POEMS OF THE MAGHREB

[Translated by M.C. Sonneck and Chauncey C. Starkweather]

ALI'S ANSWER

[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.

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 PARIS⁵⁸]

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.

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 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 FATIMA⁵⁹

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.

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.