Part 17

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 Aïssaoua.

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 Qettár 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 Batâta--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 Móstafa ben el Meddâh 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 cafékeeper, 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 Sáyd, 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 Boû 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.

SONG OF FATIMA[1]

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.

THE CITY GIRL AND THE COUNTRY GIRL

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 René Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_]

STORIES OF ANIMALS

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.

* * * * *

THE HEDGEHOG, THE JACKAL, AND THE LION

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."