Impostures. al-Ḥarīrī

well awry! When you worship dry bones and grovel before the dead, you give short shrift to nowen men—the nowen men who are bound to you by liking and by birth.

      “You sifters of speech, high priests whose doom is law! Have you forgotten the yearlings and the upstarts? What of their well-hewn words and biting rimes, their clever kennings, and the leaf-writs they spin, as if from golden thread?

      “Go scrut the elders and their lore! Are their pools not choked with mud, and their stock a-stumble on a hobble? Yes, the first to draw from a well is more thought of than the ones who follow. But no one is deem-worthy merely by dint of being dead!

      “Among the nowen men, moreover, I know of one whose writs are gilded worm-weave, every stroke as bold as a stripe across a cloak. His word-craft, whether of the clipped kind or the fulsome, leaves all others speechless, and drives the elders from men’s thoughts. Even when he spins offhand, he dazzles; and when he says a thing anew, he breaks the old words and leaves only shards behind.”

      6.4“Who is this word-splitter of yours?” asked the head of the Maraaghah moot-hall, who was a man of high standing.

      “He sits before you,” came the answer, “and you’re talking to him now. Send me for a run around the ring, and bewonder what you see.”

      “See here,” said the head of the Maraaghah moot-hall. “You can call a finch a falk if you like, but it’s a finch all the same. In this land we have a knack for telling falks from finches, or calkins, or winches. None go unbruised who strike at us, and lucky are they who flee unscathed, once the fight-dust starts to rise. So take my rede and fly before you shame yourself.”

      “Who knows my arrows better than do I?” said the man of middle years. “Call no man beaten before the race is run.”

      At that the reed-reeves fell to whispering about a trial and a harrowing.

      6.5At last one of them spoke up. “Leave this man to me!” he said. “I have a happenlore to sink him like a stone and tie his tongue in knots.” The gathering granted him the headship, as if they were the Breakers-Away and he their Aboo Naamah. To the man of middle years spoke he thus:

      “I wait upon the reeve, living by my show-speech. In my own land, I had wealth enough to meet my needs. But my offspring fell to teeming and my stream dwindled to a trickle. My hopes then fell upon the reeve, and I left my home to seek him. I beseeched him to wet my root and stir my sap. He welcomed me and showered me with kindness. But when I sought his leave to leave, he said: ‘I swear no more to house and feed you, nor let you join your kin, until you write a writ that tells your life-tale. But of every two words, one must be Anglish, and Frankish the next.’

      “I gave myself a year to do what he asked, and for a twelvemonth racked my brain. But nothing came forth and now my mind is barren. When I asked the speech-sifters for help, all of them frowned and backed away. Now here you are, crowing about your word-craft. ‘If you are a truth-teller, bring us the proof.’”

      6.6“For a heartbeat there I was worried,” said the man of middle years. “I thought you might ask for something hard. But I was weaving word-shifts before anybody was.” He paused to tug on the udders of his wit. When the flow began, he said: “Take seed-wool and plug your flask of book-black. Then take up your reed and write:

      I pray God prolong your felicity and repulse the malicious! Giving adorns men; stinginess demeans them. Liberality will gratify others; pinching pennies disappoints. Warm hosts make visitors welcome; avaricious householders—alas!—drive travellers away. Cordial greetings inspire thankful responses, while grudging, halfhearted salutations will provoke bitter resentment. Give graciously; don’t promise and fail to deliver. A benediction makes fealty clear; praise sweeps doubt aside. Courtesy means admitting debts, for ingratitude is base. To abuse a respectable man amounts to folly; to deny a petitioner’s wish implies bad judgment. Who except a fool would choose greed? Conversely, who except a miser is qualified to act the fool? Only misers hoard; piety is open-handed.

      Confident your honor’s good promises are reliable; his judgment fair, firm, and equitable; his bounty free, copious, and unstinting; assured his magnanimity will triumph — his valiant heart prevail — the entire world admit his virtue — I praise you, aspiring to favor; I acclaim you, contemplating gain; I implore you, pleading for charity — I, aged, shrunken, diminished, hapless! Jealously seeking consideration, I offer maiden verses that merit bridegifts. Manifestly, my rights are clear, my demands few. Couplets of praise will benefit you; verses of reproach will damage your reputation.

      I invoke my famished, ragged, miserable children—alas!—and, Sir, my pathetic, heartbroken, troubled self, emaciated, sorrowful, lachrymose, and tormented; hopes deferred, wishes denied, foes ravenous, comfort gone. Constant in affection, I merit no rebuff; ever loyal, I deserve fair return; my devotion is fervent, my attachment unwavering. Remember, Sir, that safeguarding one’s honor never demands high-handedly abusing another’s. Reward my fealty by approving my petition; in return, your praise will traverse the inhabited world. Prosper as guarantor of safety, live generously and relieve the afflicted, kindly assist an aging man! Enjoy a bounteous life, reveling in pleasure until assemblies go defunct and petitioners stop requesting help. Salut!

      6.7By the time he reached his leaf-writ’s end, the newcomer had shown his mettle on the field. Now welcoming and warm, the gathered mooters showed him thanks in word and deed. Then they asked: “Whose kin are you? And from what crack did you climb?” To answer he sang:

      Of Ghassan come I, Sarooj my home,

      My clan a sun upon the land;

      But I, like father Adam, banned

      From distant Eden, lost I come.

      How great it is what I have lost:

      The days I dragged sweet pleasure’s train

      Across a meadow full of rain;

      That blessing I remember most.

      What knew I then of loss and pain?

      ‘T were merciful, if pain might kill.

      But I do ache, and yet live still,

      Each dawn to rise and mourn again.

      ‘Tis better to die proud than lead

      A skulking, shabby, bestial life;

      To bring swift end to earthly strife,

      Than from a thousand cruelties bleed.

      Soon thereafter, tidings of him reached the reeve. He filled his mouth with sea-stones and sought him for an around-man, to take headship of the writ-craft house. But pride held him aloof from king-work, and the gifts made him happy enough.

      6.8Harald Hammamson went on:

      Even before the outsider sprung his trap, I’d known him by the cut of his jib. I nearly blurted his name out, but he’d stopped me with a wink that held my tongue. Then he won the word-spin and came forth with his back sore bent by a well-stuffed sack. Giving him his guest-right, I walked him to the gate, but called him out along the way for scorning king-work. He smiled and hummed this lay:

      Remember David’s lesson just:

      “In princes never put thy trust.”

      I always keep a due decorum

      But never stand in awe before ‘em;

      I’d rather slip aside and choose

      To talk with wits in dirty shoes.

      For oh! how short are human schemes

      That put their trust in princes’ dreams!