Layla and Majnun | Narrivum

ONCE there lived among the Bedouin in Arabia a great lord, a Sayyid, who ruled over the Banu Amir. No other country flourished like his and Zephyr carried the sweet scent of his glory to the farthest horizons. Success and merit made him a Sultan of the Arabs and his wealth equalled that of Korah.

He had a kind heart for the poor and for them his purse was always open. To strangers he was a generous host and in all his enterprises he succeeded as if good luck were part of him, as the stone is part of the fruit — or so it appeared to be.

Yet, though respected like a caliph, to himself he seemed like a candle, slowly consuming itself without ever spreading quite enough light. The heart of this great man was eaten by one secret sorrow; he, who otherwise possessed everything he desired, had no son.

He had remained childless. What did glory, power and wealth mean to him, if one day they would slip from his hands, without an heir to receive them ? Was the com fated to wither, did the branch have to die? If the cypress tree fell, where j would the pheasant build his nest? Where would he find happiness ? Where shade and refuge ?

He only is truly alive, who in his son’s memory j survives his own death.

Thus the noble man brooded and, the older he grew, the greater became his desire. Yet for many years his alms and prayers were in vain. The full moon which he so eagerly awaited never rose in his sky and the jasmin seed which he sowed would not germinate. j

Still the Sayyid was not content to bow to his j fate. For the sake of one wish yet unfulfilled he thought but little of everything else that heaven had granted him. That is how humans are made! j

If prayers remain unanswered, do we ever reflect that it may be for our good ? We feel sure that we know our needs, yet the future is veiled from our eyes. The thread of our fate ends outside the visible world and what today we mistake for a padlock, keeping us out, we may tomorrow find to be the key that lets us in.

Much, of course, can happen in the meantime.

Our hero desired the jewel he did not possess, as the oyster nourishes its pearl, so he prayed and clamoured until in the end God fulfilled his wish.

He was given a boy, who looked like the smile of a pomegranate, like a rose whose petals have opened overnight, like a diamond which transforms the darkness of the world into sheer light.

Delighted, the happy father opened wide the door of his treasury. Everyone was to share his happiness and the great event was celebrated with shouts of joy and words of blessing.

The child was committed to the care of a nurse, so that under her watchful eye he should grow big and strong. So he did, and every drop of milk he drank was turned in his body into a token of faithfulness, every bite he ate became in his heart a morsel of tenderness. Each line of indigo, drawn on his face to protect him against the Evil Eye, worked magic in his soul.

All this, however, remained a secret, hidden from every eye.

Two weeks after his birth the child already looked like the moon after fourteen days and his parents gave him the name of Qays.

A year went by and the boy’s beauty grew to perfection. As a ray of light penetrates the water, so the jewel of love shone through the veil of his childhood.

Playful and joyful, he grew year by year — a carefully protected flower in the happy garden of his youth.

When he was seven years old, the violet- coloured down of his first beard began to shimmer on his tulip cheeks and when he had reached his first decennium people told the story of his beauty like a fairy tale. Whoever saw him — if only from afar — called upon heaven to bless him.

NOW the father sent the boy to school. He entrusted him to a learned man to whom distinguished Arabs took their children, so that he should teach them everything of use in this world. Instead of playing, they were now to study in earnest and if they went a little in fear of the strict master, there was no harm in that.

Soon Qays was one of the best pupils. He easily mastered the arts of reading and writing and when he talked it was as if his tongue was scattering pearls. It was a delight to listen to him. But then something happened which no one had foreseen. Listen! Among his fellow pupils were girls. Just like the boys, they came from noble families of various tribes. One day a beautiful little girl joined the group — a jewel such as one sees but seldom. She was as slender as a cypress tree. Her eyes, like those of a gazelle, could have pierced a thousand hearts with a single unexpected glance, yes, with one flicker of her eyelashes she could have slain a whole world.

To look at, she was like an Arabian moon, yet when it came to stealing hearts, she was a Persian page. Under the dark shadow of her hair, her face was a lamp, or rather a torch, with ravens weaving their wings around it. And who would have thought that such overwhelming sweetness could flow from so small a mouth. Is it possible, then, to break whole armies with one small grain of sugar ? She really did not need rouge ; even the milk she drank turned into the colour of roses on her lips and cheeks; and she was equipped with lustrous eyes and a mole on her cheek even when her mother brought her into the world.

The name of this miracle of creation was Layla. Does not ‘Layl’ mean ‘night’ in Arabic ? And dark as the night was the colour of her hair.

Whose heart would not have filled with longing at the sight of this girl ? But young Qays felt even more. He was drowned in the ocean of love before he knew that there was such a thing. He had already given his heart to Layla before he understood what he was giving away. . . . And Layla ? She fared no better. A fire had been lit in both — and each reflected the other.

What could they have done against it ? A bearer had come and filled their cups to the brim. They drank what he poured out for them. They were children and did not realize what they were drinking; no wonder they became drunk. He who is drunk for the first time, becomes deeply drunk indeed. And heavily falls he who has never had a fall before.

Together they had inhaled the scent of a flower, its name unknown, its magic great. ... As yet no one had noticed, so they went on drinking their wine and enjoying the sweet scent. They drank by day and dreamed by night, and the more they drank the deeper they became immersed in each other. Their eyes became blind and their ears deaf to the school and the world. They had found each other:

While all their friends were toiling at their books

These two were trying other ways of learning.

Reading love’s grammar in each other’s looks.

Glances to them were marks which they were earning.

Their minds were freed from spelling by love’s spell,

Thy practised, writing notes full of caress;

The others learned to count — while thy could tell,

That nothing ever counts but tenderness.

HOW happy this first flowering of love for Qays and Layla ! But can such happiness last ? Was not a shadow already falling over their radiance — even if the children did not notice it ? What did they know about the ways and the laws of this world ? They did not count hours or days, until suddenly disaster struck.

Just as Joseph came out of his pit, so the sun, a golden orange, ascends every morning from the hem of the horizon like a precious toy in the sky ; yet every evening, exhausted and worn out by the day’s labour, it sinks back towards the west into the deep well. So Layla also shone forth in her morning. Every day she grew more beautiful. Not only Qays, also his companions at school became aware of it. Openly or secretly they began to stare at her ; and if they caught only a glimpse of her chin, shaped like a lemon with little dimples, they felt like ripe pomegranates, full of juice, ready to burst with desire.

Was not Qays bound to notice ? Certainly — and for the first time a bitter taste mingled with the sweet scent of his love. He was no longer alone with Layla. A small crack appeared in his blind happiness, he had a foreboding of what was to come; but it was too late.

While the lovers turned their backs on the world, drinking the wine of oblivion and enjoying their paradise, the eyes of the world turned towards them. Did the others understand what they saw ? Could they decipher the secret code of signs and glances ? How could they fail ? But they understood in their own petty way, driven by curiosity, spurred by jealousy and spite and pleasure over other people’s discomfiture! And how easy the lovers made it for their enemies to set their traps.

‘What, you have not heard ?’ they sneered. And from mouth to mouth it was whispered, from ear to ear, from tent to tent.

When wagging tongues abused what was so fair ,

Their eyes and lips could now no longer shield —

Caught by the gossip in the square —

The tender secret which each glance revealed.

Hard is the awakening for people so deeply intoxicated by their dreams. Now Layla and Qays began to notice the pointing fingers, to hear the reproaches, the derision, the whisperings behind their backs, to see strangers’ eyes, watching, spying, following.

Suddenly they realized their blindness. Why had they never noticed the hunters and their weapons ? Now they tried to mend the tom veil, to protect their naked love from the world, to hide their longing for each other, to tame their glances and to seal their lips.

They sought to be cautious and patient, but what use ? Like the musk-deer, love, betrayed by its scent, cannot hide; like the sun, it penetrates clouds. Caution and patience are no chains for a lover already chained a thousand-fold by the tresses of his beloved. Qays’ soul was a mirror for Layla’s beauty — how could he remain silent about all he saw in it ? How could he avert his glance from the fountain-head of his life ?

He tried, but his heart was no longer at one with his reason. If reason asked him to avoid his love, his heart fell ill with longing for her. Away from her, Qays found no peace, yet searching her out was to imperil both.

Was there a way out ? The youth could not see any, and his heart suddenly lost its balance, like a beast of burden, which stumbles and falls when the load on its back suddenly breaks loose. But those who never stumble nor fall, looked on and said, ‘He is a majnun, a madman.’

Soon everyone knew and the more people saw and heard of him, the madder he appeared. But he did nothing to pacify those who reproached him. On the contrary, he walked among them, praising Layla’s beauty — like a sleepwalker recalling a dream in the middle of the day. Who would do such a thing ?

Disaster swiftly took its course. Too many hounds were chasing the stag, tongues hanging from their ravening mouths, barking and growling, panting and jeering.

It became too much for Layla’s people. Was not the girl’s honour also that of her family ? More, that of her whole tribe ? Was it right that this mad fellow, this Qays of the Banu Amir, should play around with her until her name became a laughing- stock ?

From now on Layla’s parents kept their daughter at home. They guarded her carefully and saw to it that Qays had no chance to meet her. They kept the new moon hidden from the fool ; the way to the pastures was now blocked for the young gazelle. What could Layla do against it ?

She had to hide the sadness of her heart. Only when she was alone did she drop the curtain and shed lonely tears.

THE separation from his beloved robbed the youth of his home and if Layla wept secretly, he openly displayed his unhappiness for everyone to see.

He appeared now here, now there. He wandered about in the small alleys between the tents and in ' the bazaar where the merchants and artisans have their stalls. He walked aimlessly, driven only by his aching heart, without heeding the staring eyes ; tears springing from under his eyelashes like wild mountain streams. All the time he sang melancholy songs such as lovers are wont to sing in their misery. . . .

When he passed by, people around him shouted :

‘Look, the Madman, Majnun is coming ... \

Majnun ! ’

The reins had slipped from the rider’s hand. His innermost being was revealed like the heart of a split fruit. He had not only lost his beloved, but also himself. Everyone saw in his face the reflection of the fire scorching his heart, saw the blood running from his wound. He was suffering because of his beloved, but she remained far away. The longer it lasted, the more Qays became Majnun. Burning like a candle, he did not sleep at night and, while he searched for a remedy to cure soul and body, both were filled with deadly pain. Each day, at dusk, the ghosts of his vain hopes chased him out into the desert, barefoot and bareheaded.

Then strange things began to happen. Majnun had been separated from Layla, yet his longing made him the slave of his imprisoned Mistress. A madman he became — but at the same time a poet, the harp of his love and of his pain.

At night, when everyone was asleep, he secretly stole to the tent of his beloved. Sometimes two or three friends who had suffered the torments of love like him, accompanied him on his wanderings, but mostly he was alone, reciting his poems. Swift as the north wind he flew along, kissed Layla’s threshold like a shadow and returned before the new day dawned.

How hard it was to return ! It seemed to take a year. On his way to her he ran fast, like water pouring into a trough. On the way back he crawled, as if he had to make his way through a hundred crevasses thick with thorn-bushes. If fate had allowed him happiness, he would never have returned home, where he now felt a stranger. His heart had suffered shipwreck, drifting helplessly in a boundless ocean ; there seeemd no end to the fury of the gale. He hardly listened to what people were saying; he no longer cared. Only when he heard Layla’s name did he take notice. When they talked about other things, his ears and lips were sealed.

He walked around like a drunkard; weeping bitterly, he lurched, fell and jumped to his feet again. When Layla’s tribe pitched their tents in the mountainous area of Najd, only there did he want to live. Once, when his strength failed him he gave a message for Layla to the east wind. These were his words :

‘East wind, be gone early in the morning, caress her hair and whisper in her ear: “One who has sacrificed everything for you, lies in the dust on his way to you. He is seeking your breath in the blowing of the wind and tells his grief to the earth. Send him a breath of air as a sign that you are thinking of him.”

I ‘Oh my beloved, had I not given my soul to you, trembling with desire like the wind, it would have been better to lose it. I would not be worth the dust in which I am lying. . . . Look, I am being consumed in the fire of my love, drowned in the tears of my unhappiness. Even the sun which illumines the world, is singed by the heat of my sighs. Invisible candle of my soul, do not torture the night-moth fluttering around you. Your eyes have bewitched mine and sleep escapes them by day and fj by night.

‘My longing for you is the consolation of my heart, its wound and its healing salve. If only you could send me the tiniest morsel of your sweet lips ! The Evil Eye has suddenly separated me from you, my moon. My enemy has wrenched the juicy fruit from my hand and thrown me, so desperately thirsty, to the ground; now he points his fingers at me as I lie dying of my wounds. Yes, I am a victim of the world’s Evil Eye, which has stolen what was my own. Who would not be afraid of it ? People try to protect their children with blue amulets ; even the sun, afraid of its darkness, wears a veil of pure sky-blue.

‘But I was not protected by amulets, no veil covered my secret, no ruins offered a hiding-place for my treasure ; that is why the world could rob me of it.’

ONCE more the young day donned his morning coat, woven from shimmering brocade. He adorned the ear of the sky with the precious golden ornament of the sun and the quicksilver of the stars melted in its red flames.

Majnun appeared, together with his friends, near the tent of his beloved. So far he had only come by night, wrapped in the cloak of darkness, but now he could bear it no longer. His patience was at an end ; he had to see her, Layla, for whom his heart was crying out. The closer he came to his goal, the less certain were his steps ; drunk with longing and confused by feverish hope, his lips trembled like the verses of the poem he was chanting.

Suddenly he stopped. In front of him he saw the tent — and what else ? Seldom do dreams become so real. The curtain was withdrawn and in the entrance of the tent unveiled in the light of day, clearly visible against the dark interior, Layla was sitting; Layla, his moon.

Majnun sighed deeply. Now Layla saw him, and they recognized in the mirror of each other’s face their own fear, their own pain and love. Neither stirred; only their eyes met, their voices caressed each other, softly exchanging plaintive sighs, which they were used to confide to the wind and to the night.

Layla was a lute, Majnun a viola.

All the radiance of this morning was Layla, yet a candle was burning in front of her, consuming itself with desire. She was the most beautiful garden and Majnun was a torch of longing. She planted the rose-bush ; he watered it with his tears.

What shall I say about Layla ? She was a fairy, not a human being. How shall I describe Majnun ? He was a fairy’s torch, alight from head to foot.

Layla was a jasmin-bush in spring, Majnun a meadow in autumn, where no jasmin was growing. Layla could bewitch with one glance from beneath her dark hair, Majnun was her slave and a dervish dancing before her. Layla held in her hand the glass of wine scented with musk. Majnun had not touched the wine, yet he was drunk with its sweet smell. . . .

Only this encounter, brief and from afar was permitted to the lovers, then Majnun, afraid of guards and spies, ran away, lest the wheel of fate should turn even this fleeting happiness to disaster. He escaped from Layla in order to find her.

MAJNUN’S secret sorties did not long remain hidden from Layla ’ s people, who were incensed. By day and by night they guarded the whole area, to block the way against the disturber of the peace. The bridge between the two banks had fallen in; no sound reached the other side.

Still, Majnun continued to roam in the mountains of Najd. More and more often, and for ever leng- thening spells, he left the dwelling-places and pastures of his tribe, wandering aimlessly through the desert, composing ghazels which he sang to himself. He was in rags and looked wilder each day. Overwhelmed by his melancholia, he did not listen to anyone or anything. Nothing that otherwise pleases or disturbs a man found an echo in his heart. His two or three companions had long since left him. From afar people pointed at him and said : ‘There goes Majnun, the madman, the crazy one, who was once called Qays. He heaps shame and dishonour on himself and his people.’

There was not one among Majnun’ s people who did not feel ashamed of him. They had done all they could to avert disaster and help the youth in his trouble, but what good had that done in the end ? Can one quench such a conflagration with good advice ? And who of the counsellors had ever suffered such grief ?

Still, it could not go on like this. Not only the lover’s sanity, but the reputation of his family, of the whole tribe was at stake. Was not Qays’ father the leader of the Amir ?

He was, and no one was so shaken by the disaster which his son caused and suffered. Yet even he could not change the course of fate. He was an old man, growing rapidly older under the strain.

When Majnun’s state, far from improving, deteriorated even further, his father, the Sayyid, one day assembled all the counsellors and elders in his tent. He asked everyone and each told what he knew. The story was long and sad and when the old man had heard it from beginning to end, his head sank lower and his heart grew heavier. What could be done ? After he had considered carefully what he had heard, he spoke : ‘My son has lost his heart to this girl; if he could only win her, he would find himself again. His senses are confused, because for him this jewel is the eye of the world. As it is hidden from him, he lives in darkness, a blind man. We must find his pearl. If we brush the dust from the budding rose, it will break into bloom.’

Then the Sayyid asked all the elders, one after the other, to give their opinion — and behold, they all agreed! Trying to win for the sleepwalker his moon, a delegation was to be sent to Layla’s tribe.

No sooner said than done and the old Sayyid led the dignitaries on their way. His sadness gone, he was full of confidence that he could untie the knot in his son’s life-thread.

There was no feud between the two tribes, so, when the visitors arrived, they were received by Layla’s people high and humble with great friendliness, feasted and treated with great deference. Only then did the hosts turn to the Sayyid, asking politely what he desired.

‘Tell us why you have come’, they said. ‘If you are in need of help, it will be granted. We count it an honour to assist you. ’

‘These young people, on whose behalf I am approaching you, will strengthen the ties between us’, responded the Sayyid of the Amiri tribe.

Then he looked at Layla’s father, who was accompanied by the dignitaries of his tribe, and said to him :

‘May your daughter and my son enhance each other’s lives! Behold, I have come to establish a close link between us. I ask for your child’s hand on behalf of my own. Both have grown up in the same desert. My son is thirsting to drink from your fountain, and such pure drink will restore him, body and soul. . . . Nor have I any cause to be ashamed of my request. There is, as you know, no man among us whose standing is higher than mine. I have many followers and great riches, I can be a valuable friend or a formidable enemy. Whatever you demand as a dowry shall be yours. I have come as a buyer, and you, if you are wise, will state your price and sell. Take note, there is a chance of great gain for you today; tomorrow it may be too late. Do not forget how often prices fall suddenly in the bazaar ! ’

Thus spoke the Sayyid. Anxiety for his son sharpened his tongue. But Layla’s father was a proud, hard man. After the Amiri had finished, this was his reply:

‘What you say is your own affair, but you cannot change fate or the course of the world by words. You speak well and your words are full of sap, but do you really think that enough to lure me into the fire ? You have shown me the attractive cover, but what lies hidden underneath, causing my enemies greatly to rejoice, you have not mentioned. Your son is a stately youth and, seen from afar, would be welcome anywhere. But don’t we all know better than that ? Who has not heard more than enough about him and his foolishness ? Who is not aware of his madness ? He is mad, and a madman is no son- in-law for us. Therefore you had better pray first that he be cured ; afterwards you may mention marriage again, but until then there can be no question of it. Nobody would buy a faulty jewel to be set with flawless ones. And there is something else! You know only too well how keen-eyed and sharp- tongued Arabs are. What would they say, and how would they jeer, if I did what you suggest. Forget, therefore, what you have said!’

This was a bitter pill for Majnun’s father to swallow, but what could he say ? He remained silent, and so did his companions. All they could do was to depart. It was a sad home- coming for them, who had set out so certain of success.

WHEN Majnun’s father and his friends had failed to obtain Layla’s hand, they tried once more to cure the youth by warnings and good advice. ‘Why’, so they said, ‘do you worship only this girl Layla ? Look around among the girls of your own tribe. You will find so many with lips like hyacinths, sweet-scented and dressed in Egyptian linen ; beauties who are perhaps even more attractive than she who has stolen your heart. You are free to choose from among a hundred maidens, each of them lovelier than the new spring. Find a companion who will be a comfort to you instead of torturing your heart, a girl like milk and honey, worthy of you. Let the foreigner go ! ’

Thus his friends talked; their intentions were good, but what did they know about the fire burning in Majnun’s soul ? Their words nursed the conflagration like thorn-bushes; prickly at first, they soon began to bum and increased the flame which they were meant to smother.

No; Majnun was now doubly in despair about the answer of Layla’s father and the warnings of his own people. Nothing could sweeten the bitterness which transformed his world into darkest night. Expelled from the land of happiness, he was now a stranger in either world. He beat his head with his fists and rent his garment from top to bottom. Even a corpse has at least a shroud, but then a corpse is at home in his grave — Majnun had no home anywhere.

He left his father and his relatives and ran away, paying no attention to roads and directions. He called out : ‘There is no power and no might except with Allah.’ And truly, God alone knows how the unhappy youth overcame his desire to kill himself, for everything that binds human beings had fallen away from him.

He no longer knew what was good and what was evil and could not distinguish the one from the other. Through every tent rang out his cry, ‘Layla . . . Layla!’

His hair fell unkempt about his face, his eyes stared ; yet he saw nothing of his fellow men, nor heard their reproaches.

The crowd who watched and followed him was growing all the time. They were greatly upset by his behaviour, but when he began to talk in verse and sing about his love ; when he addressed the star of his longing ; when the fire in his heart reached the tip of his tongue and sadness resounded from his lips, the mood of his listeners changed. They stood surprised and deeply moved, and soon there was no one who did not shed tears about the minstrel and his fate.

Majnun, however, noticed neither reproach nor sympathy. He was not even aware of the people around him. It was as if his name had been tom out of the Book of Life, and he had fallen into nothingness ; as if he were no longer one of the living, and not yet one of the dead. A stone had dropped on his heart; he was like a bumt-out candle, or a maimed bird that has lost its mate and flutters helplessly in the dust. In the end strength left his body. He fell to his knees as if at prayer, and cried until consciousness returned and he felt pain flowing over his lips like a dark stream :

‘Oh, who can cure my sickness? An outcast I have become. Family and home, where are they? No path leads back to them and none to my beloved. Broken are my name, my reputation, like glass smashed on a rock ; broken is the drum which once spread the good news, and my ears now hear only the drumbeat of separation.

‘Huntress, beautiful one, whose victim I am — limping, a willing target for your arrows. I follow obediently my beloved, who owns my soul. If she says “Get drunk,” that is what I shall do. If she orders me to be mad, that is what I shall be. To tame a madman like me, fate has no chains ; crushed as I am, what hope is there that I could ever be revived? Heaven grant that a rockfall may crush and bury me, or that lightning may strike me, burning down the house with all its furnishings! Is there no one who will throw me into the crocodile-jaws of death, no one who will free me from myself, and the world from my shame ?

Misbegotten creature, madman, demon of my family !

‘Yes, I am a thorn in the flesh of my people, and even my name brings shame upon my friends. Anyone may shed my blood ; I am outlawed, and who kills me is not guilty of murder.

‘Goodbye to you, companions of past feastings. I salute you. Farewell ! Look, the wine is spilled, the glass has slipped from my hands and broken. Of my happiness only the shards are left, with sharp edges which cause deep anguish. But when you come, do not be afraid of cutting your feet. The flood of my tears has swept away the shards — far, far, away.’

Did Majnun notice the people who surrounded him silently, staring and listening? So it seemed, for he turned and spoke to them :

‘What do you know, who have no notion of my grief ? Away with you, make room ! Do not look for me ; I am not where you believe me to be. I am lost, even to myself! One does not address people like me! You torture and oppress me. How much longer ? Leave me alone with my unhappiness. No need to chase me from your tents, I shall go freely — I am going ! ’

But Majnun no longer had the strength to flee. He fell on his knees in the dust. Again and again, in deep desperation, his heart went out to Layla, who was so far away, and implored her to help him.

‘I have fallen; what shall I do ? Oh, my beloved, come and take my hand. I can endure it no longer, I am yours, more use to you alive than dead. Be generous and send a greeting, send a message to revive me. You are imprisoned, I know. But why imprison you ? I am the madman, I should be fettered. Bind me to you, wind again your tresses round my neck; they are tom, yet I remain your slave. Do something; help me! This is a cruel game. End it ! Lift your foot that I may kiss it. . . . Things cannot remain as they are. It is not right to sit in the corner, arms folded, doing nothing. Take pity on me. A rested man has no feeling for one who is exhausted. A rich man, his hunger stilled, who invites a beggar to his table, knows nothing about starvation. Yet he may eat a few morsels to honour his guest. Aren’t we both human beings, you as well as I, even if you are a blossoming beech tree while I am a dry thorn-bush ?

‘Peace of my soul, where are you ? Why do you rob me of my life ? Other than my love, what is the sin of my heart, this heart which asks for your forgiveness ? Of a thousand nights give me only one. Look, everything else I have gambled away and lost.

‘Do not say “No”. If you are angry with me, quench the fire of your wrath with the water of my years. I am a star, my new moon, driven to distraction by my longing to see you. My only companion is my shadow, and even with him I do not dare to talk, fearing lest he might become a rival. If only your shadow had stayed with me, but even that you have taken away, and my heart and soul with it. What did I receive in return ? What is left to me ? Hope ? A thirsty child may well, in a dream, see a hand offering a golden cup, but when he wakes, what remains ? All that he can do is suck his fingers to quench his thirst. What does it matter ! Nothing can ever extinguish the love for you in my heart. It is a riddle without a solution, a code which none can decipher. It entered my body with my mother’s milk — to leave it only together with my soul, of that I am sure.’

Here Majnun fell silent. His voice failed and, unconscious, he fell forward, his face in the dust. All who had listened to him and saw him lying there, felt sad. Gently they lifted the unhappy youth and carried him home to his father’s tent.

Love, if not true, is but a plaything of the senses, fading like youth. Time perishes, not true love. All may be imagination and delusion, but not love. The charcoal brazier on which it bums is eternity itself, without beginning or end.

Majnun won fame as a lover, for he carried love’s burden as long as he lived. Love was the flower’s scent and the breath of the wind. Even now, when the rose has faded, a drop of the rose-water endures and will last for ever, giving pleasure to you, reader, and to Nizami.

THE further away his moon, Layla, shone in the sky, the higher Majnun waved the banner of his love ! As his mad passion grew day by day, so his repute declined among his friends.

But as yet his family and, above all, his father, had not given up hope that his dark night might end and a new morning dawn. Once more they took counsel, and, having talked for a long time without result, their thoughts finally converged on the Caaba, God’s sanctuary in Mecca, visited every year by thousands and thousands of faithful pilgrims from near and far,

‘Well’, they said, ‘could it not happen after all that the Almighty One would come to our aid, that the door for which we have no key would - suddenly open ? Is not the Caaba the Altar of heaven and earth, where the whole world prays for God’s blessing and help. Why not we ?’

Majnun’s father, the old Sayyid, agreed. He prepared everything he thought necessary and when the month of pilgrimage, the twelfth and last of the year, had come, he left with a small caravan for the Holy City. He had chosen his best camels for the journey; and for Majnun, the apple of his eye, he had secured a litter, which carried the lovesick youth as gently as a moon’s cradle.

They reached Mecca safely. As he had done on the way, the leader of the tribe showered alms on the crowd, like a dust-storm, which carries gold coins instead of sand. But a storm raged also in his breast and the nearer they came to their goal, the more excited he became. Devoured by hope and impatience he could hardly wait for the moment when he would be able to entrust his sorrow-child to the grace of the Almighty.

At last the time had come ; father and son stood in the shadow and protection of the Holiest of Holies. Gently the Sayyid took the youth by the hand and said to him :

‘Here, my dearest son, every play comes to its end. Try to find relief from your sufferings. Here, in front of this temple and its Master, you must pray to be freed from your sorrow. Listen ; this should be your prayer: “Save me, my God, from this vain ecstasy. Have pity on me; grant me refuge; take my madness away and lead me back to the path of righteousness. I am love’s unhappy victim! Help me! Free me from the evil of my love.” Recite this prayer, my son.’

When Majnun heard his father speaking he wept, then began to laugh. Suddenly, a strange thing happened. He darted forward like the head of a coiled snake, stretched out his hands towards the door of the temple, hammered against it and shouted :

‘Yes, it is I, who knocks at this door today! I have sold my life for love’s sake ! Yes, it is I ; may I always be love’s slave ! They tell me : abandon love, that is the path to recovery — but I can gain strength only through love. If love dies, so shall I. My nature is love’s pupil ; be my fate nothing, if not love, and woe to the heart incapable of passion. I ask thee, my God, I beseech thee, in all the godliness of thy divine nature and all the perfection of thy kingdom : let my love grow stronger, let it endure, even if I perish. Let me drink from this well, let my eye never miss its light. If I am drunk with the wine of love, let me drink even more deeply.

‘They tell me: “Crush the desire for Layla in your heart!” But I implore thee, oh my God, let it grow even stronger. Take what is left of my life and add it to Layla’s. Let me never demand from her as much as a single hair, even if my pain reduces me to the width of one ! Let her punish and castigate me: her wine alone shall fill my cup, and my name shall never appear without her seal. My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty, my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I bum for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is ! ’

Such was Majnun’s prayer to the Almighty. His father listened silently. What could he say ? He knew now that he could not loosen the fetters binding this heart, could not find a cure for its ills. There was nothing to do but to leave Mecca and start on the trek home, where they were awaited impatiently in sorrow and fear. When they arrived, the whole family surrounded the Sayyid: ‘How was it ?’ they clamoured. ‘Tell us ! Has Allah helped ? Is he saved ?’

But the old man’s eyes looked tired and sad. ‘I have tried’, he said, ‘I have told him how to ask God for relief from this plague, this Layla. But he clung to his own ideas. What did he do ? He cursed himself and blessed Layla. ’

THE pilgrimage to Mecca and the old Sayyid’s vain attempt to heal his son’s madness was talked about everywhere. Soon there was no tent whose inhabitants did not know about it. The story of Majnun’s love was on everybody’s lips. Some reproached him and jeered, others pitied and tried to defend him. Many spread evil rumours; a few even spoke well of him — sometimes.

Bedouin gossip came also to Layla’s ears, but what could she do about it ? She remained silent, in secret grief. The members of her tribe, however, angry and bitter, sent mounted emissaries to the caliph’s prefect and laid a complaint against the madman’, the two delegates said, ‘imperils by his behaviour, the honour of our tribe. Day after day he trails around the countryside, his hair dishevelled and a bunch of hooligans running after him like a pack of hounds loosed from their chains. Now he dances, now he kisses the soil. All the time he composes and recites his ghazels. And as, unfortunately, his verses are good and his voice pleasant, people learn these songs by heart. That is bad both for you and for us, because whatever this impertinent fellow composes tears the veils of custom and decency a hundred-fold. Through him Layla is branded with a hot iron, and if this perilous wind continues to blow it will extinguish the lamp. Order, therefore, his punishment, so that Layla, our moon, may henceforth be safe from this

The caliph’s prefect, having listened to their speech, drew his sword out of its sheath, showed it to the two emissaries, and replied: ‘Give your answer with this ! ’

By chance a man from the tribe of Amir happened to overhear. What did he do ? He went to the Sayyid and reported :

‘So far nothing untoward has happened’, he said, ‘but I warn you ; this prefect is out for blood ; he is a raging torrent and a blazing fire. Seeing that Majnun does not know the danger threatening him, I am afraid that by the time he realizes it, it may be too late. We must warn him of this open well, lest he fall into it.’

That is how the informant spoke and his words stung the father’s wounded heart like salt. He feared for his son’s life; but however anxiously they searched for him, he was not to be found. In the end all the men sent out to trace him, came back discouraged. ‘Who knows,’ they said, ‘perhaps his fate has already overtaken him? Perhaps wild animals have tom him to pieces, or even worse has happened to him.’

Whereupon the youth’s kinsmen and companions raised wailings and lamentations as if they were mourning the dead.

But Majnun was not dead. As before, he had gone to a hiding-place in the wilderness. There he was living alone, a hidden treasure ; he neither saw nor heard what was happening in the world. In that world, were they not all hunters and hunted ? Did that still concern him ? Had he not turned his back on it ? Had he not troubles enough of his own ? He did not want the pity of his fellow men. He suffered because he could not find the treasure for which he was searching ; yet his grief provided him with a free passage, liberating him from the fetters of selfishness.

i ; Now let us see what happened then. After a time, chance brought a Bedouin from the Saad tribe walking along the same path. When he saw the lonely figure crouching in solitude, he at first suspected a mirage — a fata Morgana; who else would keep his own shadow company in such a place ?

But when he heard a soft moaning, he went nearer and asked: ‘Who are you? What are you doing here ? How can I help you ?’

However often he repeated his questions he received no answer. In the end his patience became exhausted ; he continued on his way, but when he arrived home he told his family about the strange encounter.

|| ‘On my way through a mountain gorge I met a creature writhing on the stones like a snake, like a madman in pain, like a lonely demon ; his body was so wasted that every bone was visible.’

When Majnun’ s father heard about it he set out at once to bring home his lost son from the wilderness. He reached the hiding-place and found Majnun as the Bedouin had described him : now talking to himself in verse, now moaning and sighing. He wept, stood up and collapsed again, he crawled and stumbled, a living image of his own fate. He swooned and was hardly conscious, so that at first he did not recognize his own father. But then, when the Sayyid addressed and comforted him, the firmness of his voice brought Majnun back to himself. He collapsed at the old man’s feet like a shadow, and implored him in regret and despair : ‘Crown of my head and haven of my soul, forgive me, forgive. Do not ask how I am, because you can see that I am weak. I wish you had been spared the pain of finding me in this state. Now you have come, my face turns black with shame! Forgive me; you know only too well how things are with me, but you also know that it is not ourselves who hold fate’s thread in our hands.’

THE father tore the turban from his head and threw it to the ground. The day became as dark in his eyes as the night and he raised a plaintive song like a bird at dusk.

But then he summoned his courage and spoke: ‘Rose petal, tom and crumpled! Love’s fool, uncontrolled, immature, your heart burned ! What evil eye has cast a spell over your beauty ? Whose curse has blighted you ? For whose blood must you do penance ? Whose thorn has torn the hem of your robe ? What has pushed you into this abyss ?

‘True, you are young, and youth has led many into confusion before — but not so deeply. Is your heart still not satiated with pain? Have you still not bom enough abuse and reproach ? Will there be no resurrection for you on earth ? Enough ! You are destroying yourself with your passion — and me and my honour as well. If one day you hope to marry, such lack of self-control is a great fault. Even if we do not like to show our weakness to the world, we should have friends, genuine and true like mirrors, clearly revealing our faults so that we can face and cure them. Let me be your mirror. Free your heart from this illness. Do not try any longer to forge a cold iron.’

Sadness in his voice, the old man continued : ‘Perhaps you are not patient enough. You are persistent only in keeping away from me, your friend. You hardly look at me. But he who flees and keeps aloof, remains alone with the longing of his heart. Do you not know that? You try to become drunk without wine, you worship desire for its own sake. You have fled and left the harvest to the wind, you have abandoned me to the gloating satisfaction of my enemies. Regain your senses before it is too late. Do not forget: while you are playing the harp of your love, I am mourning for you, and when you are rending your garments asunder you are tearing my soul. When your heart bums, you also burn mine. Do not despair. Some little thing, useless as it may appear to you, can bring salvation. Despair may lead to hope just as night leads to dawn, if only you have faith. Look for the company of gay people, do not flee from happiness. Bliss can undo all knots; it is the turquoise in the seal of God. It will come to you, only you must have patience. Let your happiness grow slowly. Even the mighty sea consists of single drops ; even the mountain, cloud-high, of tiny grains of earth. And have you not all the time in the world ? With patience, you can search at ease for the precious stone. Be prudent! The dumb fall behind, like the worm without feet, but the clever fox can overcome the stronger wolf. Why do you give your heart to a rose ? She blossoms without you, while you remain in the mud ; she has a heart of stone — indeed your heart is being stoned ! Why ?

‘They who talk to you about Layla seek your shame and disgrace. They offer you parsley which is poison to a man stung by a scorpion. You must see that, my son. Give up !

‘You are dearer to me than life itself. Come home and stay with us. Here in the mountains only tears await you; you will find nothing but stones on this path, and deep wells in which you will drown. Do not argue! Even the prefect is out to destroy you, and if you play with madness you are forging an iron chain for yourself. . . . Watch the sword, my child, drawn to smite you and take care of your life, while there is time. Make new friends, be gay, and laugh at the discomfort of your enemies ! 5

WHEN the old Sayyid had thus poured out all the hopes and sorrows stored up in his heart, Majnun could remain silent no longer, and this was his reply :

‘You, whose Majesty equals that of Heaven itself, King of all our dwelling-places, inhabited or deserted, pride and glory of all Arabs, I kneel before you. I have received my life from you, may you never lose your own, and may I never lose you. Your words are scorching me — yet what can I do ? I, the man with the blackened face, have not chosen the way, I have been cast on to it. I am manacled, and my fetters, as you say, are made of iron. But it was not I who forged them; it was my fate, my Kismet, that decided. I cannot loosen them; I cannot throw off my burden. Not of its own will does the shadow fall into the depth of the well, not by its own power does the moon rise in the sky to its zenith. Wherever you look, from ant to elephant, you will find no object or creature, which is not ruled by fate.

‘Who, therefore, could remove the load of stone from my heart ? Who could wash away the disaster which is crushing me, which I have not chosen. I am carrying the burden which has been put on my shoulders, and cannot throw it off. You keep asking me, “Why do you never laugh ?” But tears rather than laughter become the sufferer. If I were to laugh, it would be as if lightning and thunder were laughing as they broke the clouds; the fire burning inside me would scorch my lips, and I would perish in the furnace of my mirth. . . . ’

Here Majnun interrupted himself and told this story to the Sayyid :

THE FABLE OF THE PARTRIDGE AND THE ANT

‘There was once a partridge, which, when hunting, espied an ant, and seized in its beak one of the ant’s legs. It was just about to swallow it when the ant laughed and shouted: “Partridge, to laugh as I do, that’s one thing you are not capable of!”

‘The partridge was greatly upset. It did not stop to think; it just opened its beak to laugh heartily and said: “Really, it is my turn to laugh, and not yours.” But by that time the ant had escaped from the re-opened prison, and the silly partridge was left alone in the field.

‘Man, if he laughs at the wrong time, will fare no better ; he will regret with tears that he laughed too soon.’

‘'W'' ALSO’, Majnun continued, ‘have I no reason to laugh. Even the old 1 donkey does not throw down its burden before death takes it away. Why then should it fear death? You warned me, father; but what lover goes in fear of the sword ? A man in love does not tremble for his life. He who searches for his beloved is not afraid of the world. Where is this sword? Let it smite me, as the cloud has swallowed my moon. My soul has fallen into the fire, and even if it hurts to lie there, no matter; it was good to fall.

‘Leave my soul alone. It is destroyed, it is lost; what do you want from it ?’

When the old man heard this, he shed bitter tears and, smarting with pain, took his disturbed son home. There the family nursed him, comforting him as best they could. They also called on his former friends, and entrusted the child of sorrow to their care.

But for Majnun they were all strangers. Life at home was one prolonged torture to him and all who saw him felt tears come into their eyes. How could they help such a heart ? For two or three days Majnun bore the strain, then he tore down the curtain which his friends had put up to protect him and escaped once more into the desert of Najd. Like a drunken lion he roamed restlessly about in this desolate country of sand and rocks. His feet became as hard as iron, the palms of his hands like stone. He wandered through the mountains chanting his ghazels. But how strange! Even if Majnun was mad, his verses were not. Even if people heaped abuse and shame on him, they could find no fault in his verses.

Many came from near and far to hear the minstrel in his mountain retreat. Listening eagerly and loving what they heard, they wrote down his poems and took them away to the farthest horizons. Some became lovers themselves.

IN the meantime Layla had grown daily more beautiful. The promise of the bud had been kept by the blossom. Half an enticing glance from her eyes would have been enough to conquer a hundred kings; she could have plundered Arab or Turk, had she wanted.

Nobody could escape such a huntress. With her gazelle’s eyes she caught her victims and tied them with the rope of her tresses. Even a lion would have bent his neck gracefully under such a yoke.

A flower was Layla’s face; anyone who looked at her, fell hungry for the honey of her lips and turned beggar for her kisses; but her eyelashes refused to give alms, and said, ‘May God grant you what you desire, I shall give nothing.’

Those who had been caught by the noose of her locks were chased away by the darts of her eyelashes. Her body was like a cypress tree on which the pheasant of her face was sitting in majesty. Hundreds of lost hearts had already fallen into the well of her dimples, but our beauty took pity on those who had lost their footing and threw them her tresses as a rope to the rescue. So powerful was the spell of Layla’s beauty.

Yet this enchantress could not help herself. Seen from outside she seemed to blossom; inside she shed tears of blood. Secretly she was looking for Majnun from morning till night ; and at midnight, when nobody could hear, her sighs were calling him. Her laughter was born of tears, like the light of a candle, and out of all they saw, her eyes formed the image of her beloved.

Like Majnun, ever since their separation, she also burned in the fire of longing ; but her flames were hidden and no smoke rose from them. Layla, too, had her ‘mirror of pain’ like the one which the doctor holds in front of a dying man’s mouth to see whether a breath of life still clouds the glass ; but Layla’s mirror was her own soul which in her loneliness she questioned about her beloved. With whom else could she talk about the thoughts which filled her heart ? At night she told the secret to her shadow. She lived between the water of her tears and the fire of her love, as if she were a Peri, a fairy, hovering between fire and water.

Though devoured by sorrow, Layla would not have told her grief for anything in the world. Sometimes, when no one was awake, the fountains of the moon made her step outside. There she stood, her eyes fixed on the path, waiting — for whom ? Did she hope that a messenger might pass by or even call upon her ? But only the wind blowing from the mountains of Najd brought a breath of faith from a lonely man, or drove a cloud across, whose rain was, for Layla, a greeting from afar.

Yet her lover’s voice reached her. Was he not a poet ? No tent curtain was woven so closely as to keep out his poems. Every child from the bazaar was singing his verses; every passer-by was humming one of his love-songs, bringing Layla a message from her beloved, whether he knew it or not.

Now Layla was not only a picture of gracefulness, but also full of wisdom and well versed in poetry. She herself, a pearl unpierced, pierced the pearls of words, threading them together in brilliant chains of poems. Secretly she collected Majnun’s songs as they came to her ears, committed them to memory and then composed her answers.

These she wrote down on little scraps of paper, heading them with the words: ‘Jasmin sends this message to the cypress tree.’ Then, when no one was looking, she entrusted them to the wind.

It happened often that someone found one of these little papers, and guessed the hidden meaning, realizing for whom they were intended. Sometimes he would go to Majnun hoping to hear, as a reward, some of the poems which had become so popular.

And, true enough, there was no veil which could hide his beloved from Majnun. He answered at once, in verse, and whoever received the message saw to it that Layla should hear it at once.

Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Bom of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.

IN the garden, blossoms were smiling from all the trees. This morning the earth had hoisted a twin-coloured banner of red tulips and yellow roses; and the tulips threw vermilion-red petals, with black sun- spots, over the emerald-green carpet of the lawn, still glistening with pearls of dew.

As if playing, the violets hid from each other on their long, curved stems ; the rosebud girded itself and pointed thorny lances, ready for battle, while the water-lily, as if pausing in the fight, was resting her shield flat on the mirror-like surface of the pond. The hyacinth had opened wide her cups, the box tree was combing its hair, the blossoms of the pomegranate tree were longing for their own fruit, the narcissus glowing fiercely suddenly woke from a bad dream frightened like a feverish patient.

The sun had opened the veins of the Judas tree, full of blood, like wine ; the wild rose was washing her leaves in the jasmin’s silver fountain, and the iris wielded her sword fiercely.

In every plane tree the ringdoves cooed their love-stories, and on the topmost branch the nightingale was sitting, sighing like Majnun ; while below, the rose lifted her head out of her calyx towards the bird, like Layla.

On one such happy day, when the roses were in full bloom, Layla came with some friends into the garden, to enjoy themselves among the beautiful flowers like the maidens in the garden of paradise.

Did she intend to rest in the red shadow of the roses ? Or did she want to enrich the green of the grass with her own shadow, and lift her cup together with narcissus and tulip ? Did she come as a victor to demand tribute from the kingdom of these gardens in all their splendour ?

Oh no ! None of that was in her mind. She had come to lament, like those burned by the flame of love. She wanted to talk to the nightingale, drunk with passion; tell her secret, describe her sufferings ; perhaps Zephir, breathing through the rose- gardens, would bring a sign from afar, from the beloved.

Layla was trying to find comfort in the garden ; she looked at it as an ornament framing the image of the beloved ; perhaps it could show her the way to that other garden, the garden of paradise ?

But of that the friends who accompanied Layla, knew nothing. For a while the girls walked among the roses, and wherever they passed, with their figures like cypress trees and their tulip-like faces, the flowers, as if in rivalry, blossomed twice as beautifully.

While the maidens, in merriment and laughter, rested in a secluded comer of the garden, Layla, walked on unnoticed and sat down, far from them, under a shady tree. There she could air her lament, as her heart desired, like a nightingale in spring.

‘O my faithful one’, she sighed, ‘are you not made for me, and I for you ? Noble youth with the passionate heart, how ice-cold is the breath of separation ! If only you would now walk through the gate of this garden, to heal my wounded heart. If only you could sit next to me, looking into my eyes, fulfilling my deepest desire, you my elm, and I your cypress . . . but, who knows, perhaps you have already suffered so much for my sake that you can no longer enjoy my love, nor the beauty of the garden. . .

While Layla was thus dreaming of her beloved, suddenly a loud voice reached her ear. Someone was passing the garden, singing to himself. The voice was that of a stranger, but the lines were well known to her; she recognized Majnun’s verses at once:

Majnun is torn by grief and suffering.

Yet Layla's garden blooms as if in spring.

How can his Love live joyfully, at rest

And smile, while arrows pierce him, at a jest?

When Layla heard this melancholy strain she broke into tears and wept so bitterly that it would have softened a stone. She had no idea that anyone was watching, but one of the girls had noticed her absence. Inquisitive, as girls are, she had followed behind, had heard the stranger’s song and had seen the tears in Layla’s eyes. Both surprised and frightened her.

Returning home from the garden, she went secretly to Layla’s mother and told her what she had observed. The mother lost her head like a bird caught in a trap. What was she to do ? She suffered with her daughter; yet however hard she tried, she could not think of a remedy.

j; ‘I must not allow Layla to do what her heart urges’, she told herself, ‘because that youth is a madman ; he will infect her with his own insanity. But if I urge her to be patient she, unable to bear it, may break down completely — and I with her.’

So the daughter’s suffering became a torment for the mother. Layla did not realize it; she did not reveal her secret and so her mother too remained silent.

ON the day of her visit to the garden, where so much else happened, Layla also saw by chance a youth from the tribe of Asad passing by on his travels. His name, Ibn Salam, was of good repute among the Arabs. He was a young nobleman ; when people saw him, they pointed him out, not in reproach, but as one is wont to single out a person of high renown. He had many kinsmen and belonged to a great tribe ; nobody would close his ears to Ibn Salam ’s greetings.

Wherever he appeared, people said : ‘Look, here comes the good luck of Ibn Salam . . .’, and so, ‘Good Luck’, ‘Bakht’, had become his nickname. A true gentleman, he was strong and generous. One glance at the moon, just fourteen days old, and he decided to conquer this shining light. Unable to forget her, he thought of her ceaselessly on his journey home — and even more afterwards. Did he not have great riches ? Used as he was to act, he went to work, swift as the wind. One point only he did not consider — whether his wind would be welcomed by the shining light, whether the moon would tolerate his embrace. . . .

j Otherwise, this resourceful man thought of everything. According to custom, he at once sent a confidant to Layla’s parents, to ask for the fairy- girl’s hand in marriage. This man was briefed to propose, submissively like a beggar, in well calculated humility, but at the same time to offer presents like a king and to squander gold as if it were sand.

And that is how it went. Who could have refused such a match-maker? But, however favourably father and mother listened to him, it seemed too early to give their final consent. Why decide today, when there was a tomorrow? Was it not more prudent to wait, since there was a chance of waiting ?

They did not refuse, they just bade him tarry. Generously they spread the ointment of hope and said :

‘What you are asking for may well be granted; only have a little patience. Look! This spring flower is not very strong — somewhat pale she is, somewhat too delicate. Allow her first to gain strength, then we shall agree with pleasure to the union. May this soon happen, God willing — inshallah. A few days more, a few less, what does it matter ? It will not be long before this rose-bud blossoms and the thorn-bush has been cleared from the garden gate.’

That was the parents’ answer ; and Ibn Salam had to be content and wait.

LET us see what was happening to Majnun in the meantime. The -J gorge in which he had chosen to live belonged to an area ruled by a Bedouin prince called Nawfal. Because of his bravery in battle he was called ‘Destroyer of Armies’, but though iron- hard in front of the enemy, he was as soft as wax in kindness towards his friends. A lion in war, he was a gazelle in love, and widely renowned in the country for both.

One day this chieftain, Nawfal, rode out to hunt with some of his companions. The country became wilder and more and more desolate, but the hunters had eyes only for their prey, and when some of the light-legged antelopes and wild donkeys tried to escape into their hiding-places in the mountains, Nawfal and his friends followed swiftly.

But suddenly the mighty warrior reined in his horse. What was wrong ? Only a few steps ahead, in the semi-darkness at the entrance to a cave, two or three of the animals were huddled together, their flanks trembling — yet the hunter suddenly dropped his bow with the arrow on its drawn string. Surprised, he stared towards the grotto, where he noticed, behind an antelope’s back, a living being such as he had never encountered before.

The creature was crouching against the side of the rock, naked, wasted, arms and legs severely scratched by thorns, long strands of hair falling over the shoulders and the hollow cheeks. Was it an animal or a human being, a savage or one of the dead — maybe a demon? But the creature was weeping, so all fear vanished, giving way to pity. The noble hunter turned in the saddle towards his men and asked: ‘Does anyone know who this unhappy creature is?’

N| ‘Certainly, we have heard of him’, replied several voices. Then one man, who seemed to know more about it, stepped forward and said: ‘The youth over there has become what he is through his love for a woman. He is a melancholic, a madman, who has left the company of men and now lives here in the desert. Day and night he composes poems for his beloved. If a gust of wind sweeps by, or a cloud sails past in the sky, he believes them to be greetings from her and he thinks he can inhale her scent. He recites his poems, hoping that the wind or a cloud will carry them along to his beloved.’

‘How can he live here alone?’ asked Nawfal. ‘Oh, people come to visit him’, said the man, ‘some even undertake long voyages and suffer great hardship because they want to see him. They carry food and drink to him and sometimes visitors even offer him wine. But he eats and drinks very little, and if he is persuaded to sip the wine, he does so remembering his beloved. He thinks and acts only for her ! ’

Nawfal listened attentively and his sympathy for Majnun grew with every word. The hunt was forgotten.

‘In truth’, he exclaimed, ‘would it not be a manly deed, an act truly worthy of me, to help this confused, wayward fellow win his heart s ardent desire ?’

With these words he jumped from his mount — a thoroughbred ambling on reed-like fetlocks— and ordered a tent to be erected, a dining- table prepared and the youth brought in as his guest.

Everything was arranged as he demanded, and how amiable, how heart-stirring a host Nawfal could be ! But for the first time all his artful pains seemed to be in vain. However much he urged and insisted, the recluse from the mountains would not touch any of the tempting dishes offered to him; not one bite, not one sip. And the merrier the chieftain became, the more he talked and joked, the less the poet seemed to listen, the more deaf and blind he seemed to become.

What was to be done ? In the end, Nawfal, who had given up all hope, mentioned casually the name which his men had revealed to him : Layla !

And behold, as if touched by a magic wand, the youth lifted his head; for the first time his eyes betrayed his feelings, and he repeated smilingly ‘Layla . . nothing but Layla.’

Then he helped himself, ate a morsel, took a sip. Nawful understood. He talked about nothing but Layla; he praised her beauty, extolled her virtue, glorified her appearance, her character.

And Majnun responded. When the Bedouin chieftain, with his clever tongue, wove garlands of flowers, the lover added the shimmering pearls of his poems; although invented the moment they were sung, they were sweet and glowing like honey and fire. Nawfal listened in surprise and admiration.

! The man sitting in front of him was perhaps a savage, a fool — but there was no doubt that he was a poet, and among poets a master whose equal was not to be found in the whole of Arabia.

Quietly Nawfal made up his mind to rebuild with wary hands, the ruin of this heart stone by stone. Aloud he said :

‘You are like the butterfly, my friend, which flutters around in the darkness, searching for the light. Take care that you do not become a candle which, crying bitterly, consumes itself in its own grief. Why do you abandon hope ? Trust me and my wealth and the strength of my arm ; I shall balance the scales of your fate. I promise you, you shall have your Layla. Even if she became a bird, escaping into the sky, even if she were a spark, deep inside the rock, I would still find her. I shall neither rest nor relax until I have married you to I your moon-like love.’

When he heard these words, Majnun threw himself at his protector’s feet. Soon, however, he became doubtful again and objected:

‘Your words fill my soul with a delicious scent, but how do I know whether they are more than words, whether they are free from deception, whether you will act as you speak and whether you are even capable of acting? You ought to know that her mother, her parents, will never agree to give her in marriage to a man such as I, to a de- ranged one. “What?” they will say, “Are we to entrust this flower to the wind ? Shall we allow a devil’s child to play with a ray of the moon, hand over our daughter to a madman ? Never !” Ah, you do not know these people yet as I do. Others have tried before to help me, but what was the use ? Whatever they did, however hard they tried, my black fate did not become any whiter. Silver was offered in gleaming heaps, but it did not lighten the dark carpet of my days. So, you can see how hopeless my position is. To succeed would not be a human achievement, it would be a miracle. But I fear that you will soon have enough of this kind of hunting and turn back halfway, before you can trap your prey.

‘Be it not so. And, if you really keep your promise, may God reward you; but if you have only talked, showing me a fata Morgana , instead of an oasis, then, I implore you, rather tell me now and let me go on my way.’

This courageous speech strengthened Nawfal ’s friendly feelings towards the youth, who was of his own age, and he exclaimed:

‘You doubt my word ? All right, I shall make a pact with you. In the name of Allah the Almighty and his prophet Mohammed I swear that I shall fight for you and your cause like a wolf, no, like a lion, with my sword and all my resources.

‘I solemnly vow that I shall enjoy neither food nor sleep until your heart’s desire has been fulfilled . . . but you, in turn, must also promise me something — that you will show patience. Give up your frenzy, take your wild heart in hand, quieten it, tame it, if only for a few days.

| ‘So let us seal our alliance; you damp down the fire in your heart, I in turn will open the iron gate to your treasure. Do you agree?’

Majnun consented. He smoothed the stormy sea of his soul and accepted his friends’ helping hand. For the first time in many months, peace returned to his tortured mind, the marks inflicted by the branding iron of his madness began to heal. He trusted Nawfal like a child. And as peace came to his heart so a change came over his whole life. Without a word he abandoned the cave and accompanied his noble patron on horseback to his 1 camp.

In the shade and protection of his powerful friend, as his confidant and guest, Majnun — by now no longer a ‘majnun’ — soon reverted to his old state as Qays, the beautiful and noble youth he had once been. He bathed and donned the fine garments and the turban which Nawfal had presented |!j to him; he ate with pleasure, drank wine as a friend among friends and recited his qasidas and ghazels, not, as before, to the wind and the clouds, but to the hunters and warriors in their tents.

Fresh colour flowed back into the yellow, wasted face, his bent figure became erect and he walked among his new companions, swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The flower, shorn of its leaves by the storm, was in bloom again. How greatly had he changed for the world and the world for him. Since his return to the dwelling-places of men, nature had once more acquired a lovely face in the mirror of his eyes. The morning’s gold- hemmed, festive attire delighted him as if he were seeing it for the first time, he joined in the midday laughter of the sun and had the colourful riddles of the roses explained to him. Yes, he had become a man among men again.

Nobody was happier about this change than Nawfal, who had brought it about. He was like a rain-carrying cloud, spreading its pearly showers over the summer-dry earth. Every day he brought new presents for his recovering friend. Nothing was good or precious enough. Majnun had to be at his side all the time and Nawfal became so used to his company that he refused to be parted even for an hour. The few days which Nawfal had mentioned turned into as many months. Their happiness lasted a long time — but now thunderstorms were gathering on the horizon.

ONE day Majnun and Nawfal were sitting together, gay and happy as usual. Who would have thought that a bitter drop could fall into the cup of their friendship ? Suddenly a shadow passed over Majnun’s face, the smile on his lips died and he recited these lines :

My sighs , my bitter tears leave you unmoved!

My griefs and sorrows do not harass you.

Not one, not half a promise did you keep Of many hundreds I received from you.

You promised tofulfl my keen desire,

Yet you forgot to grant my sweet reward!

Instead of damping it, you stirred the fire.

With empty words did you seduce my heart.

Nawfal understood the meaning only too well. What could he answer ? The great warrior had no weapon against this attack. He sat there, abashed, his lowered eyes sad and melancholy. Majnun was more than ever overwhelmed by the desire for his beloved. It did not matter to him how hard it was: Nawfal had to fulfil what he had promised. In great bitterness Majnun continued :

‘At the time when we made our covenant, your tongue was certainly very quick. Remember ? Why then do you remain silent today ? Why do you not offer a salve for my wounded heart ? My patience is at an end, my reason rebels. Help me, lest I perish! Or must I seek assistance from better friends than you ? What am I to think of you, a prince, who gives his word only to break it — and to me, friendless, weak, broken, dying of thirst for the water of life ! Is it not one of the commandments, that one must offer water to the thirsty ? Stand by your promise, or the madman whom you lured out of the desert will return to it. Unite me with Layla, or I shall throw my life away.’

WHEN Nawfal heard his friend talking, his heart melted like wax in the flame. Without searching for words, where only deeds could count, he jumped up and went resolutely to work. Exchanging his robe for a suit of armour , he seized the sword instead of the cup and rallied a hundred horsemen, all skilled hunters and warriors, devoted to their chieftain and swift as birds of prey.

At the head of this army he set out, Majnun riding at his side, spoiling for the fray like a black lion. After a time they reached the pastures of Layla’s tribe. When they could see the tents from afar, Nawfal ordered his men to dismount and pitch camp. Then he sent a herald to Layla s tribe with this message:

‘I, Nawfal, have arrived with an army ready to fight you like an all-devouring fire. Hurry, therefore, and bring Layla to me ; or the sword will have to decide between us. I am determined that Layla shall belong to the one man who is worthy of her, so that his longing may be stilled and his thirst quenched.’

After a while, the messenger returned with this reply :

‘The way you have chosen will not lead you to your goal. Layla is no sweetmeat for people of your kind and to reach for the moon is not for everyone. The decision is not yours. Do you plan to steal the sun ? Are you asking for the comets, you cursed demon ? Draw your sword against us ! You glassbottle, we shall know how to break you!’ Furious, Nawfal sent a second message : ‘Ignorant fools, you do not seem to realize how keen is the edge of my sword ! Once it has smitten you, you will never again worry about your racing dromedaries. Do you really think you can block the path of an ocean wave? Come, now! Do as you are told, or disaster will overtake you. . . .’

But once more the herald returned with a rejection couched in abuse and derision. By now Nawfal was boiling with rage. He vented the red-hot fury of his heart in wild threats. He tore his sword out of its scabbard and led his men like a hungry lion towards the enemy camp. There also the men had prepared for battle. Bristling with arms they left the tents and soon the armies met in a terrible clash, like two mountains hurled at each other.

What noise, what uproar, what turmoil ! The heavy breakers of battle rolled to and fro. While the cries of the warriors were rising to heaven, blood poured from their wounds into the thirsty sand. The swords became the cupbearers and filled the cups so overfull that the earth was drunk with purple-coloured wine. Like lion’s claws the spears tore breasts and limbs, the arrows drank the sap of life with wide open beaks like birds of prey; and proud heroes, heads severed from trunks, lay down for the sleep of eternity.

The thundering noise roaring over the battlefield deafened the dome of the sky and its stars. Steel and stone struck sparks, like the deadly lightning of fate. Like black wildcats horseman set upon horseman — warriors crouching on their mounts as if riding white demons.

Majnun alone did not take part in this massacre. Was not death gathering the harvest for his sake ? Yet he stood aside, his sword hidden in its sheath, though not from fear or cowardice. While each warrior thought of nothing but to kill the enemy and to defend himself, the poet was sharing the sufferings of both sides. Majnun was in deep torment. Every blow from friend or foe smote him. Unarmed, he threw himself into the middle of the fray, crying to God and to the fighting warriors for peace. Between the lines of battle he looked like a lonely pilgrim — but how could anyone take notice of him in such an hour ? It was a miracle that he remained unharmed.

Did Majnun hope for Nawfal’s victory? Indeed he should, but the longer the terrible fight lasted, the more confused became Majnun’s heart. Had he not meant to die for Layla ? Yet her own people, men of her tribe and blood, were now being killed for his sake ! Killed by whom ? By Nawfal and Nawfal’s men, Majnun’s friends!

Were they really his friends ? Were they not rather his friends’ enemies ? Thus, while the battle of the horsemen raged outside, another struggle broke out inside the poet’s soul, as bitter as the one in the field.

If shame had not paralysed his arm, Majnun would have drawn his sword against his own side. But he was conscious that this would be infamous. In his imagination he could hear the jeering laughter of the enemy, had he attacked from behind those whose only thought was to help him.

Still, if fate had permitted, he would have sent his arrows against those who fought Layla’s tribe. His heart was with the men who defied his own champions. His lips prayed for help for his opponents. He longed to kiss the hand which had just (l un g one of Nawfal’s riders out of the saddle.

In the end this impulse became so strong that he could hardly subdue it. Time and again he rejoiced when the enemy advanced, and became downcast and miserable when Nawfal’s men gained an advantage.

Eventually one of Nawfal’s horsemen noticed this. He turned to Majnun, shouting:

‘What ails you, noble mind ? Why do you enjoy this strife only from afar ? Why do you even show favour to the enemy ? Have you forgotten that we are risking our lives for you and for your sake ?’

‘If they were enemies’, Majnun replied, ‘I could fight them. But as these enemies are my friends, what shall I do ? This is no battlefield for me. The heart of my beloved beats for the enemy, and where her heart beats, there is my home. I want to die for my beloved, not kill other men. How then could I be on your side, when I have given up my self?’

Meanwhile Nawfal, sword in hand and constantly in the thick of battle, had striven hard for victory. Like the dare-devil he was, unflinching like a drunken elephant, he assailed time and again the walls of the enemy. Many of them he had struck down, but when the dark-blue tresses of the evening twilight began to throw their shadow over the day’s burning forehead, the battle was still undecided. Soon night enveloped the fighting men. After the serpent of darkness had swallowed the last little glass pearl of light on the horizon, they separated, and soon none of them could see the others.

There were neither victors nor vanquished. But on both sides many brave men had fallen and the number of wounded was even greater than that of the dead. Nevertheless Nawfal had not given up hope of forcing the enemy to his knees on the following day. But when, in the first light of the new morning, he was about to lead his sadly diminished troop into battle, his scouts reported that during the night the enemy had been reinforced from other tribes.

If Nawfal was a hero, he was not a fool ! After some reflection he decided on the only move still left to him. He sent a herald into the enemy camp with this message :

‘Enough of the sword-play! Wounds have to be nursed; let us tread the way of peace. What I desired from you, and still desire, is the fairy-maid who could break the spell and free a bewitched youth from his delusion. In turn, I am prepared to pay you donkey-loads of treasure, and if you are ready to accept this proposal, your answer will sound much more harmonious than this my speech. But even if you refuse and your sugar is not for sale, we should nevertheless stop filling our lives with the sour taste of vinegar. Let the arms rest ! ’

The result was not unexpected. Nawfal’s suggestion that Layla should be handed over against the payment of a huge sum was rejected with the same determination as on the day before. How could it have been otherwise ? On the other hand there was no objection to a truce. No more blood was to be shed and Nawfal and his men returned home.

GONE were the beautiful days . when Majnun, at Nawfal’s side, had enjoyed life with his friends. The wound in the soul of our lover had opened again and he turned in bitterness against his friend.

He drew the sword of his tongue and spoke r ‘Such then are your artful ways of uniting two lovers? Excellent indeed! Is that your wisdom’s last resort, to raid with arms and men ? Is that proof of your strength? Is that the key to your magic power ? The masterpiece of your equestrian pride ? Is that the way you throw the lasso ? I certainly never wanted that. You have only succeeded in making enemies of my friends. The door through which I intended to enter, you have barred with a thousand locks. My good cause you have turned to bad; I herewith dissolve our friendship, my friend ! Not the enemy — the friend has tom the thread; I am like the king in the game of chess, checkmated by his own knight ; like the shepherd’s dog, pierced by the arrow which his master aimed at the wolf. ‘You may be great in your generosity, yet how small you are when it comes to fulfilling your promises. ’

Nawfal found it hard to stand up to such words. He had to cover himself with his shield and at the same time try to cure his wounded opponent. ‘You must understand’, he replied, ‘the enemy was superior in numbers and in arms. That is why I was unable to win Layla — as yet. I made peace and retreated. But that was a trick forced on me by necessity. Be sure that I shall return! I am now assembling an army from all the tribes around us and you can be certain that I shall not rest until I have sunk my steel into this stone, until I have pulled this stubborn donkey from the roof down to the ground ! ’

And Nawfal meant what he said. He sent messengers to all the tribes from Medina to Baghdad. He opened wide his treasure chests ; and after he had assembled an army that surged from horizon to horizon like an ocean of iron, he went once more to war in order to conquer Layla for his friend.

ONE day, with kettledrums beating, the steel wave of Nawfals’ army appeared in front of the tents of Layla’s tribe. Man close to man, spear next to spear, line after line — the whole plain was full of them, as far as the eye could see. The horses’ hoof- beats shook the earth, and the roar of the approaching host would have caused the heart of a dead man to tremble.

Nevertheless the brave defenders did not lose heart. They were still not willing to give way to force, determined not to hand over Layla to the madman and his helpers. They preferred to die rather than live under such a shameful yoke.

So battle was renewed. This time the clash between horses, men and arms was even more terrifying than before. So wedged and locked in battle became friend and foe that none could dodge the other, nor did thrust or stroke ever miss its victim.

Blood poured in streams from wounds and weapons as if it had to wash each grain of sand in the desert, and it looked as if red flowers were suddenly springing up from the arid soil.

At last the killing became too much. Even the most warlike hearts began to tire of inflicting pain, and the swords hesitated before they struck, as if ashamed of mowing down more and more heads.

Nawfal, the great warrior, fought again in the front line. Spitting fire and destruction like a dragon, he cut a man’s life-thread with every breath, and step by step, smashed the rocklike enemy to pieces. What his club hit was certain to be crushed — even if it had been the mighty Elburz mountain; and whoever ventured within range of his sword had the book of his fate closed for all time.

Even before night could cover this bloodthirsty drama, the day had granted the flame of victory to Nawfal’s men. The enemy retreated. Layla’s tribe was defeated, many were killed, many wounded or near dead from exhaustion.

As a sign of submission and mourning, the elders sprinkled earth on their heads and started, as soon as the weapons fell silent, on the bitter path to the victor’s tent. In front of Nawfal’s threshold, they kissed the earth and lamented :

‘You, Lord and Master, are the victor. We, your enemies, have been defeated — dead or alive. Now let justice prevail. Do not refuse peace to a few survivors ! Allow us resurrection after our fall and remember that one day we shall all be faced with another resurrection. Put your sword back into its sheath ; you no longer need it against the defenseless men who are lying here at your feet asking forgiveness. Let spears and arrows rest! Look, we have thrown away our shields and entrust our fate to your hands.’

Hearing the elders speak thus, Nawfal was moved by their grief. He too was ready to bury the past and granted the truce they requested without, however, forgetting to demand his price. ‘Bring me the bride and that at once’, he ordered, ‘then I shall be satisfied and leave you alone, you and your tribe. *

No sooner had he given this order, than a single man stepped out of the crowd of defeated tribesmen. It was Layla’s father, bent low by sorrow. In great humility he knelt before the victorious Nawfal, buried his forehead in the dust and filled the big tent with lamentation.

‘Great Prince among the Arabs’, he began, Took at me, an old man, broken-hearted, beaten down by disaster, and prostrate before you. The Arabs are heaping blame and infamy upon me, as if I were a homeless stranger, and when I think of the streams of blood which have been shed for my sake, I wish I could become a drop of quicksilver and escape from such disgrace. ... It is now your task to pronounce judgment. If you leave me my daughter, you can be certain of my gratitude. If you are determined to kill her — do! Cut her to pieces, bum her, drown her; I shall not rebel against your decision.

‘One answer alone I will not accept ; never shall I give Layla to this demon, this Majnun, a madman who should be tied with iron bands, not with nuptial bonds. Who, after all, is he ? A fool, a common muddle-head, a vagrant and homeless tramp, who roams mountains and steppes. And what has he ever achieved ? Shall I sit down with a vile versifier who has sullied my good name — and his own ? There is not one corner in the whole of Arabia where my daughter’s name is not bandied about on everyone’s lips — and I should give her to him who is the cause of all this? My name would be infamous for ever. Do not demand the impossible ! Woe to us if you insist ! I swear to God that I would rather cut off her head with my own hands and feed this moonlike bride to the dogs — to save my honour and to live in peace. . . . Better that the dogs should devour her than this demon in human shape. Better they than he ! ’

For a moment this daring speech and its terrible threat silenced Nawfal. But in his heart he forgave the old man and answered without rancour :

‘Stand up ! Even though I am the victor, I want you to give me your daughter only if you are willing. A woman taken by violence is like a slice of dry bread and a salty sweet.’

Thus he responded to Layla’s father and it soon became clear that his confidants, who were present, agreed with him. It was Majnun’s own doing. Had he not, during the first battle, taken the side of the enemy and in his heart become a traitor to his friends ?

The horseman who had observed and then spoken to Majnun, now turned to Nawfal and said :

‘The old man is right. This fool is full of impure hist. Rebellion dominates his mind and he is in no way fit to marry. He is unstable and completely unreliable. Didn’t we fight to the death for his sake ? Yet he hoped that the enemy would win. Haven’t we, on his behalf, offered our bodies as a target for their arrows ? Meanwhile he blessed these arrows behind our backs ! Is that the way for a man in his senses to behave ? He cries and laughs without rhyme or reason. Even if he should win his beloved, fate would not favour their union. . . . He is full of faults and you, Nawfal, will come to feel ashamed that you once helped him. Better to be content with the shame and honour we have already won and wash our hands of this affair.’

This turned the scale. What was Nawfal to do ? Although defeated, Layla’s father remained inexorable. And Nawfal’s own men supported him! Nawfal could not even blame them. Did not doubts prey upon his own mind ? Was there not truth in what Layla’s father and Nawfal’s men said ?

Nawfal decided to forgo the price of victory and gave order to break camp. THEY had not gone far before Majnun turned his horse towards Nawfal. His eyes streaming with tears, he boiled over with rage like a volcano.

‘Faithless friend’, he shouted, ‘you let my hopes ripe into a radiant dusk and now you push me into the daylight of despair. Why, tell me, did your hand drop its prey ? What has happened to this arm once ready to help me ? When I was thirsty you led me to the banks of the Euphrates, but before I could drink you dragged me back into my desert hell. You brought sugar out of your box to make sherbet, but you did not offer it to me. You placed me in front of a table laden with sweetmeats, and then you chased me away like a fly !

‘As you never intended to let me have my treasure, it would have been better not to show it to me. . . .* Majnun turned his horse without waiting for an answer and galloped into the pathless wilderness, away from Nawfal and his friends. He disappeared from their sight like a cloud which consumes itself, like the rain of tears which fell from his eyes, leaving no trace in the sand.

When Nawfal had returned to his hunting grounds and there was still no sign of Majnun, he went with a few men to look for him. He was devoted to his friend and anxious to comfort him, but in spite of long and strenuous efforts, they could find no trace of Majnun. It was as if his name had been erased from the book of life, and Nawfal began to fear that he had lost his friend for ever.

^FTER he had left Nawfal, Majnun sped away on his horse like a bird without a nest — far into the desert, only the wind as his companion. Singing to himself about Nawfal’s unfaithfulness, he told his unhappy fate to the half-effaced traces of abandoned resting-places and camp-fires.

Suddenly he discovered some dots moving in the distance. When he came nearer he found a strange group confronting him. Two gazelles had been caught in snares and a hunter was just about to kill the poor creatures with his dagger.

‘Let these animals go free!’ shouted Majnun, ‘I am your guest and you can’t refuse my request. Remove the nooses from their feet! Is there not room enough in this world for all creatures ? What have these two done that you are bent on killing them ? Or are you a wolf, not a human being, that you want to take the burden of such a sin upon yourself ? Look how beautiful they are ! Are their eyes not like those of the beloved? Does their sight not remind you of the spring ? Let them go free, leave them in peace! These necks are too good for your steel, these breasts and thighs are not meant to be devoured, these backs, which have never carried any burden, are not destined for your fire ! ’ Never before had the hunter heard anything like this. His mouth opened in astonishment, then he began to chew one of his fingers. Finally, when he had regained his composure, he replied:

‘I have heard what you said. But look, I am poor, otherwise I would gladly obey you. This is the first catch I have made for two months. I have a wife and children: do you expect me to spare the animals and let my family starve ?’

Without a word Majnun jumped out of the saddle and handed the reins of his horse to the hunter who, well content with the exchange, mounted and rode away, leaving Majnun alone with the two gazelles. Gently kissing their eyes Majnun sang:

Dark as the night, like hers, jour eyes!

What 1 have lostjou can t return.

Thej waken memories that burn,

Sad happiness and jojful sighs.

Blessing the animals he freed them from their fetters and watched them disappear towards the horizon. Then he continued on his way, only much slower, bent under the weight of his grief and his few possessions. The sand scorched his feet and the sun blazed down on his head. His brain seemed to boil, thorns tore his garments; but he did not seem to notice and pursued his way until night covered day with a blue-black shroud and the moon rose, borrowing its lustre from the sun.

Only then did the lonely wanderer halt. He crept into a cave groaning like a lizard which has been bitten by a serpent, and scattered the pearls of his tears into the tresses of darkness. Sighing, he crouched under the rock and read page after page from the book of his life, whose leaves were as black as the hours of the night which dwindled away without allowing him any sleep.

WHEN the morning, lighting up the world, unfolded its banner and the sun, rising in China, ascended in the sky, the nocturnal ghosts released Majnun’s mind. Like smoke rising from the fire he emerged from his hiding-place and continued on his way, composing poems and singing them aloud to himself.

Towards evening he came upon another hunter who had caught a stag in his snares and was about to kill it. Majnun ran quickly towards him and shouted, his voice as sharp as the spike of a bloodletter : ‘You hyena of a tyrant! Torturer of the weak and the defenceless ! Release this poor creature at once so that it may still enjoy its life for a short while. How will the hind feel tonight without her companion ? What would she say if she could talk with a human tongue ! She would exclaim : ‘ ‘May he who has done this to us, suffer as we do; may he never see another happy day! ...” Would you like that ? Do you not fear the distress of those who suffer? Imagine yourself as the stag — the stag as the hunter and you as his victim !’

‘It is not important to kill the stag’ , replied the trapper, ‘what matters to me is to sustain my own life. I have caught the animal, but if you wish, I am willing to sell it to you.’

Majnun had no treasure, but he was still carrying a few things which Nawfal had given him. He laid them at the feet of the hunter who was well satisfied with the bargain. Loading them on to his shoulders he said farewell and left the stag with Majnun.

When he had gone, Majnun approached the animal as gently as a father his child. Stroking and caressing it he said :

‘Like myself, are you not also separated from your beloved ? Quick-footed runner of the steppes, dweller of the mountains, how vividly you remind me of her! Go, hurry, search for her, your mate. Rest in her shadow — there is your place. And if in your wanderings you should pass Layla’s tent, perhaps even encounter her, give her this message from me :

I am jours, however distant jou maj he l

Your sorrow, whenjou grieve, brings grief to me.

There blows no wind but wafts jour scent to me,

There sings no bird but calls jour name to me.

Each memorj that has lft its trace with me

Lingers for ever, as if part of me.

‘Tell her that, my friend !’

With these words Majnun removed the noose from the legs of the stag and set it free while, high above, the caravan of the night went on its way and in the eastern sky the moon emerged from the darkness. Foaming like the waters of the Nile, the Milky Way seemed to flow across this celestial Egypt — while Majnun, left alone, looked up to the sky like a bird with clipped wings, erect like a candle which stands upright as it burns away.

THE dawn of a new day spread its radiant yellow light between the spokes of heaven’s night-blue wheel, while the awakening sun painted fresh red roses on the horizon. But Majnun was like a flower in autumn. Beaten down by grief and exhaustion his head drooped and when, towards noon, the sun shot its arrows at him, he was happy to find a small oasis where, under some palm trees, a spring was bubbling and a pool invited the wanderer to rest. Water and greenery and shade! This place, thought Majnun, is like a comer of Paradise which has fallen down to earth; like an image of the fields around the celestial lake Kowthar.

Having drunk his fill, he lay down on the brocade carpet of soft grass in the shade of the palm trees to rest awhile.

Soon the tired man was wrapped in peaceful slumber. Time passed unnoticed. When he woke, the sun was already low in the west. He had the feeling that someone had been staring at him. But who ? No living soul was visible, far or near.

By chance, his eye fell on the crown of the date- palm in whose shade and protection he had rested. There, in the green trelliswork of the fan-shaped branches, he saw a black shadow: a big raven squatted motionless, staring at Majnun, eyes glowing like lamps.

Dressed in mourning, he is a wanderer like myself, thought Majnun, and in our hearts we probably feel the same. Aloud he said to the bird :

‘Blackfrock, for whom are you mourning ? Why this sombre colour of the night in the light of day ? Are you burning in the fire of my grief, or have I disguised my soul with your blackness ?’

When the raven heard the voice, he hopped on to another branch without taking his eyes off Majnun who continued:

‘If you, like myself, belong to those whose hearts have been burned, why do you shim me ? Or are you a Khatib, who on Fridays preaches from the pulpit of a mosque ? Is that why you are wearing this sombre garb ? Or are you a negro watchman ? If so, whom do you fear ? Perhaps I am a shah and you are my princely protector ? Heed not ! If, in your flight, you happen to see my beloved, tell her this from me :

Help me, oh help me in my loneliness !

Lonely my light fades in the wilderness .

‘Be not afraid, for I am yours’ , you said,

Do not delay — lest you should find me dead.

Caught by the wolf, the lamb hears all too late The shepherd’s fute lament its cruel fate.

Dying from thirst, I search the sly in vain —

Too late the cloud that brings the saving rain.

As Majnun recited these lines, the raven fluttered farther and farther away until he finally took wing from the crown of the palm tree, vanishing into the fading light, which seemed to swallow him up.

It was no longer day, but not yet night: the hour of the bats’ awakening. The darkness grew until it was as black as a raven’s plumage. What a giant raven this night was. When its wings were spread they reached right across the sky and yellow ravens’ eyes stared down on Majnun as before, only now there were thousands of them, great and small, a countless multitude.

To hide from their gaze, Majnun covered his face with his hands, and wept bitterly.

WHEN the light of the morning pushed its head through the curtain of the night, the old world came to life afresh in every creature’s eyes — like a new garden.

Majnun could no longer endure to be so far from his beloved. He hurried along as if he had grown raven’s wings overnight, or like a butterfly rushing through the darkness towards the flame which it seeks to encircle.

The closer he came to his goal, the more his heart became drunk with Layla’s scent, the louder his ears perceived the sound of her voice, the clearer his eyes recognized her face in mountains and valleys.

All strength seemed to have gone from his limbs and he had to take rest ; he was like a man who has dwelt for a long time among the dead and now with every breath, with every sigh, feels the stream of life slowly returning.

While he sat there, two strange figures approached. A woman dragged a man behind her — his hair and beard dishevelled, his limbs weighed down by iron chains so heavy that he could hardly walk; he looked and behaved as if out of his senses, and the woman tugged constantly on the rope, hurrying him along like an ox or a donkey.

Majnun, deeply shocked, felt pity for the poor man. He implored the woman not to use her prisoner so roughly and asked: ‘Who is this man ? What has he done that you drag him around chained like that ?’

‘Do you want to hear the truth ? ’ said the woman. ‘All right then. He is neither crazy nor a criminal. I am a widow and he is a dervish, both of us have suffered great hardship. We are both ready to do anything if only we can fill purse and belly. That is why I decided to parade him in chains, hoping that people would think him mad and give us food and alms out of charity. What we receive, we divide fairly between us. ’

When Majnun heard these words, he went down on his knees and beseeched her :

‘Relieve this man of his chains and put them on me. I am one of those unhappy men with a disturbed mind, I should be tied up — not he. Take me with you as long and wherever you wish and everything that is given to us shall be yours.

The old woman did not wait to be told twice. Quickly she freed the dervish from his chains, tying up Majnun in his stead. He was as pleased as if she had caressed him and she walked on happily, leading her new victim by the rope.

Whenever the woman and her prisoner came to a tent, they stopped : Majnun recited his love poems, cried out ‘Layla . . . Layla . . banged head and body against the stones, and, in spite of his chains, danced around like a drunken madman, while the woman punished him.

One day they came to an oasis where a few tents had been erected. Looking at them more closely, Majnun suddenly recognized Layla’s tent among them. Tears began to stream from his eyes like floods of rainwater pouring from the clouds in spring. He collapsed, hit his head against the ground and called out:

‘You have left me to myself, sharing with me nothing but your grief. Look, I am doing penance because I made you and your people suffer under the hands of Nawfal. As a punishment I have given up my freedom. Shackled I stand before you, a rope around my neck, waiting to be chastised. I know I have sinned, and my sin is so great that it can never be forgiven.

‘I am your prisoner; you be my judge. Condemn me ! Punish me as severely as you like. ... It is my fault that your people have suffered. In expiation I am beating my body with my own hands. Yesterday I committed my crime, today I have returned in chains to suffer torture from you. Kill me, but do not reject me in my misery. How can I plead innocence in front of you ? You are loyal, even when you have abandoned loyalty; I am guilty, even when I am innocent.

‘In life, your greetings did not reach me, and your hands did not stroke my hair. But now there is hope. Maybe you will look at me while you kill me with your arrow, and then put your hand on my head? Maybe you will draw your sword, allowing me to rest my head on your threshold like an animal to be sacrificed ? I will be as trusting as Ismael before Abraham! Why should I be afraid, if it is you who cuts off my head ? My heart burns like a candle — if you cut the wick, it burns even brighter! As long as I am alive there is no way that could lead me to you; save yourself, therefore, save me from myself, and let me rest at your feet in eternal peace.’

Majnun could say no more. With a loud cry he flew from the ground like an arrow, his face insanely contorted. Raving as if possessed by a demon, he seized his chains in both hands, and, in a superhuman effort, tore them apart; striking himself in the face, he raced away from the old woman, from Layla’s tent, from all human beings — towards the mountainous wastes of Najd.

His parents, his relatives and friends, were told. They had already heard what had happened to him during the last weeks and months. Some searched for him, but when they found him in one of his hiding-places in the mountains, they realized that the past, apart from Layla’s name and memory, had been extinguished from his mind. As soon as they tried to talk of anything else, he fell silent, or escaped, withdrawing into himself, as if drunk with sleep. These attempts only excited him, but led nowhere, and so, in the end, even his father and mother had to abandon hope that he would ever recover and return to them.

WHAT, in the meantime, had happened to Layla ? Hear what the deep-sea diver sounding the ocean of the soul has to tell you !

Layla soon learned of Nawfal ’s victory — and it was her father who told her. He came rushing into the tent, covered in dust and blood, battered and exhausted, his turban awry.

Yet, he did not look like a man in need of comfort after shameful defeat. He was tired, but his eyes shone with satisfaction and his voice sounded triumphant. ‘What a master-stroke’, he said proudly, ‘I have managed to tame this man Nawfal with my tongue, after his sword had beaten us ! I have escaped disaster by the breadth of a hair ! This maniac, this Majnun, almost forced his way in — and then, what would have happened? Now Nawfal, who fought in God’s name and won — may heaven reward him — has withdrawn. We are saved.’

Layla had to listen, although her heart was almost breaking with grief ; but while her father and other people were present, she dared not show it. Secretly she wept and suffered and, when the night hid her from prying eyes, she allowed her tears to fall freely until her sleepless eyes were red- rimmed like those of the narcissus.

Her parents’ home had become her prison. Guarding the secret of her love, which must not be revealed, she lived like a serpent, unable to find a way out of a tightly fastened bag. She waited, listening to the wind, as it lovingly caressed the tent, hoping it might bring a message from her beloved.

Meanwhile, Majnun’s poems extolling Layla’s beauty and recounting the story of their love had spread among the tribes, and noble suitors came from far and near to try their luck. One offered land, another sheep, yet another gold; full of desire, they used every trick and art of persuasion to reach their goal.

But, whatever treasures they had to offer, no matter how strongly they insisted, flattered and implored, Layla’s father remained unmoved. With great care, he protected the glass so that no stone should break it, and barred the door which led to the girl with the silvery limbs.

When he was present, Layla drank the wine of gaiety — when he turned his hack, she ate the bread of grief. She was a candle which smiles through tears, a rose which hides her thorns, a lame girl supported by the arms of her parents, who thought she was walking unaided.

Ibn Salam had, of course, also heard about the hordes of suitors perilously encircling his promised jewel. His impatience and desire became inflamed by fear until he could stand it no longer. He equipped a caravan worthy of a king. With donkey-loads of amber, musk, jewels and sweetmeats of all kinds, he started off, hoping to conquer the treasure with treasures. He scattered gold coins among the people like so many grains of sand, and his camels, buried under the load of silken garments, looked like walking hills of brocade.

When he arrived, Ibn Salam allowed himself and his men two days of rest, then he sent his mediator to Layla’s family. This man was a master of his art. He could weave a magic spell with words, and make a stone melt with shame. So great was his eloquence that, like the Messiah, he could have breathed life into a corpse.

Layla’s father could not resist such determined assault; and even less, when the orator with infectious enthusiasm displayed before delighted eyes treasures from the towns of Araby, from China and Byzantium as presents, using the key of his sweet tongue to open the lock which was already giving way.

‘Consider’, he said to Layla’s father, ‘what kind of a man is this Ibn Salam, a knight like a lion, backbone of any army, pride of the Arabs! Not only his sword, but untold numbers of men obey him; wherever he goes, his name races ahead of him, and his honour is without a flaw. If it must be, he will shed blood like water and gold like sand. Who would not accept such a mighty warrior as his son-in-law ? If you are in need of reliable men — he will find them. If you are in need of protection — he will grant it.’

Like rain in springtime, which never seems to stop, the words poured over Layla’s father, who had hardly a chance to open his mouth. What J could he do, what could he say ? Had he not already promised his daughter to Ibn Salam ? True, I he would have preferred to wait even longer; j: events still went too fast for him. Yet, however j much he turned and twisted, searching for excuses f — as a man, surprised by the enemy, searches for T his arms — his skilled opponent drove him into a corner with the sword of his tongue, until, in the end, he had to surrender, handing over his moon into the jaws of the dragon.

The day of the marriage was fixed. When it dawned, and the sun covered the shoulders of the night with her prayer-mat, woven from early light — just as one bedecks the shoulders of a bridegroom — Layla’s father went to work. Ibn Salam, his entourage and the other guests were led into the festival tent, where everything had been sumptuously prepared for their reception. As is the Arabian custom, the guests were sitting together, admiring the bride’s presents, throwing a tufan of silver coins into the air, enjoying choice delicacies and weaving new ties between the families on either side, talking and joking, in laughter and gaiety.

And Layla? The women, while adorning the rooms, burning scented aloe wood and sprinkling it with sugar, never noticed the bride’s tears,