dead. Ali, who had remained at the house, asked the old woman for her daughter’s hand. “You ask me again?” said she. She took a club and gave it to him till he had had enough. Ou Ali said to Ali: “You have played me a trick.” Ali answered him: “Without doubt they gave me the stick so hard that I did not hear the last blow.”
“It is well, my dear friend. Ali owes nothing to Ou Ali.”
They went away. The old woman possessed a treasure. Ou Ali therefore said to Ali: “I will put you in a basket, for you know that we saw that treasure in a hole.” They returned to the old woman’s house. Ali goes down into the hole, takes the treasure, and puts it into the basket. Ou Ali draws up the basket, takes it, abandons his friend, now a prisoner, and runs to hide the treasure in the forest. Ali was in trouble, for he knew not how to get out. What could he do? He climbed up the sides of the hole. When he found himself in the house, he opened the door and fled. Arriving at the edge of the forest he began to bleat. Ou Ali, thinking it was a ewe, ran up. It was his friend.
“O my dear,” cried Ali, “I have found you at last.”
“God be praised. Now, let us carry our treasure.”
They started on the way. Ou Ali, who had a sister, said to Ali: “Let us go to my sister’s house.” They arrived at nightfall. She received them with joy. Her brother said to her:
“Prepare some pancakes and some eggs for us.”
She prepared the pancakes and the eggs and served them with the food.
“O my sister,” cried Ou Ali, “my friend does not like eggs; bring us some water.” She went to get the water. As soon as she had gone, Ali took an egg and put it into his mouth. When the woman returned, he made such efforts to give it up that he was all out of breath. The repast was finished, and Ali had not eaten anything. Ou Ali said to his sister: “O my sister, my friend is ill; bring me a skewer.” She brought him a skewer, which he put into the fire. When the skewer was red with the heat, Ou Ali seized it and applied it to the cheek of Ali. The latter uttered a cry, and rejected the egg. “Truly,” said the woman, “you do not like eggs.”
The two friends started and arrived at a village.
“Let us go to my sister’s house,” said Ali to his friend. She received them with open arms.
Ali said to her: “O my sister, prepare a good stew for us.”
They placed themselves at the table at nightfall, and she served them with food.
“O my sister,” cried Ali, “my friend does not like stew.”
Ali ate alone. When he was satisfied, the two friends started, without forgetting the treasure. On the way Ali said to Ou Ali: “Give it to me to-day and I will deposit it in my house.” He took it and gave it to his wife. “Bury me,” he said to her. “And if Ou Ali comes tell him that his old friend is dead, and receive him with tears.” Ou Ali arrived, and asked the woman in tears to see the tomb of his dead friend. He took an ox-horn and began to dig in the earth that covered the body.
“Behind! behind!” cried the pretended dead man.
“Get up, there, you liar,” answered Ali.
They went away together. “Give me the treasure,” asked Ou Ali; “to-day I will take it to my house.” He took it to his house, and said to his wife: “Take this treasure. I am going to stretch myself out as if I were dead. When Ali comes receive him weeping, and say to him: ’Your friend is dead. He is stretched out in the bedroom.’”
Ali went and said to the woman: “Get me some boiling water, for your husband told me to wash him when he should die.” When the water was ready the woman brought it. Ali seized the kettle and poured it on the stomach of Ou Ali, who sprang up with a bound. Thus he got even for the trick of his friend. The two friends divided the treasure then, and Ali went home.
* * * * *
A man went on a journey. At the moment of departure he placed with a Jew, his friend, a jar filled with gold. He covered the gold with butter and said to the Jew: “I trust to your care this jar of butter, as I am going on a journey.” On his return he hastened to the house of his friend. “Give me the jar of butter that I left with you,” he said. The Jew gave it to him. But the poor traveller found nothing but butter, for the Jew had taken the gold. Nevertheless, he did not tell anybody of the misfortune that had happened to him. But his countenance bore traces of a secret sorrow. His brother perceived it, and said to him:
“What is the matter with you?”
“I intrusted a jar filled with gold to a Jew,” he answered, “and he only returned a jar of butter to me. I don’t know what to do to recover my property.”
His brother replied: “The thing is easy. Prepare a feast and invite your friend the Jew.”
The next day the traveller prepared a feast and invited the Jew. During this time the brother of the traveller ran to a neighboring mountain, where he captured a monkey. During the night he entered the house of the Jew and found a child in the cradle. He took the child away and put the monkey in its place. When day had come the mother perceived the monkey tied in the cradle. She called her husband with loud cries, and said to him:
“See how God has punished us for having stolen your friend’s gold. Our child is changed into a monkey. Give back the stolen property.”
They immediately had the traveller summoned, and returned his gold to him. The next night the child was taken back to the cradle and the monkey was set free. As I can go no further, may God exterminate the jackal and pardon all our sins!
* * * * *
A man died, leaving a son. The child spent day and night with his mother. The sheik chanted a prayer every morning and waked him up. The child went to find the sheik, and said:
“Ali Sheik, do not sing so loudly, you wake us up every morning—my mother and me.”
But the sheik kept on singing. The child went to the mosque armed with a club. At the moment when the sheik bowed to pray he struck him a blow and killed him. He ran to his mother, and said to her:
“I have killed that sheik; come, let us bury him.”
They cut off his head and buried his body. The child went to the Thadjeinath, where the men of the village were assembled. In his absence his mother killed a sheep. She took the head and buried it in place of the sheik’s head. The child arrived at the Thadjeinath and said to those present:
“I have killed the sheik who waked us up every morning.”
“It is a lie,” said they.
“Come to my mother’s house and we will show you where we buried his head.” They went to the house, and the mother said to them:
“Ali Sidi, this child is mad. It is a sheep that we have killed. Come and see where we buried its head.” They went to the spot, dug, and found a sheep’s head.
* * * * *
At the time when all the animals spoke, a wagtail laid her eggs on the ground. The little ones grew up. A jackal and a fox came to them. The jackal said to the fox:
“Swear to me that the wagtail owes me a pound of butter.”
The fox swore to it. The bird began to weep. A greyhound came to her and asked her what was the matter. She answered him:
“The fox has calumniated me.”
“Well,” said the hound, “put me in this sack of skin.”
She put him in the sack. “Tie up the top well,” said the hound. When the jackal returned she said to him:
“Come and measure out the butter.”
The jackal advanced and unfastened the sack. He saw the hound, who stretched out his paws and said to the fox:
“I am ill; come and measure, fox.”
The fox approached. The hound seized him. The jackal said, “Remember your false testimony.”
* * * * *
A servant tended the sheep of his master. Arrived in the meadow, he played the flute. The sheep heard him, and would not browse. One day the master perceived that his sheep did not graze. He followed the servant to the fields and hid himself in the bush. The shepherd took his flute and began to play. His master began to dance so that the bushes brought blood upon him. He returned home.
“Who scratched you so?” asked his wife.
“The servant played on the flute, and I began to dance.”
“That is a lie,” said she; “people don’t dance against their will.”
“Well,” answered the husband, “tie me to this post and make the servant play.”
She tied him to the post and the servant took the flute. Our man began to dance. He struck his head against a nail in the post and died. The son of the dead man said to the servant:
“Pay me for the loss of my father.”
They went before the cadi. On the way they met a laborer, who asked them where they were going.
“Before the cadi.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“This man killed my father,” answered the son of the dead man.
“It was not I that killed him,” answered the shepherd; “I played on the flute, he danced and died.”
“That is a lie!” cried the laborer. “I will not dance against my will. Take your flute and we shall see if I dance.”
The shepherd took his flute. He began to play, and the laborer started dancing with such activity that his oxen left to themselves fell into the ravine.
“Pay me for my oxen,” he cried to the shepherd.
“Come before the cadi,” he answered. They presented themselves before the cadi, who received them on the second floor of the house. They all sat down. Then the cadi said to the servant:
“Take your flute and play before me. I will see how you play.” The servant took his flute and all began to dance. The cadi danced with the others, and they all fell down to the ground floor and were killed. The servant stayed in the house of the cadi and inherited the property of all.
* * * * *
A child had a thorn in his foot. He went to an old woman and said to her:
“Take out this thorn for me.”
The old woman took out the thorn and threw it away.
“Give me my thorn,” and he began to cry.
“Take an egg.”
He went to another old woman, “Hide me this egg.”
“Put it in the hen’s nest.”
In the night he took his egg and ate it. The next day he said to the old woman: “Give me my egg.”
“Take the hen,” she answered.
He went to another old woman, “Hide my hen for me.”
“Put her on the stake to which I tie my he-goat.”
At night he took away the hen. The next morning he demanded his hen.
“Look for her where you hid her.”
“Give me my hen.”
“Take the he-goat.”
He went to another old woman, “O old woman, hide this goat for me.”
“Tie him to the sheep’s crib.”
During the night he took away the buck. The next day he claimed the buck.
“Take the sheep.”
He went to another old woman, “O old woman, keep my sheep for me.”
“Tie him to the foot of the calf.”
During the night he took away the sheep. Next morning he demanded his sheep.
“Take the calf.”
He went to another old woman, “Keep my calf for me.”
“Tie him to the cow’s manger.”
In the night he took away the calf. The next morning he asked for his calf.
“Take the cow.”
He went to another old woman, “Keep my cow for me.”
“Tie her to the foot of the old woman’s bed.”
In the night he took away the cow. The next morning he demanded his cow.
“Take the old woman.”
He went to another old woman and left the old dame, whom he killed during the night. The next morning he demanded his old woman.
“There she is by the young girl.”
He found her dead.
“Give me my old woman.”
“Take the young girl.”
He said to her: “From the thorn to the egg, from the egg to the hen, from the hen to the buck, from the buck to the sheep, from the sheep to the calf, from the calf to the cow, from the cow to the old woman, from the old woman to the young girl, and now come and marry me.”
* * * * *
A fisherman went one day to the sea to catch some fish. In the evening he sold his catch, and bought a little loaf of bread, on which he made his supper. The next day he returned to his fishing and found a chest. He took it to his house and opened it. Out jumped a monkey and said to him: “Bad luck to you. I am not the only one to conquer. You may bewail your sad lot.”
“My lot is unbearable,” he answered. The next day he returned to his fishing. The monkey climbed to the roof of the house and sat there. A moment afterward he cut all the roses of the garden. The daughter of the King saw him, and said to him:
“O Sidi Mahomet, what are you doing there? Come here, I need you.”
He took a rose and approached.
“Where do you live?” asked the princess.
“With the son of the Sultan of India,” answered the monkey.
“Tell him to buy me.”
“I will tell him, provided he will accept.”
The next day he stayed in the house and tore his face. The princess called him again. The monkey brought her a rose.
“Who put you in that condition?” she cried.
“It was the son of the Sultan of India,” answered the monkey. “When I told him to buy you he gave me a blow.”
The princess gave him 100 ecus, and he went away. The next day he scratched his face worse and climbed on the house. The daughter of the King called him:
“Sidi Mahomet!”
“Well?”
“Come here. What did you say to him?”
“I told him to buy you, and he gave me another blow.”
“Since this is so, come and find me to-morrow.”
The next day the monkey took the fisherman to a shop and bought him some clothes. He took him to the baths and made him bathe. Then he went along the road and cried:
“Flee, flee, here is the son of the Sultan of India!”
They went into a coffee-house, and Si Mahomet ordered two coffees. They drank their coffees, gave an ecu to the proprietor, and went out. While going toward the palace Si Mahomet said to-the fisherman:
“Here we are at the house of your father-in-law. When he serves us to eat, eat little. When he offers us coffee, drink only a little of it. You will find silken rugs stretched on the floor; keep on your sandals.”
When they arrived the fisherman took off his sandals. The King offered them something to eat; the fisherman ate a great deal. He offered them some coffee, and the fisherman did not leave a drop of it. They went out. When they were outside the palace Si Mahomet said to the fisherman:
“Jew of a fisherman, you are lucky that I do not scratch your face.”
They returned to their house. Si Mahomet climbed upon the roof. The daughter of the King perceived him, and said:
“Come here.”
The monkey approached.
“Truly you have lied. Why did you tell me that the son of the Sultan of India was a distinguished person?”
“Is he a worthless fellow?”
“We furnished the room with silken rugs, he took off his sandals. We gave him food, and he ate like a servant. We offered him some coffee, and he licked his fingers.”
The monkey answered: “We had just come out of the coffeehouse. He had taken too much wine and was drunken, and not master of himself. That is why he ate so much.”
“Well,” replied the princess, “come to the palace again tomorrow, but do not take him to the coffee-house first.”
The next day they set out. On the way the monkey said to the fisherman: “Jew of a fisherman, if to-day you take off your sandals or eat too much or drink all your coffee, look out for yourself. Drink a little only, or I will scratch your eyes out.”
They arrived at the palace. The fisherman walked on the silken rugs with his sandals. They gave him something to eat, and he ate little. They brought him some coffee, and he hardly tasted it. The King gave him his daughter. Si Mahomet said to the King:
“The son of the Sultan of India has quarrelled with his father, so he only brought one chest of silver.”
In the evening the monkey and the fisherman went out for a walk. The fisherman said to Si Mahomet:
“Is it here that we are going to find the son of the Sultan of India?”
“I can show him to you easily,” answered the monkey. “Tomorrow I will find you seated. I will approach, weeping, with a paper in my hands; I will give you the paper, and you must read it and burst into tears. Your father-in-law will ask you why you weep so. Answer him: ’My father is dead. Here is the letter I have just received. If you have finally determined to give me your daughter, I will take her away and we will go to pay the last duties to my father.’”
“Take her,” said the King. He gave him an escort of horsemen and soldiers. Arriving at the place, Si Mahomet said to the soldiers:
“You may return to the palace, for our country is far from here.”
The escort went back to the palace, and the travellers continued on their journey. Soon Si Mahomet said to the fisherman: “Stay here till I go and look at the country of your father.” He started, and arrived at the gates of a city he found closed he mounted upon the ramparts. An ogress perceived him, “I salute you, Si Mahomet.”
“May God curse you, sorceress! Come, I am going to your house.”
“What do you want of me, Si Mahomet?”
“They are seeking to kill you.”
“Where can I hide?” He put her in the powder-house of the city, shut the door on her, and set the powder on fire. The ogress died. He came back to the fisherman.
“Forward,” he said. They entered the city and established themselves there. One day Si Mahomet fell ill and died The two spouses put him in a coffin lined with silk and buried him. My story is told.
* * * * *
Sidi El-Marouf and Sidi Abd-el-Tadu were travelling in company. Toward evening they separated to find a resting-place. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu said to his friend:
“Let us say a prayer, that God may preserve us from the evil which we have never committed.”
Sidi El-Marouf answered, “Yes, may God preserve us from the evil that we have not done!”
They went toward the houses, each his own way. Sidi El-Marouf presented himself at a door. “Can you entertain a traveller?”
“You are welcome,” said a woman to him. “Enter, you may remain for the night.”
Night came. He took his supper. The woman spread a mat on the floor and he went to sleep. The woman and her husband slept also. When all was quiet, the woman got up, took a knife, and killed her husband. The next day at dawn she began to cry:
“He has killed my husband!”
The whole village ran up to the house and seized the stranger. They bound him, and everyone brought wood to burn the guilty man.
Sidi Abd-el-Tadu came also, and saw his friend in tears. “What have you done?” he asked.
“I have done no evil,” answered Sidi El-Marouf.
“Did I not tell you yesterday,” said Sidi Abd-el-Tadu, “that we would say the prayer that God should preserve us from the evil we had never committed? And now you will be burned for a crime of which you are innocent!”
Sidi El-Marouf answered him, “Bring the woman here.”
“Did he really kill your husband?” asked Sidi Abd-el-Tadu.
“He killed him,” she replied.
There was a bird on a tree nearby. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu asked the bird. The bird answered:
“It was the woman who killed her husband. Feel in her hair and you will find the knife she used.”
They searched her hair and found the knife still covered with blood, which gave evidence of the crime. The truth was known and innocence was defended. God avenged the injustice.
* * * * *
Two robbers spent their time in robbing. One of them got married, and the other continued his trade. They were a long time without seeing each other. Finally the one who was not married went to visit his friend, and said to him:
“If your wife has a daughter, you must give her to me.”
“I will give her to you seven days after her birth.”
The daughter was born, and the robber took her to bring up in the country. He built a house, bought flocks, and tended them himself. One day some pilgrims came to the house. He killed a cow for them and entertained them. The next day he accompanied them on their pilgrimage. The pilgrims said to him:
“If you come with us, two birds will remain with your wife.”
The woman stayed in the country. One day the son of the Sultan came that way to hunt. One of the birds saw him and said to the woman, “Don’t open the door.” The prince heard the bird speak, and returned to the palace without saying a word. An old woman was called to cast spells over him, and said to the King:
“He could not see a woman he has never seen.”
The prince spoke and said to her: “If you will come with me, I will bring her here.” They arrived.
The old dame called the young woman, “Come out, that we may see you.”
She said to the bird, “I am going to open the door.”
The bird answered: “If you open the door you will meet the same fate as Si El-Ahcen. He was reading with many others in the mosque. One day he found an amulet. His betrothed went no longer to school, and as she was old enough he married her. Some days after he said to his father, ’Watch over my wife.’ ‘Fear nothing,’ answered the father.
“He started, and came back. ‘Watch over my wife,’ he said to his father again. ‘Fear nothing,’ repeated his father. The latter went to the market. On his return he said to his daughter-in-law, ’There were very beautiful women in the market,’ ‘I surpass them all in beauty,’ said the woman; ’take me to the market.’
“A man offered 1,000 francs for her. The father-in-law refused, and said to her: ’Sit down on the mat. The one that covers you with silver may have you,’ A man advanced. ‘If you want to marry her,’ said her father-in-law, ‘cover her with silver, and she will be your wife.’
“Soon Si El-Ahcen returned from his journey and asked if his wife were still living. ‘Your wife is dead,’ said his father; ’she fell from her mule,’ Si El-Ahcen threw himself on the ground. They tried to lift him up. It was useless trouble. He remained stretched on the earth.
“One day a merchant came to the village and said to him, ’The Sultan married your wife,’ She had said to the merchant, ’The day that you leave I will give you a message,’ She wrote a letter to her husband, and promised the bearer a flock of sheep if he would deliver it.
“Si El-Ahcen received the letter, read it, was cured, ran to the house, and said to his father: ’My wife has married again in my absence; she is not dead. I brought home much money. I will take it again.’
“He took his money and went to the city where his wife lived. He stopped at the gates. To the first passer-by he gave five francs, to the second five more.
“‘What do you want, O stranger?’ they asked. ’If you want to see the Sultan we will take you to him,’ They presented him to the Sultan.
“‘Render justice to this man,’ ‘What does he want?’ ‘My lord,’ answered Sidi El-Ahcen, ‘the woman you married is my wife,’ ‘Kill him!’ cried the Sultan. ‘No,’ said the witnesses, ‘let him have justice,’
“‘Let him tell me if she carries an object,’ Si El-Ahcen answered: ’This woman was betrothed to me before her birth. An amulet is hidden in her hair,’ He took away his wife, returned to the village, and gave a feast.
“If you open the door,” continued the bird, “you will have the same fate as Fatima-ou-Lmelh. Hamed-ou-Lmelh married her. Fatima said to her father-in-law, ‘Take me to my uncle’s house,’ Arriving there she married another husband. Hamed-ou-Lmelh was told of this, and ran to find her. At the moment he arrived he found the wedding over and the bride about to depart for the house of her new husband. Then Hamed burst into the room and cast himself out of the window. Fatima did the same, and they were both killed.
“The intended father-in-law and his family returned to their house, and were asked the cause of the misfortune. ‘The woman was the cause,’ they answered.
“Nevertheless, the father of Hamed-ou-Lmelh went to the parents of Fatima and said: ‘Pay us for the loss of our son. Pay us for the loss of Fatima.’
“They could not agree, and went before the justice. Passing by the village where the two spouses had died they met an old man, and said, ’Settle our dispute,’ ‘I cannot,’ answered the old man. Farther on they met a sheep, which was butting a rock. ‘Settle our dispute,’ they said to the sheep. ’I cannot,’ answered the sheep. Farther on they met a serpent. ’Settle our dispute,’ they said to him. ‘I cannot,’ answered the serpent. They met a river. ‘Settle our dispute,’ they said to it. ‘I cannot,’ answered the river. They met a jackal. ‘Settle our dispute,’ they said to him. ’Go to the village where your children died,’ answered the jackal. They went back to the village, and applied to the Sultan, who had them all killed.”
The bird stopped speaking, the pilgrims returned. The old woman saw them and fled. The robber prepared a feast for the pilgrims.
* * * * *
“Come, little child, eat your dinner.”
“I won’t eat it.”
“Come, stick, beat the child.”
“I won’t beat him.”
“Come, fire, burn the stick.”
“I won’t burn it.”
“Come, water, quench the fire.”
“I won’t quench it.”
“Come, ox, drink the water.”
“I won’t drink it.”
“Come, knife, kill the ox.”
“I won’t kill him.”
“Come, blacksmith, break the knife.”
“I won’t break it.”
“Come, strap, bind the blacksmith.”
“I won’t bind him.”
“Come, rat, gnaw the strap.”
“I won’t gnaw it.”
“Come, cat, eat the rat.”
“Bring it here.”
“Why eat me?” said the rat; “bring the strap and I’ll gnaw it.”
“Why gnaw me?” said the strap; “bring the blacksmith and I’ll bind him.”
“Why bind me?” said the blacksmith; “bring the knife and I’ll break it.”
“Why break me?” said the knife; “bring the ox and I’ll kill him.”
“Why kill me?” said the ox; “bring the water and I’ll drink it.”
“Why drink me?” said the water; “bring the fire and I’ll quench it.”
“Why quench me?” said the fire; “bring the stick and I’ll burn it.”
“Why burn me?” said the stick; “bring the child and I’ll strike him.”
“Why strike me?” said the child; “bring me my dinner and I’ll eat it.”
* * * * *
A wren had built its nest on the side of a road. When the eggs were hatched, a camel passed that way. The little wrens saw it, and said to their father when he returned from the fields:
“O papa, a gigantic animal passed by.”
The wren stretched out his foot. “As big as this, my children?”
“O papa, much bigger.”
He stretched out his foot and his wing. “As big as this?”
“O papa, much bigger.”
Finally he stretched out fully his feet and legs. “As big as this, then?”
“Much bigger.”
“That is a lie; there is no animal bigger than I am.”
“Well, wait,” said the little ones, “and you will see.” The camel came back while browsing the grass of the roadside. The wren stretched himself out near the nest. The camel seized the bird, which passed through its teeth safe and sound.
“Truly,” he said to them, “the camel is a gigantic animal, but I am not ashamed of myself.”
On the earth it generally happens that the vain are as if they did not exist. But sooner or later a rock falls and crushes them.
* * * * *
The mule, the jackal, and the lion went in company. “We will eat the one whose race is bad,” they said to each other.
“Lion, who is your father?”
“My father is a lion and my mother is a lioness.”
“And you, jackal, what is your father?”
“My father is a jackal and my mother, too.”
“And you, mule, what is your father?”
“My father is an ass, and my mother is a mare.”
“Your race is bad; we will eat you.”
He answered them: “I will consult an old man. If he says that my race is bad, you may devour me.”
He went to a farrier, and said to him, “Shoe my hind feet, and make the nails stick out well.”
He went back home. He called the camel and showed him his feet, saying: “See what is written on this tablet.”
“The writing is difficult to decipher,” answered the camel. “I do not understand it, for I only know three words—outini, ouzatini, ouazakin.” He called a lion, and said to him: “I do not understand these letters; I only know three words—outini, ouzatini, ouazakin”
“Show it to me,” said the lion. He approached. The mule struck him between the eyes and stretched him out stiff.
He who goes with a knave is betrayed by him.
* * * * *
A woman had seven daughters and no son. She went to the city, and there saw a rich shop. A little farther on she perceived at the door of a house a young girl of great beauty. She called her parents, and said:
“I have my son to marry; let me have your daughter for him.”
They let her take the girl away. She came back to the shop and said to the man in charge of it:
“I will gladly give you my daughter; but go first and consult your father.”
The young man left a servant in his place and departed. Thadhellala (that was her name) sent the servant to buy some bread in another part of the city. Along came a caravan of mules. Thadhellala packed all the contents of the shop on their backs and said to the muleteer:
“I will go on ahead; my son will come in a moment. Wait for him—he will pay you.”
She went off with the mules and the treasures which she had packed upon them. The servant came back soon.
“Where is your mother?” cried the muleteer; “hurry and, pay me.”
“You tell me where she is and I will make her give me back what she has stolen.” And they went before the justice.
Thadhellala pursued her way, and met seven young students. She said to one of them, “A hundred francs and I will marry you.” The student gave them to her. She made the same offer to the others, and each one took her word.
Arriving at a fork in the road, the first one said, “I will take you,” the second one said, “I will take you,” and so on to the last.
Thadhellala answered: “You shall have a race as far as that ridge over there, and the one that gets there first shall marry me.”
The young men started. Just then a horseman came passing by. “Lend me your horse,” she said to him. The horseman jumped off. Thadhellala mounted the horse and said:
“You see that ridge? I will rejoin you there.”
The scholars perceived the man. “Have you not seen a woman?” they asked him. “She has stolen 700 francs from us.”
“Haven’t you others seen her? She has stolen my horse?”
They went to complain to the Sultan, who gave the command to arrest Thadhellala. A man promised to seize her. He secured a comrade, and they both pursued Thadhellala, who had taken flight. Nearly overtaken by the man, she met a negro who pulled teeth, and said to him:
“You see my son coming down there; pull out his teeth.” When the other passed the negro pulled out his teeth. The poor toothless one seized the negro and led him before the Sultan to have him punished. The negro said to the Sultan: “It was his mother that told me to pull them out for him.”
“Sidi,” said the accuser, “I was pursuing Thadhellala.”
The Sultan then sent soldiers in pursuit of the woman, who seized her and hung her up at the gates of the city. Seeing herself arrested, she sent a messenger to her relatives.
Then there came by a man who led a mule. Seeing her he said, “How has this woman deserved to be hanged in this way?”
“Take pity on me,” said Thadhellala; “give me your mule and I will show you a treasure.” She sent him to a certain place where the pretended treasure was supposed to be hidden. At this the brother-in-law of Thadhellala had arrived.
“Take away this mule,” she said to him. The searcher for treasures dug in the earth at many places and found nothing. He came back to Thadhellala and demanded his mule.
She began to weep and cry. The sentinel ran up, and Thadhellala brought complaint against this man. She was released, and he was hanged in her place.
She fled to a far city, of which the Sultan had just then died. Now, according to the custom of that country, they took as king the person who happened to be at the gates of the city when the King died. Fate took Thadhellala there at the right time. They conducted her to the palace, and she was proclaimed Queen.
* * * * *
Two men, one good and the other bad, started out together to do business, and took provisions with them. Soon the bad one said to the good one: “I am hungry; give me some of your food.” He gave him some, and they both ate.
They went on again till they were hungry. “Give me some of your food,” said the bad one. He gave him some of it, and they ate.
They went on until they were hungry. “Give me some of your food,” said the bad one. He gave him some, and they ate.
They went on until they were hungry. The good man said to his companion: “Give me some of your food.”
“Oh, no, my dear,” said the bad one.
“I beg you to give me some of your food,” said the good one.
“Let me pluck out one of your eyes,” answered the bad one. He consented. The bad one took his pincers and took out one of his eyes.
They went on until they came to a certain place. Hunger pressed them. “Give me some of your food,” said the good man.
“Let me pluck out your other eye,” answered his companion.
“O my dear,” replied the good man, “leave it to me, I beg of you.”
“No!” responded the bad one; “no eye, no food.”
But finally he said, “Pluck it out.”
They proceeded until they came to a certain place. When hunger pressed them anew the bad one abandoned his companion.
A bird came passing by, and said to him: “Take a leaf of this tree and apply it to your eyes.” He took a leaf of the tree, applied it to his eyes, and was healed. He arose, continued on his way, and arrived at a city where he found the one who had plucked out his eyes.
“Who cured you?”
“A bird passed near me,” said the good man. “He said to me, ’Take a leaf of this tree.’ I took it, applied it to my eyes, and was cured.”
The good man found the King of the city blind.
“Give me back my sight and I will give you my daughter.”
He restored his sight to him, and the King gave him his daughter. The good man took his wife to his house. Every morning he went to present his respects to the King, and kissed his head. One day he fell ill. He met the bad one, who said to him:
“Eat an onion and you will be cured; but when you kiss the King’s head, turn your head aside or the King will notice your breath and will kill you.”
After these words he ran to the King and said: “O King, your son-in-law disdains you.”
“O my dear,” answered the King, “my son-in-law does not disdain me.”
“Watch him,” answered the bad one; “when he comes to kiss your head he will turn away from you.”
The King remarked that his son-in-law did turn away on kissing his head.
“Wait a moment,” he said to him. Immediately he wrote a letter to the Sultan, and gave it to his son-in-law, commanding him to carry it to the Sultan. Going out of the house he met the bad one, who wanted to carry the letter himself. The good man gave it to him. The Sultan read the letter, and had the bad one’s head cut off. The good man returned to the King.
“What did he say?” asked the King.
“Ah, Sidi, I met a man who wanted to carry the letter. I intrusted it to him and he took it to the Sultan, who condemned him to death in the city.”
* * * * *
A man had two wives. He was a rich merchant. One of them had a son whose forehead was curved with a forelock. Her husband said to her:
“Don’t work any more, but only take care of the child. The other wife will do all the work.”
One day he went to market. The childless wife said to the other, “Go, get some water.”
“No,” she answered, “our husband does not want me to work.”
“Go, get some water, I tell you.” And the woman went to the fountain. On the way she met a crow half dead with fatigue. A merchant who was passing took it up and carried it away. He arrived before the house of the woman who had gone to the fountain, and there found the second woman.
“Give something to this crow,” demanded the merchant.
“Give it to me,” she answered, “and I will make you rich.”
“What will you give me?” asked the merchant.
“A child,” replied the woman.
The merchant refused, and said to her, “Where did you steal it?”
“From whom did I steal it?” she cried. “It is my own son.”
“Bring him.”
She brought the child to him, and the merchant left her the crow and took the boy to his home and soon became very, rich. The mother came back from the fountain. The other woman said:
“Where is your son? Listen, he is crying, that son of yours.”
“He is not crying,” she answered.
“You don’t know how to amuse him. I’ll go and take him.”
“Leave him alone,” said the mother. “He is asleep.”
They ground some wheat, and the child did not appear to wake up.
At this the husband returned from the market and said to the mother, “Why don’t you busy yourself looking after your son?” Then she arose to take him, and found a crow in the cradle. The other woman cried:
“This is the mother of a crow! Take it into the other house; sprinkle it with hot water.” She went to the other house and poured hot water on the crow.
Meanwhile, the child called the merchant his father and the merchant’s wife his mother. One day the merchant set off on a journey. His mother brought some food to him in the room where he was confined.
“My son,” she said, “will you promise not to betray me?”
“You are my mother,” answered the child; “I will not betray you.”
“Only promise me.”
“I promise not to betray you.”
“Well, know that I am not your mother and my husband is not your father.”
The merchant came home from his journey and took the child some food, but he would not eat it.
“Why won’t you eat?” asked the merchant. “Could your mother have been here?”
“No,” answered the child, “she has not been here.”
The merchant went to his wife and said to her, “Could you have gone up to the child’s chamber?”
The woman answered, “I did not go up to the room.”
The merchant carried food to the child, who said: “For the love of God, I adjure you to tell me if you are my father and if your wife is my mother.”
The merchant answered: “My son, I am not your father and my wife is not your mother.”
The child said to her, “Prepare us some food.”
When she had prepared the food the child mounted a horse and the merchant a mule. They proceeded a long way, and arrived at the village of which the real father of the child was the chief. They entered his house. They gave food to the child, and said, “Eat.”
“I will not eat until the other woman comes up here.”
“Eat. She is a bad woman.”
“No, let her come up.” They called her. The merchant ran to the child.
“Why do you act thus toward her?”
“Oh!” cried those present, “she had a child that was changed into a crow.”
“No doubt,” said the merchant; “but the child had a mark.”
“Yes, he had one.”
“Well, if we find it, we shall recognize the child. Put out the lamp.” They put it out. The child threw off its hood. They lighted the lamp again.
“Rejoice,” cried the child, “I am your son!”
* * * * *
A man had a boy and a girl. Their mother died and he took another wife. The little boy stayed at school until evening. The school-master asked them:
“What do your sisters do?”
One answered, “She makes bread.”
A second, “She goes to fetch water.”
A third, “She prepares the couscous.”
When he questioned H’ab Sliman, the child played deaf, the master struck him. One day his sister said to him: “What is the matter, O my brother? You seem to be sad.”
“Our schoolmaster punishes us,” answered the child.
“And why does he punish you?” inquired the young girl.
The child replied: “After we have studied until evening he asks each of us what our sisters do. They answer him: she kneads bread, she goes to get water. But when he questions me I have nothing to say, and he beats me.”
“Is it nothing but for that?”
“That is all.”
“Well,” added the young girl, “the next time he asks you, answer him: ’This is what my sister does: When she laughs the sun shines; when she weeps it rains; when she combs her hair, legs of mutton fall; when she goes from one place to another, roses drop.’”
The child gave that answer.
“Truly,” said the schoolmaster, “that is a rich match.” A few days after he bought her, and they made preparations for her departure for the house of her husband. The stepmother of the young girl made her a little loaf of salt bread. She ate it and asked some drink from her sister, the daughter of her stepmother.
“Let me pluck out one of your eyes,” said the sister.
“Pluck it out,” said the promised bride, “for our people are already on the way.”
The stepmother gave her to drink and plucked out one of her eyes.
“A little more,” she said.
“Let me take out your other eye,” answered the cruel woman.
The young girl drank and let her pluck out the other eye. Scarcely had she left the house than the stepmother thrust her out on the road. She dressed her own daughter and put her in the place of the blind one. They arrive.
“Comb yourself,” they told her, and there fell dust.
“Walk,” and nothing happened.
“Laugh,” and her front teeth fell out.
All cried, “Hang H’ab Sliman!”
Meanwhile some crows came flying near the young blind girl, and one said to her: “Some merchants are on the point of passing this way. Ask them for a little wool, and I will restore your sight.”
The merchants came up and the blind girl asked them for a little wool, and each one of them threw her a bit. The crow descended near her and restored her sight.
“Into what shall we change you?” they asked.
“Change me into a pigeon,” she answered.
The crows stuck a needle into her head and she was changed into a pigeon. She took her flight to the house of the schoolmaster and perched upon a tree near by. The people went to sow wheat.
“O master of the field,” she said, “is H’ab Sliman yet hanged?”
She began to weep, and the rain fell until the end of the day’s work.
One day the people of the village went to find a venerable old man and said to him:
“O old man, a bird is perched on one of our trees. When we go to work the sky is covered with clouds and it rains. When the day’s work is done the sun shines.”
“Go,” said the old man, “put glue on the branch where it perches.”
They put glue on its branch and caught the bird. The daughter of the stepmother said to her mother:
“Let us kill it.”
“No,” said a slave, “we will amuse ourselves with it.”
“No; kill it.” And they killed it. Its blood spurted upon a rose-tree. The rose-tree became so large that it overspread all the village. The people worked to cut it down until evening, and yet it remained the size of a thread.
“To-morrow,” they said, “we will finish it.” The next morning they found it as big as it was the day before. They returned to the old man and said to him:
“O old man, we caught the bird and killed it. Its blood gushed upon a rose-tree, which became so large that it overspreads the whole village. Yesterday we worked all day to cut it down. We left it the size of a thread. This morning we find it as big as ever.”
“O my children,” said the old man, “you are not yet punished enough. Take H’ab Sliman, perhaps he will have an expedient. Make him sleep at your house.” H’ab Sliman said to them, “Give me a sickle.” Someone said to him: “We who are strong have cut all day without being able to accomplish it, and do you think you will be capable of it? Let us see if you will find a new way to do it.”
At the moment when he gave the first blow a voice said to him:
“Take care of me, O my brother!”
The voice wept, the child began to weep, and it rained. H’ab Sliman recognized his sister.
“Laugh,” he said. She laughed and the sun shone, and the people got dried.
“Comb yourself,” and legs of mutton fell. All those who were present regaled themselves on them. “Walk,” and roses fell. “But what is the matter with you, my sister?”
“What has happened to me.”
“What revenge does your heart desire?”
“Attach the daughter of my stepmother to the tail of a horse that she may be dragged in the bushes.”
When the young girl was dead, they took her to the house, cooked her, and sent her to her mother and sister.
“O my mother,” cried the latter, “this eye is that of my sister Aftelis.”
“Eat, unhappy one,” said the mother, “your sister Aftelis has become the slave of slaves.”
“But look at it,” insisted the young girl. “You have not even looked at it. I will give this piece to the one who will weep a little.”
“Well,” said the cat, “if you give me that piece I will weep with one eye.”
* * * * *
He had a son whom he brought up well. The child grew and said one day to the King, “I am going out for a walk.”
“It is well,” answered the King. At a certain place he found an olive-tree on fire.
“O God,” he cried, “help me to put out this fire!”
Suddenly God sent the rain, the fire was extinguished, and the young man was able to pass. He came to the city and said to the governor:
“Give me a chance to speak in my turn.”
“It is well,” said he; “speak.”
“I ask the hand of your daughter,” replied the young man.
“I give her to you,” answered the governor, “for if you had not put out that fire the city would have been devoured by the flames.”
He departed with his wife. After a long march the wife made to God this prayer:
“O God, place this city here.”
The city appeared at the very spot. Toward evening the Marabout of the city of which the father of the young bridegroom was King went to the mosque to say his prayers.
“O marvel!” he cried, “what do I see down there?”
The King called his wife and sent her to see what was this new city. The woman departed, and, addressing the wife of the young prince, asked alms of him. He gave her alms. The messenger returned and said to the King:
“It is your son who commands in that city.”
The King, pricked by jealousy, said to the woman: “Go, tell him to come and find me. I must speak with him.”
The woman went away and returned with the King’s son. His father said to him:
“If you are the son of the King, go and see your mother in the other world.”
He regained his palace in tears.
“What is the matter with you,” asked his wife, “you whom destiny has given me?”
He answered her: “My father told me, ’Go and see your mother in the other world.’”
“Return to your father,” she replied, “and ask him for the book of the grandmother of your grandmother.”
He returned to his father, who gave him the book. He brought it to his wife, who said to him, “Lay it on the grave of your mother.” He placed it there and the grave opened. He descended and found a man who was licking the earth. He saw another who was eating mildew. And he saw a third who was eating meat.
“Why do you eat meat?” he asked him.
“Because I did good on earth,” responded the shade. “Where shall I find my mother?” asked the prince.
The shade said, “She is down there.”
He went to his mother, who asked him why he came to seek her.
He replied, “My father sent me.”
“Return,” said the mother, “and say to your father to lift up the beam which is on the hearth.” The prince went to his father. “My mother bids you take up the beam which is above the hearth.” The King raised it and found a treasure.
“If you are the son of the King,” he added, “bring me someone a foot high whose beard measures two feet.” The prince began to weep.
“Why do you weep,” asked his wife, “you whom destiny has given me?”
The prince answered her, “My father said to me, ’Bring me someone a foot high whose beard measures two feet.”
“Return to your father,” she replied, “and ask him for the book of the grandfather of your grandfather.”
His father gave him the book and the prince brought it to his wife.
“Take it to him again and let him put it in the assembly place, and call a public meeting.” A man a foot high appeared, took up the book, went around the city, and ate up all the inhabitants.
* * * * *
A certain sultan had a son who rode his horse through the city where his father reigned, and killed everyone he met. The inhabitants united and promised a flock to him who should make him leave the city. An old woman took it upon herself to realize the wishes of her fellow-citizens. She procured some bladders and went to the fountain to fill them with the cup of an acorn. The old man came to water his horse and said to the old woman:
“Get out of my way.”
She would not move. The young man rode his horse over the bladders and burst them.
“If you had married Thithbirth, a cavalier,” cried the old woman, “you would not have done this damage. But I predict that you will never marry her, for already seventy cavaliers have met death on her account.”
The young man, pricked to the quick, regained his horse, took provisions, and set out for the place where he should find the young girl. On the way he met a man. They journeyed together. Soon they perceived an ogress with a dead man at her side.
“Place him in the earth,” said the ogress to them; “it is my son; the Sultan hanged him and cut off his foot with a sword.”
They took one of the rings of the dead man and went on their way. Soon they entered a village and offered the ring to the governor, who asked them for another like it. They went away from there, returned through the country which they had traversed, and met a pilgrim who had made the tour of the world. They had visited every place except the sea. They turned toward the sea. At the moment of embarking, a whale barred their passage. They retraced their steps, and met the ogress, took a second ring from the dead man, and departed. At a place they found sixty corpses. A singing bird was guarding them. The travellers stopped and heard the bird say:
“He who shall speak here shall be changed into a rock and shall die. Mahomet-ben-Soltan, you shall never wed the young girl. Ninety-nine cavaliers have already met death on her account.”
Mahomet stayed till morning without saying one word. Then he departed with his companion for the city where Thithbirth dwelt. When they arrived they were pressed with hunger. Mahomet’s companion said to him:
“Sing that which you heard the bird sing.” He began to sing. The young girl, whom they meant to buy, heard him and asked him from whom he had got that song.
“From my head,” he answered.
Mahomet’s companion said: “We learned it in the fields from a singing bird.”
“Bring me that bird,” she said, “or I’ll have your head cut off.”
Mahomet took a lantern and a cage which he placed upon the branch of the tree where the bird was perching.
“Do you think to catch me?” cried the bird. The next day it entered the cage and the young man took it away. When they were in the presence of the young girl the bird said to her:
“We have come to buy you.”
The father of the young girl said to Mahomet: “If you find her you may have her. But if not, I will kill you. Ninety-nine cavaliers have already met death thus. You will be the hundredth.”
The bird flew toward the woman.
“Where shall I find you?” it asked her.
She answered: “You see that door at which I am sitting; it is the usual place of my father. I shall be hidden underneath.”
The next day Mahomet presented himself before the Sultan: “Arise,” he said, “your daughter is hidden there.”
The Sultan imposed this new condition: “My daughter resembles ninety-nine others of her age. She is the hundredth. If you recognize her in the group I will give her to you. But if not, I will kill you.”
The young girl said to Mahomet, “I will ride a lame horse.” Mahomet recognized her, and the Sultan gave her to him, with a serving-maid, a female slave, and another woman.
Mahomet and his companion departed. Arriving at a certain road they separated. Mahomet retained for himself his wife and the slave woman, and gave to his companion the two other women. He gained the desert and left for a moment his wife and the slave woman. In his absence an ogre took away his wife. He ran in search of her and met some shepherds.
“O shepherds,” he said, “can you tell me where the ogre lives?”
They pointed out the place. Arriving, he saw his wife. Soon the ogre appeared, and Mahomet asked where he should find his destiny.
“My destiny is far from here,” answered the ogre. “My destiny is in an egg, the egg in a pigeon, the pigeon in a camel, the camel in the sea.”
Mahomet arose, ran to dig a hole at the shore of the sea, stretched a mat over the hole; a camel sprang from the water and fell into the hole. He killed it and took out an egg, crushed the egg in his hands, and the ogre died. Mahomet took his wife and came to his father’s city, where he built himself a palace. The father promised a flock to him who should kill his son. As no one offered, he sent an army of soldiers to besiege him. He called one of them in particular and said to him:
“Kill Mahomet and I will enrich you.”
The soldiers managed to get near the young prince, put out his eyes, and left him in the field. An eagle passed and said to Mahomet: “Don’t do any good to your parents, but since your father has made you blind take the bark of this tree, apply it to your eyes, and you will be cured.”
The young man was healed.
A short time after his father said to him, “I will wed your wife.”
“You cannot,” he answered. The Sultan convoked the Marabout, who refused him the dispensation he demanded. Soon Mahomet killed his father and celebrated his wedding-feast for seven days and seven nights.