Classical Arabic Stories Read online

And give me my rights from an oppressor

  Who has tortured me where killing would have been lighter.

  He snatched Suʿda from me, assailed me, and oppressed me.

  I went to him in hope, but he cast me in prison

  And put me to torture in chains.

  He almost killed me, but death stayed its hand,

  My life was not yet due to end.

  Help me, I beg you, God’s paradise be your reward.

  My mind is gone from my grief for Suʿda.

  When he had finished his recital, Muʿawiya said:

  “I see, Bedouin, that you speak of one of our viceroys but have not named him.”

  “It is your cousin,” replied the Bedouin. “Marwan ibn al-Hakam, the viceroy of Medina.”

  “And what is your story?” Muʿawiya asked.

  “May God guide the Prince,” the Bedouin said, “I had a cousin whose hand I asked from her father, and he gave her to me in marriage. I loved her devotedly, on account of her perfect beauty and character, her sensible mind, and her kinship to me. For a time, Prince of the Faithful, we lived together in the greatest possible happiness, and my mind was perfectly at peace. During that time I had a herd of camels, and a flock of sheep, from which I was able to keep her and myself. But God’s decree and the shifts of time changed all that: the beasts were struck by disease, and I was left with nothing. I was brought low and filled with anxiety. My situation grew ever worse, till I was ready to lose my mind; I felt myself a burden on the face of the earth. When news of this reached her father, he came between us and stopped my seeing her, denied me my rights, cast me out, and hid her away from me. I felt helpless, with no one to stand for me. And so I went to Marwan ibn al-Hakam to complain of my uncle. He sent for my uncle, and, when he was standing there in front of him, asked:

  “ ‘Man, why did you come between your nephew and his wife?’

  “ ‘May God guide the Prince,’ my uncle answered, ‘he has no wife from me. I never married my daughter to him.’

  “ ‘May God guide the Prince,’ I said, ‘I have every trust in the maiden. Let the Prince send for her and ask her.’

  “He sent for her, and she came promptly. When she was standing there in front of him, and he saw her beauty, he coveted her; and, Prince of the Faithful, becoming suddenly hostile to me, he rebuked me and ordered me to be imprisoned. I felt as though I had tumbled from the sky into the deepest pit. Then he said to her father:

  “ ‘If you will marry her to me, I will give you a thousand dinars, and add ten thousand dirhams for you to spend. In the meantime, I shall vouch for her divorce.’

  “ ‘If you will do this,’ he replied, ‘then I will give her to you in marriage.’

  “Next morning, Marwan sent for me. When I was standing there in front of him, he looked at me like a raging lion. Then he said:

  “ ‘Bedouin, divorce Suʿda.’

  “ ‘I will not,’ I said.

  “He ordered me to be flogged, then sent me back to prison. Next morning, he sent for me once more.

  “ ‘Divorce Suʿda,’ he said again.

  “ ‘I will not,’ I answered.

  “He then set his slaves on me, and they beat me quite savagely. Then he sent me back to prison. The third day he sent for me yet again, and, when I came, ordered the sword and the leather mat to be brought, and called in the executioner.

  “ Bedouin,’ he said, ‘by the majesty of my God and the dignity of my father, if you will not divorce Suʿda, I shall part your head from your body.’

  “Fearing for my life, I divorced her, but once only. Again he sent me back to prison, till her time of waiting was over.1 Then he married her, and released me. And I have come to you, Prince of the Faithful, seeking justice. I beg you to have mercy on me. Lack of sleep has worn me out, worries have wasted my body, and I am losing my mind for love of her.”

  With that he burst into tears, having first recited a short poem to describe the state of his mind:

  Fire in my heart, harboring destruction,

  My body so sick it confounds the physician,

  My eyes shedding tears like rain.

  A heavy weight I bear that frets my patience.

  My night is not night, nor my day day.

  Have mercy on me then, a downcast man whose heart is in flight.

  Return my Suʿda to me, and the mighty God will reward you.

  With that he fainted, there in the caliph’s presence, ready to die as it seemed. Muʿawiya had been reclining till this moment, but now he sat up.

  “Marwan ibn al-Hakam,” he said, “was overbearing and harmful, according to the law of the Muslims.” Then, gazing at the Bedouin, he went on: “By God, Bedouin, you have come to me with a story like no other I have heard.”

  He called for paper and ink and wrote to Marwan as follows:

  “I hear that you have acted overbearingly against certain of your people, contrary to the rules of religion, and have abused the sanctity of a Muslim. One governing over a city or a province should curb his passions and restrain his pleasures. An administrator is like a shepherd to his flock. Should he treat them with care, then they will stay with him; and if he becomes a wolf to them, then no one will contain them after him.”

  Sealing the letter, he called for two of his messengers and instructed them to hand the letter to Marwan in person; and this they did. Marwan read the letter many times over, then went in to Suʿda in tears.

  “Sir,” she said, “why are you weeping?”

  “A letter,” he answered, “has come to me from the Prince of the Faithful, ordering me to divorce you and send you on to him. If only he had left me with you for two years more, then killed me. That would have been far happier for me.”

  Thereupon he divorced her and sent her on to Muʿawiya, sending him, also, the following poem denying his guilt:

  Forgive what I’ve done, for, should you see her,

  You’d weep floods of tears.

  What I send you now is a sun

  No man or jinn could match.

  Were it not for the caliph himself,

  I’d never divorce her till I am in my shroud.

  When Muʿawiya read the poem, he said: “He did well in the poem, but ill as to himself.” Then, calling for the maiden, he was struck in turn by the beauty of a white-skinned, soft, exquisite girl whose loveliness and perfection were such as to rob any who saw her of their mind. Muʿawiya, filled with awe and admiration, gazed at his assembly, and said:

  “This girl is perfect in her physical beauty. Were she eloquent, too, then she would be blessed and fully endowed.”

  With that he had her speak, only to find her the most eloquent of Arab women. He called out:

  “Bring the Bedouin here to me.”

  When the Bedouin stood there in his presence, Muʿawiya said to him:

  “If you will forget her, I will compensate you with three virgins, each with a thousand dirhams and ten suits of clothes of various silks and linen, then order, for you and for them, a regular allowance and gifts.”

  When Muʿawiya had finished, the Bedouin swallowed hard, then fainted away as though dead. When he came to himself, Muʿawiya asked:

  “What is troubling you, Bedouin?”

  “The worst of all troubles,” he replied. “That I took refuge in your justice, asking God to ward Marwan’s oppression off from me.”

  He recited a short poem describing his state. Then he said:

  “By God, Prince of the Faithful, were you to give me all that the caliphate holds, I should never accept it in exchange for Suʿda. Laila’s Madman2 spoke truly when he said:

  The heart rejects all but Laila’s love.

  All other women, though pure, are hateful to me.

  When I glimpse her suddenly, I am struck with awe.

  And stand dumbfounded.

  When he had finished, Muʿawiya said:

  “Bedouin, you acknowledged before that you divorced her. The truth is, she has been divorced by you and by Marwan. St
ill, we shall ask her to choose between us.”

  “Do so, Prince of the Faithful,” the Bedouin said.

  With that Muʿawiya turned to her.

  “Suʿda,” he said, “which do you choose, the Prince of the Faithful with his pomp and honor and palaces, or Marwan with his tyranny and violation, or this Bedouin with his hunger and rags?”

  The girl pointed to her cousin, saying:

  This one with his hunger and rags

  Is dearer to me than kinfolk and neighbors,

  And the man with the crown or his viceroy Marwan,

  And every rich man in the world.

  “Prince of the Faithful,” she went on, “I would not desert him on account of time’s shifts. My life with him was beautiful before, and I shall uphold him in riches and poverty, in ease and hardship, in sickness and in health, and according to the fate God has decreed for me with him.”

  Muʿawiya and his council were struck with admiration at her mind, and at her perfection and loyalty; and he ordered ten thousand dirhams to be given her, and had her registered in the charitable allowance of the Muslims.

  From al-Nuwairi, Nihayat al-Arab (The Highest Aspiration), II; in Qisas al-ʿArab (Stories of the Arabs), vol. 4.

  1. When a Muslim woman divorces or is widowed, she cannot remarry before waiting four months and ten days to show she is not pregnant by her former husband.

  2. On Laila’s Madman, see the discussion on love in the introduction.

  20

  Tricked She Was

  Al-Haytham ibn ʿAdi, reporting to Ibn ʿAbbas, said:

  ʿAtika, daughter of Yazid ibn Muʿawiya, was married to [Caliph] ʿAbd al-Malik ibn Marwan, who loved her deeply. One day she became angry with him and would not be reconciled for all his efforts. He was much concerned by this and complained of the matter to his close entourage.

  “What will you give me,” asked ʿUmar ibn al-Asadi, “if I am able to appease her?”

  “Whatever you wish,” Marwan replied.

  ʿUmar went and sat at the entrance to her chambers, weeping.

  “What is troubling you, Abu Hafs?” her chambermaid asked.

  “I have come to my cousin [ʿAtika],” he said, “on a very grave matter. Please, ask her to grant me an audience. It may be she can resolve my problem.”

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” ʿAtika asked.

  “You know my situation,” he replied, “with the Prince of the Faithful. I had just two sons, and one attacked the other and killed him. I told the Prince of the Faithful: ‘I am the one legally responsible; and I forgive him.’ But the Prince of the Faithful would not hear of it. ‘I will not,’ he said, ‘let this become a practice among my people.’ He is to have my son killed tomorrow. I beg you, for the grace of God, to speak to him of this, to ask him to leave me this one son. In so doing you will save two lives in one; for, if he should be killed, I shall kill myself.”

  “I will not speak to him!” ʿAtika said.

  “Surely,” he said, “you could gain nothing better than the saving of two lives.” And with that he began to weep and went on weeping, bitterly.

  Her attendants, entourage and servants alike, urged her insistently to help him. At last she cried: “Bring me my garments.”

  She dressed and had the door between herself and the caliph (which she had ordered to be blocked up) freed once more. Then she entered [the court].

  One of the caliph’s attendants promptly went to him.

  “Prince of the Faithful,” he said. “ ʿAtika is here.”

  “What are you saying?” the caliph asked. “Have you seen her?”

  “I have, Prince of the Faithful,” he replied.

  At this moment ʿAtika appeared there where ʿAbd al-Malik was seated on his throne. She greeted him, but he said nothing.

  “By God,” she said, “were it not for the sake of ʿUmar ibn Bilal, I would never have come to you. If one of his sons attacked the other and killed him, and he is responsible, and yet he forgives him, is it for you to decree he should be killed?”

  “Indeed,” said the caliph, “I shall do this, whatever he says.”

  “I entreat you,” she said, “in the name of God, not to do it.”

  With that she approached him and took his hand; then, as he still looked away, kissed his foot. At this he leant over her and held her to his breast, raised her up on to his throne, and said: “I have forgiven him.” So they were reconciled.

  Later, as ʿAbd al-Malik was sitting with his close entourage, ʿUmar ibn Bilal came to him.

  “Abu Hafs,” the caliph said, “you have shown yourself most resourceful. How may I reward you?”

  “Prince of the Faithful,” said ʿUmar, “a thousand dinars, and a plantation with all the necessary slaves and tools.”

  “It is yours,” the caliph said.

  “And places of rest,” ʿUmar continued, “for my sons and family.”

  “Those, too, are yours,” said the caliph.

  “Woe to the pimp!” ʿAtika cried, on learning of this. “He tricked me!”

  From Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Akhbar al-Nisaaʾ (Tales of Women) (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1990).

  21

  Um Asya the Midwife and the Palace of Khumarawayh

  I was with Um Asya, the midwife of Khumarawayh ibn Tulun’s wife (a pious woman who conducted herself most excellently and enjoyed a favored status with Khumarawayh), and we were discussing how God’s grace intervened in the livelihood of His worshippers, and how He warded evil away from them. She told me the following story.

  Two brothers (she said) married me and my sister. My sister’s husband grew rich, but my own became very poor and at last died in great penury, leaving me with several daughters. My sister’s husband died, too, but left her and her children a rich inheritance: houses, orchards, and other possessions.

  I’d toil (she went on) to feed my children; and, if I had nothing left, I’d go to my sister and ask her to lend me this or that, ashamed to ask her to give it. Ramadan came around, and, when we’d reached the middle of the fasting month, my children told me how they longed for some sweets for the feast.

  I went to my sister.

  “Please,” I said, “lend me a dinar to make some sweets for the children, for the feast.”

  “Sister,” she said, “it’s getting on my nerves, the way you keep saying ‘lend me.’ If I did lend you something, how would you pay it back? From your orchards, maybe, or from the rent from your houses? I wish you’d simply say ‘give me.’ ”

  “I’ll repay you,” I told her, “from what I’m sent by God, Whose ways none can foretell.”

  She laughed.

  “That, by God,” she said, “is just a wishful dream. Only fools have dreams

  like that.”

  I left her and plodded off home.

  Now, in our quarter there lived a black servant of Bint al-Yatim’s, Khumarawayh’s wife. When I’d reached there, he intercepted me.

  “A neighbor of ours is in labor,” he said, “and she’s having a difficult time. Could you go in and help her? She doesn’t have a midwife.”

  I tell you (Um Asya went on), I’d never even seen a woman in labor! Still, I went in to her, passed my hand over her stomach, and set her on the labor chair, the way the midwife had done with me when I had my own children. Within an hour she’d given birth. When she stopped screaming, the servant came to ask how she was, and I told him she’d actually given birth already. He was amazed how fast it had happened and supposed it was all on account of my own skill. And he went to his mistress, who was pregnant herself with Khumarawayh’s first child and whose confinement was imminent. She’d interviewed a number of midwives and found none of them pleasing.

  “In our quarter,” the slave told her now, “there’s a midwife we took to a woman in labor. She passed her hand over the woman’s stomach, and the woman gave birth straightaway.” And he went on to describe me in terms God himself might have used.

  “Tomorrow,” she tol
d the servant, “bring her here.”

  He came and summoned me to his mistress, and I responded with a cheerful manner and faith in God. She took a liking to me.

  “You,” she said, “will be with me in my labor.”

  At that moment she felt a pain in her stomach, of the kind women feel when they’re about to go into labor. I put out my hand and rubbed her stomach, secretly praying to God for success. I was murmuring a prayer to God to help me, but everyone around thought what I was murmuring was some kind of talisman to help her. Her pain subsided, and she sensed I’d brought her blessed relief.

  At this point Khumarawayh came in.

  “What was the matter?” he asked.

  “I felt a violent stomach pain,” she told him, “and a midwife I’d chosen passed her hand over my stomach, and all the pain went away.” And with that she told me to come out and meet him.

  “I pray to God,” he said, “that He’ll save her through the relief you bring.”

  We’d now (Um Asya continued) reached the last ten days of Ramadan, and I prayed to God with more fervor than even those hermits and ascetics could have done who wander the mountains and leave worldly things. And all was for fear of seeing my sister gloat. Within three days, Khumarawayh’s wife went into labor. I put her on the labor chair, and there she sat for two hours before giving birth, very easily, to a baby boy. Khumarawayh, meanwhile, was pacing to and fro outside. She’d expected a dreadful time giving birth, but, when the baby emerged, she said:

  “Is this what labor is?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  At that she kissed my eyes with joy, while Khumarawayh cried out to me:

  “Tell me how she is, you blessed one!”

  “By the Prince’s life,” I answered, “all’s well with her. She’s given birth to a son, perfectly formed.”

  He sent me a thousand dinars and insisted on seeing her, such was the care and tenderness he felt toward her. I, though, kept him outside till I’d moved away everything connected with the labor. Then I told her:

  “Mistress, please, when you see him, smile at him.”

  When he came in, she smiled at him, and he distributed plentiful alms in honor of her and the infant.