Chapter 16

Keep far away from him who has not come To thee in his misfortune. Leave him free. My uncle writes to me this very day That if he held in his own hands the leaf Of my life's destiny he'd blot it out. If he had in his hands this leaf, O say to him:

Let him efface it openly, nor hide You'll not be able, save with God's own help To bear the separation. As for those Who are so evil, we will spare them now. The barrel of this gun is rusted red. The lock is forceless, 'twill no longer act. Misfortune overtake the man who leaves His child to perish! For the least of things He says to me, "Come, give me up this gun."

I go to seek the desert. I will go Among the tribe they call Oulad Azyz, And live by force. But, pray you say to her, The fair one with the deftly braided hair, I leave the tribe, but shall return for her.

I disappear, but shall come back for her. And while I live, I never shall forget. I swear it by the head of that sweet one Who for the sake of Ali was accused. The cup of passion which I offered her O'ercame her lovely spirit's tenderness.

The cup of love intoxicated her. O God, Creator of us all, give her The strength to bear my absence! Sad for me The hour I dream of her I love so well. Her love is in my heart and burns it up.

My heart is sad. 'Tis love that crushes it. It leaves my heart reduced to naught but dust. So that I am consumed by vigils long, And never taste refreshing sleep at all. So that I'm like a bird with broken wings,

Just like a bird who tries to lift its wings! And so my spirit is not healed. There comes To me no comfort nor relief. The eyes Of my beloved are as bright as day. One word from her would send the friends to death.

IN HONOR OF LALLA AYCHA-EL-MANNOUBYYA

A fire burns at the bottom of my heart, For love has conquered me, and I am now His hostage and his prisoner. My soul Is torn out from my body, and sweet sleep Keeps far aloof from my tired eyelids' need. 'Tis Aycha causes this, the pretty one. With blackest eyes, Aycha the pure, from whom I'm parted now, whose name is finest gold. Why? why? Oh, tell me, El Mannoubyya.

Why all this coldness, O my best beloved? For thy dear love I have drunk deep of scorn. For thy love, maiden with the darksome looks, I wither while thou bear'st a port of oak. The fire that burns me eats my very soul. My spirit is distracted by these proofs. O thou, rebellious to my warm desires, My black-eyed beauty, if thou'rt vexed with me I'll make apology before the world, I'll bring an offering to thee at once, The symbol of my homage. May it please!

Instruct me, sympathetic with my pain Have you not said: "I'll bring thee soon good news"? O come! That in my sleep my eyes may see Thee coming toward me, my black-pupilled one! Awaiting thy fair image I'm consumed, I am exhausted. Why, El Mannoubyya?

I long have hoped to see thee, O my sweet. And ever farther off appears the end Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed In cries for thee, as some poor mariner Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft. For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one, Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness. And I alone must wither, 'mongst my friends. O unpersuadable, with teasing eyes, I am in a most pitiable state. Since thou repell'st me and declin'st to keep Thy promise to me, I'll not hesitate To call thee before God.

Unless thou deign'st To cast thy looks on me the coming day, I shall, all clad in vestments rich, make plaint Unto the envoy of our God, the last Of all the prophets. For thou said'st to me, "I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair." I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet, My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night. Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why.

Let thyself bend and call thy servitor, Inhabitant of Tunis--city green. I will apologize and come to thee, O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark. We've heard the story of thy deeds so fine. From common brass whene'er thou walk'st abroad, Thou drawest silver pure, queen of thy time, 'Mongst men illumined by thy piety. The wretch, led on by love, accosted thee. Receiving grace, despite his base design He was, nathless, forgiven and saved from sin; So was it from eternity decreed. They all consulted thee, queen of thy day, And thou didst answer: "This man truly loved. Pour him a cup of wine." By thee he came Unto perfection's acme, step by step. Our Lord, all-powerful, gave to thee this power.

These are thy merits, fairest citizen! To whom God gave strength irresistible. O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha, Our queen.

Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard Of all that time, has said: "I wrote these words The year one thousand one hundred just, But thou who read'st these lines, where'er it be, Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight." Now I salute all those united here And him who hates me here I steep in scorn. Why? why? El Mannoubyya! Why?

SAYD AND HYZYYA

Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone. Alas! O cruel fate! My heart's with slim Hyzyya in the grave.

Alas! we were so happy a short while Ago, just like the prairie flow'rs in spring; How sweet to us was life in those dear days! Now like a phantom's shadow she has gone, That young gazelle, of utter loveliness. Removed by stern, inevitable fate.

When she walked forth, not looking right or left, My beauteous loved one rendered fools the wise. Impressed thus was the great bey of the camp. A gleaming poniard rested in his belt. He went hemmed in by soldiers and a horde Of horsemen, glad to follow where he led. All haste to bring him costly gifts. He bore A sabre of the Ind, and with one stroke He cleaved a bar of iron, split a rock. How many rebels fell beneath his blow! Haughty and proud, he challenged all who came. Enough now we have glorified the bey. Speak, singer, in a song that's sweet and new, The praises of the dainty girl I loved, The daughter of good Ahmed ben el Bey.

Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate!

She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze, Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark. Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood Gives it the shining brightness of the sun. Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss Is sweet as milk or honey loved by all. Oh, see that neck, more white than palm-tree's heart, That sheath of crystal, bound with bands of gold. Thy chest is marble, and thy tender breasts Are apples whose sweet scent makes well the ill. Thy body is, like paper, shining, white, Or cotton or fine linen, or, again, Just like the snow that falls in a dark night. Hyzyya lets her sash hang gracefully, Down-falling to the earth, in fold on fold. Her fine limbs jingle with gems she wears. Her slippers clink with coupled rings of gold.

We were encamped at Bazer. Every day At dawn I saw the beauty, and we were So glad together! Every dawn I brought My wishes to my love and followed fate More happy than if I alone possessed All riches and all treasures of the earth. Wealth equals not the tinkle of her gems. When I had crossed the mountain there I met Hyzyya, and she walked amid the fields With every grace, and made her bracelets ring. My reason wandered, heart and head were vexed.

After a happy summer passed at Tell, We came, my dearest one and I, Sahara-ward.

The litters now are closed, the powder sounds. My gray horse to Hyzyya bears me swift. The palanquin of my coquette's on route. At Azal when night comes we pitch our tents. Sydy-l-Ahsen is before us now: Ez-Zerga, too. Then faring on we go To Sydy Sayd, and Elmetkeouk, And Medoukal-of-palms, where we arrive At eventide. We saddle up at dawn, Just when the breeze begins. Our halting-place, Sydy Mehammed, decks this peaceful earth. From there the litters seek El Mekheraf. My charger gray straight as an eagle goes. I wend to Ben Seryer with my love, Of tattooed arms. When we had crossed Djedy We passed the wide plain, and we spent the night At Rous-et-toual, near the gleaming sands. Ben Djellal was our next day's resting-place; And, leaving there, I camped at El Besbas, And last at El-Herymek, with my love.

How many festivals beheld us then! In the arena my good steed of gray Fled like a ghost. And sweet Hyzyya there, Tall as a flagstaff, bent her gaze on me, Her smile disclosing teeth of purest pearl. She spoke but in allusions, causing thus That I should understand whate'er she meant. Hamyda's daughter then might be compared Unto the morning-star or a tall palm, Alone, erect among the other trees. The wind uprooted it, and dashed it down. I did not look to see it fall, this tree I hoped forever to protect. I thought That God, divinely good, would let it live. But God, the Master, dashed it to the earth.

I take up now my song. We made but one Encampment, at Oned Itel. 'Twas there My friend, the queen of damsels, said farewell. 'Twas in the night she paid the debt of death. 'Twas there my dark-eyed beauty passed away. She pressed her heart to mine and, sighing, died. My cheeks were flooded with a sea of tears. I thought to lose my reason. I went forth And wandered through the fields, ravines, and hills. She bore my soul away, my black-eyed love. The daughter of a noble race. Alas! She still increased the burnings of my heart.

They wrapped her in a shroud, my noble love. The fever took me, burning up my brain. They placed her on a bier, all decked with gems. And I was in a stupor, dull to see All that was passing on that dreadful day. They bore my beauty in a palanquin-- Her pretty palanquin--this lovely girl, Cause of my sorrows, tall as a straight staff. Her litter is adorned with odd designs, Shining as brilliant as the morning-star, And like the rainbow glowing 'midst the clouds, All hung with silk and figured damask-cloth. And I, like any child, was in despair, Mourning Hyzyya. Oh, what pangs I felt For her whose profile was so pure! She nevermore Will reappear upon this earth again. She died the death of martyrs, my sweet love, My fair'st one, with Koheul-tinted lids!

They took her to a country that is called Sydy Kaled, and buried her at night, My tattooed beauty. And her lovely eyes, Like a gazelle's, have never left my sight. O sexton, care now for my sweet gazelle, And let no stones fall on Hyzyya's grave. I do adjure thee by the Holy Book And by the letters which make up the name Of God, the Giver of all good, let no Earth fall upon the dame with mirror decked.

Were it to claim her from a rival's arms I would attack three troops of warriors. I'd take her from a hostile tribe by force. Could I but swear by her dear head, my love, My black-eyed beauty--I would never count My enemies, 'though they a hundred were. Were she unto the strongest to belong I swear she never would be swept from me.

In the sweet name Hyzyya I'd attack And fight with cavaliers innumerable. Were she to be the spoil of conqueror, You'd hear abroad the tale of my exploits. I'd take her by main strength from all who vied. Were she the meed of furious encounters I'd fight for years for her, and win at last! For I am brave. But since it is the will Of God, the mighty and compassionate, I cannot ward away from me this blow. I'll wait in patience for the happy day When I shall join thee. For I only think Of thee, my dearest love, of thee alone!

My gray steed fell dead as he leaped. O friends, After my love, he's gone and left me, too. My charger, 'mid these hills, was of all steeds The fleetest, and in fiercest war's attack All saw him at the head of the platoon. What prodigies he wrought in war's red field! He showed himself ahead of all his peers. A blood-mare was his mother. He excelled In all the contests 'twixt the wandering camps; I tourneyed with him careless of my fate. When just a month had passed I lost the steed. Hyzyya first, and then this noble horse. He did not long survive my well-beloved. They both are gone, leaving their last farewells. O grief! my charger's reins have fallen down. God made my life a death, in leaving me Behind. For them I die. Oh, cruel hurt! I weep for this just as a lover weeps. Each day my heart burns fiercer, and my joy Has fled away. Now tell me, O my eyes, Why shed so many tears? Beyond a doubt The pleasures of the world will capture you. And will you grant no mercy? My sad soul But sees its torments grow. My pretty one, With lashes black, who was my heart's delight, Now sleeps beneath the sod. I do but weep And my head whitens for the beauteous one, With pearly teeth. My eyes no longer can Endure the separation from their friend.

The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs, Then gains the west. It disappears from sight When it has gained the summit of the vault Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world. To these would I compare the lovely queen Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed, Descendant of a race illustrious, The daughter of Donaonda.

Such is The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men. The Lord hath shown his will and borne away Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord! My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love Did tear it from me when she left the earth.

She's worth a hundred steeds of noble race, A thousand camels, and a grove of palms In Zyban. Yes, all Djryd is she worth, From near to far. The country of the blacks, Haoussa and its people is she worth, Arabians of Tell and dry Sahara, And the encampments of the tribes, as far As caravans can reach by all the ways, All nomads and all travellers, she's worth, And those who settle down as citizens. The treasurer of all riches is she worth, My black-eyed beauty. And if thou dost think This all too small, add all the cities' folk. She's worth all flocks and nicely chisel'd gold, She's worth the palms of Dra and Chaouyya; All that the sea contains, my love is worth, The fields and cities from beyond Djebel Amour, as far as Ghardaya. She is worth All Mzab, the plains of Zab. She pleases, too, The people of the Goubba, holy folk, And friends of God. She's worth all noble steeds However richly housed--or evening's star When twilight comes. Too small--'tis all too small For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes. O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch! Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves!

Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age Of her who wore the silken sash. My love Has followed her, ne'er to revive within My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans, My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one, Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now In her cold, dark, eternal home. Console me, O young friends, for having lost Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest. Naught but a name she left behind which I Gave to the camp wherein she passed away. Console me, men, for I have lost my fair, Dear one, that silver _khelkals_ wore. Now is she covered with a veil of stone, On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends, For all this loss, for she loved none but me. With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed, Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd, Blue as the collar of the gentle dove. Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn, Although without _galam_--my handiwork. I drew them 'twixt her breasts, and on her wrists I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate!

Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee, Shall never see thee more! The memory Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet.

Oh, pardon, God compassionate, forgive Us all. Sa'yd is sad, he weeps for one Dear as his soul. Forgive this love, Lord! Hyzyya--join them in his sleep, O God most high. Forgive the author of these verses here! It is Mahomet that recites this tale.

O Thou who hast the future in thy hand, Give resignation to one mad with love! Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn. My enemies might give me pity now. All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep. I write this with my love but three days dead. She left me, said farewell, and came not back.

This song, O ye who listen, was composed Within the year twelve hundred finished now, The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.]

This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month, At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man, Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung Of her you'll never see again alive. My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb.

THE AÏSSAOUA IN PARIS[A]

Come, see what's happened in this evil year. The earthquake tumbled all the houses down, Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.

Hear what has happened to those negro scamps, Musicians--rogues, and Aïssaoua. They spoke of nothing but their project great. Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!

On learning of the tour of Rayyato They all began to cry and run about, Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod. The Lord afflicts them much in this our world. 'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers, Who did not follow them about in crowds.

The Christian Salvador put them on ship. One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick." A wench poured aromatics on the fire, And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.

The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm, Between the sea and church, upon the wharf He drew them, wonders promising, and led Them but to beggary.

He takes them to His land to show them to the chief of all His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes To get a present and thus pay them back, Retaining all the money he advanced.

[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."