SRI AUROBINDO
Collected Plays and Short Stories
Part Two
The gardens of the Caliph's Palace outside the Pavilion of Pleasure.
Anice-Aljalice, Nureddene.
This is Bagdad!
Bagdad the beautiful,
The city of delight. How green these gardens!
What a sweet clamour pipes among the trees!
And flowers! the flowers! Look at these violets
Dark blue like burning sulphur! Oh, rose and myrtle
And gillyflower and lavender; anemones
As red as blood! All spring walks here in blossoms
And strews the pictured ground.
Do you see the fruit,
Anice? Camphor and almond-apricots,
Green, white and purple figs and these huge grapes,
Round rubies or quite purple-black, that ramp
O'er wall and terrace; plums almost as smooth
As your own damask cheek. These balls of gold
Are lemons, Anice, do you think? Look, cherries,
And mid these fair pink-budded orange-blossoms
Rare glints of fruit.
That was a blackbird whistled.
How the doves moan!
It's full of cooing turtles.
Oh see, the tawny bulbuls calling sweetly
And winging! What a flutter of scarlet tails!
If it were dark, a thousand nightingales
Would surely sing together. How glad I am
That we were driven out of Bassora!
And this pavilion with its crowd of windows!
Are there not quite a hundred?
Do you see
The candelabrum pendent from the ceiling?
Each window has a lamp.
Night in these gardens must be bright as day.
To find the master now! Here we could rest
And ask our way to the great Caliph, Anice.
Enter Shaikh Ibrahim from behind.
So, so! So, so! Cavalier sirvente with your bona roba! You do not know then of the Caliph's order forbidding entry into his gardens? No? I will proclaim it then with a palmstick about your pretty back quarters. Will I not? Hoh!
He advances stealthily with stick raised.
Nureddene and Anice turn towards him, he drops
the stick and remains with arm lifted.
Here is a Shaikh of the gardens. Whose garden is this, friend?
Is the poor man out of the use of his wits? He stares open-mouthed.
Glory to Allah who made you! Glory to the angel who brought you down on earth! Glory to myself who am permitted to look upon you! I give glory to Allah for your beauty, O people of Paradise!
Rather give glory to Him because he has given thee a fine old age and this long silvery beard. But are we permitted in this garden? The gate was not bolted.
This garden? My garden? Yes, my son; yes, my daughter. It is the fairer for your feet; never before did such flowers bloom there.
What, is it thine? And this pavilion?
All mine, my son. By the grace of Allah to a poor sinful old man. 'Tis by his election, my son, and divine ordination and sanctification, and a little by the power of my prostrations and lustrations which I neglect not, neither morning nor noon nor evening nor at any of the intervals by the law commanded.
When did you buy or lay it out, old father?
A grand-aunt left it to me. Wonder not, for she was indeed aunt's grandmother to a cousin of the sister-in-law of the Caliph.
Oh then indeed!
She had the right divine to be wealthy.
But I 
trust thou hast good doctrinal justification for inheriting after her?
I would not accept the Caliphate by any other. Oh my son, hanker not unlawfully after perishable earthly goods; for, verily, they are a snare and verily, verily, they entrap the feet of the soul as it toileth over the straight rough road to Heaven.
But, old father, are you rich and go so poorly robed? Were I mistress of such a garden, I would float about it in damask and crimson and velvet; silk and satin should be my meanest apparel.
She has a voice like a blackbird's! O angel Gabriel, increase this unto me. I will not quarrel with thee though all Houridom break loose on my garden; for their gates thou hast a little opened. (aloud) Fie, my daughter! I take refuge with Allah. I am a poor sinful old man on the brink of the grave, what should I do with robes and coloured raiment? But they would hang well on thee. Praise the Lord who has given thee hips like the moon and a waist indeed! a small, seizable waist, Allah forgive me!
We are weary, old father; we hunger and thirst.
Oh, my son! Oh, my daughter! You put me to shame. Come in, come in; this my pavilion is yours and there is within it plenty of food and drink, — such innocent things now as sherbet and pure kind water. But as for wine, that accursed thing, it is forbidden by the Prophet, whose name is a benediction. Come in, come in. Allah curse him that giveth not to the guest and the stranger.
It is indeed thine? we may enter?
Allah, Allah! its floor yearns for thy beauty and for the fair feet of thy sister. If there were youth now instead of poor venerable me, would one not kiss the marble wherever her fair small feet will touch it? But I praise Allah that I am an old man with my thoughts turned to chastity and holiness.
Come, Anice.
Allah! Allah! She is a gazelle that springeth. Allah! Allah! the swan in my lake waddleth less perfectly. She is as a willow when the wind swayeth it. Allah! Allah!
The Pavilion of Pleasure.
Anice-Aljalice, Nureddene, Shaikh Ibrahim on couches, by a table set with dishes.
These kabobs are indeed good, and the conserves look sweet and the fruit very glossy. But will you sit and eat nothing?
Verily, my son, I have eaten at midday. Allah forbid me from gluttony!
Old father, you discourage our stomachs. You shall eat a morsel from my fingers or I will say you use me hardly.
No, no, no, no. Ah well, from your fingers, from your small slim rosy fingers. Allah! Only a bit, only a morsel: verily, verily! Allah! surely thy fingers are sweeter than honey. I could eat them with kisses.
What, old father, you grow young?
Oh, now, now, now! 'Twas a foolish jest unworthy of my grey hairs. I take refuge with Allah! A foolish jest.
But, my aged host, it is dry eating without wine. Have you never a flagon in all this palace? It is a blot, a blot on its fair perfection.
I take refuge with Allah.
Wine! for sixteen years I have not 
touched the evil thing.
When I was young indeed!
Ah well, when I was young.
But 'tis forbidden.
What saith Ibn Batata?
That wine worketh transmogrification.
And Ibrahim Alhashhash bin Fuzfuz bin Bierbiloon al Sandilani of Bassora, he rateth wine sorely and averreth that the red glint of it is the shine of the red fires of Hell, its sweetness kisseth damnation and the coolness of it in the throat causeth bifurcation.
Ay, verily, the great Alhashhash.
Who are these learned doctors you speak of, old father? I have read all the books, but never heard of them.
Oh, thou hast read? These are very distant and mystic Sufis, very rare doctors. Their books are known only to the adepts.
What a learned old man art thou, Shaikh Ibrahim! Now Allah save the soul of the great Alhashhash!
Hm! 'Tis so. Wine! Verily, the Prophet hath cursed grower and presser, buyer and seller, carrier and drinker. I take refuge with Allah from the curse of the Prophet.
Hast thou not even one old ass among all thy belongings? And if an old ass is cursed, is it thou who art cursed?
Hm! My son, what is thy parable?
I will show you a trick to cheat the devil.
Give three denars of mine to a neighbour's servant with a dirham or two for his trouble, let him buy the wine and clap it on an old ass, and let 
the old ass bring it here.
So art thou neither grower nor presser, seller nor buyer, carrier or drinker, and if any be damned, it is an old ass that is damned.
What saith the great Alhashhash?
Hm! Well, I will do it. (aside) Now I need not let them know that there is wine galore in my cupboards, Allah forgive me!
He is the very gem of hypocrites.
The fitter to laugh at. Dear my lord, be merry
Tonight, if only for tonight. Let care
Expect tomorrow.
You are happy, Anice?
I feel as if I could do nothing else
But laugh through life's remainder. You're safe, safe
And that grim devil baffled. Oh, you're safe!
It was a breathless voyage up the river:
I think a price is on my head. Perhaps
Our helpers suffer.
But you are safe, my joy,
My darling.
She goes to him and kisses and clings about him.
Anice, your eyes are full of tears!
Let only you be safe
And all the world beside entirely perish.
She again embraces and kisses him
repeatedly. Shaikh Ibrahim returns with
the wine and glasses in a tray.
Where's that old sober learning?
I want to dance, to laugh, to outriot riot.
What a quick ass was this, Shaikh Ibrahim!
No, no, the wineshop is near, very near. Allah forgive us, ours is an evil city, this Bagdad; it is full of winebibbers and gluttons and liars.
Dost thou ever lie, Shaikh Ibrahim?
Allah forbid! Above all sins I abhor lying and liars. O my son, keep thy young lips from vain babbling and unnecessary lying. It is of the unpardonable sins, it is the way to Jahannam. But I pray thee what is the young lady to thee, my son?
She is my slave-girl.
Ah, ah! thy slave-girl? Ah, ah! a slave-girl! ah!
Drink, my lord.
By the Lord, but I am sleepy. I will even rest my head in thy sweet lap for a moment.
Allah! Allah! What, he sleeps?
Fast. That is the trick he always serves me. After the first cup he dozes off and leaves me quite sad and lonely.
Why, why, why, little one! Thou art not alone and why shouldst thou be sad? I am here, — old Shaikh Ibrahim; I am here.
I will not be sad, if you will drink with me.
Fie, fie, fie!
By my head and eyes!
Well, well, well! Alas, 'tis a sin, 'tis a sin, 'tis a sin. (drinks)
Another.
No, no, no.
By my head and eyes!
Well, well, well, well! 'Tis a grievous sin, Allah forgive me!
Just one more.
Does he sleep? Now if it were the wine of thy lips, little one.
Old father, old father! Is this thy sanctity and the chastity of thee and thy averseness to frivolity? To flirt with light-minded young hussies like me! Where is thy sanctification? Where is thy justification? Where is thy predestination? O mystic, thou art biforked with an evil bifurcation. Woe's me for the great Alhashhash!
No, no, no.
Art thou such a hypocrite? Shaikh Ibrahim! Shaikh Ibrahim!
No, no, no! A fatherly jest! a little little jest! (drinks)
Shaikh Ibrahim, thou drinkest?
Oh, ah! 'Twas thy slave-girl forced me. Verily, verily!
Anice! Anice! Why wilt thou pester him? Wilt thou pluck down his old soul from heaven? Fie! draw the wine this side of the table. I pledge you, my heart.
To you, my dear one.
You have drunk half your cup only; so, again; to Shaikh Ibrahim and his learned sobriety!
To the shade of the great Alhashhash!
Fie on you! What cursed unneighbourly manners are these, to drink in my face and never pass the bowl?
Anice-Aljalice and Nureddene (together)
Shaikh Ibrahim! Shaikh Ibrahim! Shaikh Ibrahim!
Never cry out at me. You are a Hour and she is a Houri come down from Heaven to ensnare my soul. Let it be ensnared! 'Tis not worth one beam from under your eyelids. Hour, I will embrace thee, I will kiss thee, Houri.
Embrace not, Shaikh Ibrahim, neither kiss, for thy mouth smelleth evilly of that accursed thing, wine. I am woeful for the mystic Alhashhash.
Art thou transmogrified, O Sufi, O adept, O disciple of Ibn Batata?
Laugh, laugh! laughter is on your beauty like the sunlight on the fair minarets of Mazinderan the beautiful. Give me a cup. (drinks) You are sinners and I will sin with you. I will sin hard, my beauties. (drinks)
Come now, I will sing to you, if you will give me a lute. I am a rare singer, Shaikh Ibrahim.
There is a lute in yonder corner. Sing, sing, and it may be I will answer thee. (drinks)
But wait, wait. To sing in this meagreness of light! Candles, candles.
She lights the eighty candles of the great candelabrum.
Allah! it lights thee up, my slave-girl, my jewel. (drinks)
Drink not so fast, Shaikh Ibrahim, but get up and light the lamps in the windows.
Sin not thou by troubling the coolness of wine in my throat.
Light them, light them but not more than two.
Nureddene goes out lighting the lamps one by one and
returns in the same way. Meanwhile Shaikh Ibrahim drinks.
Allah! hast thou lit them all?
Shaikh Ibrahim, drunkenness sees but double, and dost thou see eighty-four?
Thou art far gone in thy cups, O adept, O Ibn Batatist.
I am not yet so drunk as that. You are bold youths to light them all.
Whom fearest thou? Is not the pavilion thine?
Surely mine; but the Caliph dwells near and he will be angry at the glare of so much light.
Truly, he is a great Caliph.
Great enough, great enough. There might have been greater if Fate had willed it. But 'tis the decree of Allah. Some He raiseth to be Caliphs and some He turned into gardeners. (drinks)
I have found a lute.
Give it me. Hear me improvise, Old Sobriety.
Saw you Shaikh Ibrahim the grave old man?
Allah! Allah! I saw him drunk and drinking.
What was he doing when the dance began?
He was winking; verily, verily, he was winking.
Fie! What cobbler's poetry is this? But thou hast a touch. Let me hear thee rather.
I have a song for you.
All my face with wrinkles weird,
Yet I drink.
Hell-fire? judgment? who's afraid?
As soon as think.
Allah! Allah! Nightingale! Nightingale!
The Gardens outside the Pavilion.
Haroun al Rasheed, Mesrour.
See, Mesrour; the Pavilion's all alight.
'Tis as I said. Where is the Barmeky?
The Vizier comes, my lord.
Peace be with thee,
Commander of the Faithful.
Where is peace,
Thou faithless and usurping Vizier? Hast thou
Filched my Bagdad out of my hands, thou rebel,
And told me nothing?
What words are these, O Caliph?
What mean these lights then? Does another Caliph
Hold revel in my Palace of all Pleasure,
While Haroun lives and holds the sword?
What Djinn
Plays me this antic?
I am waiting, Vizier.
Shaikh Ibrahim, my lord, petitioned me,
On circumcision of his child, for use
Of the pavilion. Lord, it had escaped
My memory, I now remember it.
Doubly thou erredst, Jaafar, for thou gavest him
No money, which was the significance
Of his request, neither wouldst suffer me
To help my servant. We will enter, Vizier,
And hear the grave Faqueers discoursing there
Of venerable things. The Shaikh's devout
And much affects their reverend company.
We too shall profit by that holy talk
Which arms us against sin and helps to heaven.
Helps to the plague! (aloud) Commander of the Faithful,
Your mighty presence will disturb their peace
With awe or quell their free unhampered spirits.
At least I'ld see them.
From this tower, my lord,
We can look straight into the whole pavilion.
Mesrour, well thought of!
A blister spoil thy tongue!
I'll head you, Jaafar.
Is not that a lute?
A lute at such a grave and reverend meeting!
And be merry, O very very merry.
Even by candle light
And your lips as red as the red round cherry.
Now by the Prophet! by my great forefathers!
He rushes into the tower followed by Mesrour.
May the devil fly away with Shaikh Ibrahim and drop him upon a hill of burning brimstone!
He follows the Caliph, who now appears with
Mesrour on the platform of the tower.
Ho, Jaafar, see this godly ceremony
Thou gav'st permission for, and these fair Faqueers.
Shaikh Ibrahim has utterly deceived me.
The aged hypocrite! Who are this pair
Of heavenly faces? Was there then such beauty
In my Bagdad, yet Haroun's eyes defrauded
Of seeing it?
The girl takes up the lute.
Now if she play and sing divinely, Jaafar,
You shall be hanged alone for your offence,
If badly, all you four shall swing together.
I hope she will play vilely.
Wherefore, Jaafar?
I ever loved good company, my lord,
And would not tread my final road alone.
No, when thou goest that road, my faithful servant,
Well do I hope that we shall walk together.
Song
King of my heart, wilt thou adore me,
Call me goddess, call me thine?
I too will bow myself before thee
As in a shrine,
Till we with mutual adoration
And holy earth-defeating passion
Do really grow divine.
The mighty Artist shows his delicate cunning
Utterly in this fair creature. I will talk
With the rare couple.
Not in your own dread person,
Or fear will make them dumb.
I'll go disguised.
Are there not voices by the river, Jaafar?
Fishermen, I would wager. My commands
Are well obeyed in my Bagdad, O Vizier!
But I have seen too much beauty and cannot now
Remember to be angry. Come, descend.
As they descend, enter Kareem.
Here's a fine fat haul! O my jumpers! my little beauties! O your fine white bellies! What a joke, to catch the Caliph's own fish and sell them to him at thrice their value!
Who art thou?
O Lord, 'tis the Caliph himself! I am a dead fisherman. (falling flat) O Commander of the Faithful! Alas, I am an honest fisherman.
Dost thou lament thy honesty?
Only a few whitebait and one or two minnows. Poor thin rogues, all of them! They are not fit for the Caliph's honourable stomach.
Show me thy basket, man.
Are these thy whitebait and thy two thin minnows?
Alas, sir, 'tis because I am honest.
Give me thy fish.
Here they are, here they are, my lord!
Out! the whole basket, fellow.
Do I eat live fish, you thrust them in my face?
And now exchange thy outer dress with me.
My dress? Well, you may have it: I am liberal as well as honest. But 'tis a good gaberdine; I pray you, be careful of it.
Woe to thee, fellow! What's this filthiness
Thou call'st a garment?
O sir, when you have worn it ten days, the filth will come easy to you and, as one may say, natural. And 'tis honest filth; it will keep you warm in winter.
What, shall I wear thy gaberdine so long?
Commander of the Faithful! Since you are about to leave king-craft and follow an honest living for the good of your soul, you may wear worse than an honest fisherman's gaberdine. 'Tis a good craft and an honourable.
Off with thee. In my dress thou'lt find a purse
Crammed full of golden pieces. It is thine.
Glory to Allah! This comes of being honest.
Who's this? Ho, Kareem! wherefore here tonight?
The Caliph's in the garden. You'll be thrashed
And very soundly, fisher.
Jaafar, 'tis I.
The Caliph?
Now to fry these fish and enter.
Give them to me. I am a wondrous cook.
No, by the Prophet! My two lovely friends
Shall eat a Caliph's cookery tonight.
Inside the pavilion.
Nureddene, Anice-Aljalice, Shaikh Ibrahim.
Shaikh Ibrahim, verily thou art drunk.
Alas, alas, my dear son, my own young friend! I am damned, verily, verily, I am damned. Ah, my sweet lovely young father! Ah, my pious learned white-bearded mother! That they could see their son now, their pretty little son! But they are in their graves; they are in their cold, cold graves.
Oh, thou art most pathetically drunk. Sing, Anice.
Fish! fish! sweet fried fish!
Fish! Shaikh Ibrahim, Shaikh Ibrahim! hearest thou? We have a craving for fish.
'Tis Satan in thy little stomach who calleth hungrily for sweet
fish. Silence, thou preposterous devil!
Fie, Shaikh, is my stomach outside me, under the window? Call him in.
Ho! ho! come in, Satan! come in, thou brimstone fisherman. Let us see thy long tail.
What fish have you, good fisherman?
I have very honest good fish, my sweet lady, and I have fried them for you with my own hand. These fish, — why, all I can say of them is, they are fish. But they are well fried.
Set them on a plate. What wilt thou have for them?
Why, for such faces as you have, I will honestly ask nothing.
Then wilt thou dishonestly ask for a trifle more than they are worth? Swallow me these denars.
Now Allah give thee a beard! for thou art a generous youth.
Fie, fisherman, what a losing blessing is this, to kill the thing for which thou blessest him! If Allah give him a beard, he will be no longer a youth, and for the generosity, it will be Allah's.
Art thou as witty as beautiful?
By Allah, that am I. I tell thee very modestly that there is not my equal from China to Frangistan.
Thou sayest no more than truth.
What is your name, fisherman?
I call myself Kareem, and in all honesty when I fish, 'tis for the Caliph.
Who talks of the Caliph? Dost thou speak of the Caliph Haroun or the Caliph Ibrahim?
I speak of the Caliph, Haroun the Just, the great and only Caliph.
Oh, Haroun? He is fit only to be a gardener, a poor witless fellow without brains to dress himself with, yet Allah hath made him Caliph. While there are others — but 'tis no use talking. A very profligate tyrant, this Haroun! He has debauched half the women in Bagdad and will debauch the other half, if they let him live. Besides, he cuts off a man's head when the nose on it does not please him. A very pestilence of a tyrant!
Now Allah save him!
Nay, let Allah save his soul if He will and if 'tis worth saving, but I fear me 'twill be a tough job for Allah. If it were not for my constant rebukes and admonitions and predications and pestrigiddi — prestigidgide — what the plague! prestidigitations, and some slaps and cuffs of which I pray you speak very low, he would be worse even than he is. Well, well, even Allah blunders; verily, verily!
Wilt thou be Caliph, Shaikh Ibrahim?
Yes, my jewel, and thou shalt be my Zobeidah.
And we will tipple, beauty, we will tipple.
And Haroun?
I will be generous and make him my under-kitchen-gardener's second vice-sub-under-assistant. I would gladly give him a higher post, but, verily, he is not fit.
What an old treasonous rogue art thou, Shaikh Ibrahim!
What? who? Thou art not Satan, but Kareem the fisherman? Didst thou say I was drunk, thou supplier of naughty houses? Verily, I will tug thee by the beard, for thou liest. Verily, verily!
Shaikh Ibrahim! Shaikh Ibrahim!
Nay, if thou art the angel Gabriel and forbiddest me, let be, but I hate lying and liars.
Fisherman, is thy need here over?
I pray you, let me hear this young lady sing; for indeed 'twas the sweet voice of her made me fry fish for you.
Oblige the good fellow, Anice; he has a royal face for his fishing.
Sing! 'tis I will sing: there is no voice like mine in Bagdad.
When I was a young man,
I'd a very good plan;
Every maid that I met,
In my lap I would set,
What mattered her age or her colour?
And the girls they grow cold
And my heartstrings, they ache
At the faces they make,
And my dancing is turned into dolour.
A very sweet song! a very sad song! Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 'Tis just, 'tis just. Ah me! well-a-day! Verily, verily!
I pray you, Shaikh Ibrahim, be quiet. I would sing.
Sing, my jewel, sing, my gazelle, sing, my lady of kisses. Verily, I would rise up and buss thee, could I but find my legs. I know not why they have taken them from me.
Song
Heart of mine, O heart impatient,
Thou must learn to wait and weep.
Wherefore wouldst thou go on beating
When I bade thee hush and sleep?
Thou who wert of life so fain,
Didst thou know not, life was pain?
O voice of angels! Who art thou, young man,
And who this sweet-voiced wonder? Let me hear;
Tell me thy story.
I am a man chastised
For my own errors, yet unjustly. Justice
I seek from the great Caliph. Leave us, fisherman.
Tell me thy story. Walk apart with me.
Leave us, I pray thee.
I vow I'll help thee.
Art thou the Caliph?
If I were, by chance?
If thou art as pressing with the fish as me,
There's a good angler.
Will you not have some of this fish, Shaikh Ibrahim? 'Tis a sweet fish.
Indeed thou art a sweet fish, but somewhat overdone.
Thou hast four lovely eyes and two noses wonderfully fine with just the right little curve at the end; 'tis a hook to hang my heart upon.
But, verily there are two of them and I know not what to do with the other.
I have only one heart, beauty.
O, Allah, Thou hast 
darkened my brain with wine, and wilt Thou damn me afterwards?
Nay, if thou wilt misuse my nose for a peg, I have done with thee. My heart misgives me strangely.
He's writing out a letter.
Surely, my lord,
This is no ordinary fisherman.
The old drunkard knew him
For Kareem and a fisherman. Dear Anice,
Let not our dreams delude us. Life is harsh,
Dull-tinted, not so kindly as our wishes,
Nor half so beautiful.
He is not fit
To be a King.
Givest thou no gift at parting?
You're a fisher! (opens his purse)
Nothing more valuable?
Wilt take this ring?
No; give me what I ask.
Yes, by the Prophet,
Because thou hast a face!
Give me thy slave-girl.
Thou hast entrapped me, fisherman.
Is it a jest?
Thou sworest by the Prophet, youth.
Tell me,
Is it for ransom? I have nothing left
In all the world but her and these few pieces.
She pleases me.
O wretch!
Another time
I would have slain thee. But now I feel 'tis God
Has snared my feet with dire calamities,
And have no courage.
Dost thou give her to me?
Take her, if Heaven will let thee. Angel of God,
Avenging angel, wert thou lying in wait for me
In Bagdad?
Leave me not, O leave me not.
It is a jest, it must, it shall be a jest.
I mean thee well.
Thy doing's damnable. O man, O man,
Art thou a devil straight from Hell, or art thou
A tool of Almuene's to torture us?
Will you leave me, my lord, and never kiss?
Thou art his; I cannot touch thee.
Kiss her once.
Tempt me not; if my lips grow near to hers,
Thou canst not live. Farewell.
Where art thou bound?
To Bassora.
That is, to death?
Even so.
Yet take this letter with thee to the Sultan.
Man, what have I to do with thee or letters?
Hear me, fair youth. Thy love is sacred to me
And will be safe as in her father's house.
Take thou this letter. Though I seem a fisherman,
I was the Caliph's friend and schoolfellow,
His cousin of Bassora's too, and it may help thee.
I know not who thou art, nor if this scrap
Of paper has the power thou babblest of,
And do not greatly care. Life without her
Is not to be thought of. Yet thou giv'st me something
I'ld once have dared call hope. She will be safe?
As my own child, or as the Caliph's.
I'll go play
At pitch-and-toss with death in Bassora.
Kareem, thou evil fisherman, thou unjust seller, thou dishonest dicer, thou beastly womanizer! hast thou given me stinking fish not worth a dirham and thinkest to take away my slave-girl? Verily, I will tug thy beard for her.
He seizes Haroun by the beard.
Haroun al Rasheed (throwing him off)
Out! Hither to me, Vizier Jaafar. (Enter Jaafar). Hast thou my robe?
How dost thou, Shaikh Ibrahim? Fie, thou smellest of that evil thing, even the accursed creature, wine.
O Satan, Satan, dost thou come to me in the guise of Jaafar, the Persian, the Shiah, the accursed favourer of Gnosticism and heresies, the evil and bibulous Vizier? Avaunt, and return not save with a less damnable face. O thou inconsiderate fiend!
Damsel, lift up thy head. I am the Caliph.
What does it matter who you are? My heart, my heart!
Thou art bewildered. Rise! I am the Caliph
Men call the Just. Thou art as safe with me
As my own daughter. I have sent thy lord
To be a king in Bassora, and thee
I will send after him with precious robes,
Fair slave-girls, noble gifts.
Possess thy heart
Once more, be glad.
O just and mighty Caliph!
Shaikh Ibrahim.
Verily, I think thou art the Caliph, and verily, I think I am drunk.
Verily, thou hast told the truth, twice, and it is a wonder. But verily, verily, verily, thou shalt be punished. Thou hast been kind to the boy and his sweetheart, therefore I will not take from thee thy life or thy post in the gardens, and I will forgive thee for tugging the beard of the Lord's Anointed. But thy hypocrisies and blasphemies are too rank to be forgiven. Jaafar, have a man with him constantly and wine before his eyes; but if he drink so much as a thimbleful, let it be poured by gallons into his stomach. Have in beautiful women constantly before him and if he once raise his eyes above their anklets, shave him clean and sell him into the most severe and Puritan house in Bagdad. Nay, I will reform thee, old sinner.
Oh, her lips! her sweet lips!
You speak to a drunken man, my lord.
Tomorrow bring him before me when he's sober.
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1906
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