A Literary History of the Arabs Part 11

Now my desire is length of days because I know too well The orphan girl's hard lot, with kin unkind enforced to dwell.

I dread that some day poverty will overtake my child, And shame befall her when exposed to every pa.s.sion wild.[183]

She wishes me to live, but I must wish her dead, woe's me: Death is the n.o.blest wooer a helpless maid can see.

I fear an uncle may be harsh, a brother be unkind, When I would never speak a word that rankled in her mind."[184]

And another says:--

"Were not my little daughters Like soft chicks huddling by me, Through earth and all its waters To win bread would I roam free.

Our children among us going, Our very hearts they be; The wind upon them blowing Would banish sleep from me."[185]

[Sidenote: Treatment of enemies.]

"Odi et amo": these words of the poet might serve as an epitome of Bedouin ethics. For, if the heathen Arab was, as we have seen, a good friend to his friends, he had in the same degree an intense and deadly feeling of hatred towards his enemies. He who did not strike back when struck was regarded as a coward. No honourable man could forgive an injury or fail to avenge it. An Arab, smarting under the loss of some camels driven off by raiders, said of his kin who refused to help him:--

"For all their numbers, they are good for naught, My people, against harm however light: They pardon wrong by evildoers wrought, Malice with loving kindness they requite."[186]

The last verse, which would have been high praise in the mouth of a Christian or Mu?ammadan moralist, conveyed to those who heard it a shameful reproach. The approved method of dealing with an enemy is set forth plainly enough in the following lines:--

"Humble him who humbles thee, close tho' be your kindreds.h.i.+p: If thou canst not humble him, wait till he is in thy grip.

Friend him while thou must; strike hard when thou hast him on the hip."[187]

[Sidenote: Blood-revenge.]

Above all, blood called for blood. This obligation lay heavy on the conscience of the pagan Arabs. Vengeance, with them, was "almost a physical necessity, which if it be not obeyed will deprive its subject of sleep, of appet.i.te, of health." It was a tormenting thirst which nothing would quench except blood, a disease of honour which might be described as madness, although it rarely prevented the sufferer from going to work with coolness and circ.u.mspection. Vengeance was taken upon the murderer, if possible, or else upon one of his fellow-tribesmen.

Usually this ended the matter, but in some cases it was the beginning of a regular blood-feud in which the entire kin of both parties were involved; as, _e.g._, the murder of Kulayb led to the Forty Years' War between Bakr and Taghlib.[188] The slain man's next of kin might accept a blood-wit (_diya_), commonly paid in camels--the coin of the country--as atonement for him. If they did so, however, it was apt to be cast in their teeth that they preferred milk (_i.e._, she-camels) to blood.[189] The true Arab feeling is expressed in verses like these:--

"With the sword will I wash my shame away, Let G.o.d's doom bring on me what it may!"[190]

It was believed that until vengeance had been taken for the dead man, his spirit appeared above his tomb in the shape of an owl (_hama_ or _?ada_), crying "_Isquni_" ("Give me to drink"). But pagan ideas of vengeance were bound up with the Past far more than with the Future. The shadowy after-life counted for little or nothing beside the deeply-rooted memories of fatherly affection, filial piety, and brotherhood in arms.

Though liable to abuse, the rough-and-ready justice of the vendetta had a salutary effect in restraining those who would otherwise have indulged their lawless instincts without fear of punishment. From our point of view, however, its interest is not so much that of a primitive inst.i.tution as of a pervading element in old Arabian life and literature. Full, or even adequate, ill.u.s.tration of this topic would carry me far beyond the limits of my plan. I have therefore selected from the copious material preserved in the _Book of Songs_ a characteristic story which tells how Qays b. al-Kha?im took vengeance on the murderers of his father and his grandfather.[191]

[Sidenote: The story of the vengeance of Qays b. al-Kha?im.]

It is related on the authority of Abu 'Ubayda that 'Adi b. 'Amr, the grandfather of Qays, was slain by a man named Malik belonging to the Banu 'Amr b. 'amir b. Rabi'a b. 'amir b. ?a'?a'a; and his father, Kha?im b. 'Adi, by one of the Banu 'Abd al-Qays who were settled in Hajar. Kha?im died before avenging his father, 'Adi, when Qays was but a young lad. The mother of Qays, fearing that he would sally forth to seek vengeance for the blood of his father and his grandfather and perish, went to a mound of dust beside the door of their dwelling and laid stones on it, and began to say to Qays, "This is the grave of thy father and thy grandfather;" and Qays never doubted but that it was so. He grew up strong in the arms, and one day he had a tussle with a youth of the Banu ?afar, who said to him: "By G.o.d, thou would'st do better to turn the strength of thine arms against the slayers of thy father and grandfather instead of putting it forth upon me." "And who are their slayers?" "Ask thy mother, she will tell thee." So Qays took his sword and set its hilt on the ground and its edge between his two b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and said to his mother: "Who killed my father and my grandfather?" "They died as people die, and these are their graves in the camping-ground." "By G.o.d, verily thou wilt tell me who slew them or I will bear with my whole weight upon this sword until it cleaves through my back." Then she told him, and Qays swore that he would never rest until he had slain their slayers. "O my son," said she, "Malik, who killed thy grandfather, is of the same folk as Khidash b. Zuhayr, and thy father once bestowed a kindness on Khidash, for which he is grateful. Go, then, to him and take counsel with him touching thine affair and ask him to help thee." So Qays set out immediately, and when he came to the garden where his water-camel was watering his date-palms, he smote the cord (of the bucket) with his sword and cut it, so that the bucket dropped into the well. Then he took hold of the camel's head, and loaded the beast with two sacks of dates, and said: "Who will care for this old woman" (meaning his mother) "in my absence? If I die, let him pay her expenses out of this garden, and on her death it shall be his own; but if I live, my property will return to me, and he shall have as many of its dates as he wishes to eat." One of his folk cried, "I am for it," so Qays gave him the garden and set forth to inquire concerning Khidash. He was told to look for him at Marr al-?ahran, but not finding him in his tent, he alighted beneath a tree, in the shade of which the guests of Khidash used to shelter, and called to the wife of Khidash, "Is there any food?" Now, when she came up to him, she admired his comeliness--for he was exceeding fair of countenance--and said: "By G.o.d, we have no fit entertainment for thee, but only dates." He replied, "I care not, bring out what thou hast." So she sent to him dates in a large measure (_quba'_), and Qays took a single date and ate half of it and put back the other half in the _quba'_, and gave orders that the _quba'_ should be brought in to the wife of Khidash; then he departed on some business. When Khidash returned and his wife told him the news of Qays, he said, "This is a man who would render his person sacred."[192] While he sat there with his wife eating fresh ripe dates, Qays returned on camel-back; and Khidash, when he saw the foot of the approaching rider, said to his wife, "Is this thy guest?" "Yes." "'Tis as though his foot were the foot of my good friend, Kha?im the Yathribite." Qays drew nigh, and struck the tent-rope with the point of his spear, and begged leave to come in. Having obtained permission, he entered to Khidash and told his lineage and informed him of what had pa.s.sed, and asked him to help and advise him in his affair. Khidash bade him welcome, and recalled the kindness which he had of his father, and said, "As to this affair, truly I have been expecting it of thee for some time. The slayer of thy grandfather is a cousin of mine, and I will aid thee against him. When we are a.s.sembled in our meeting-place, I will sit beside him and talk with him, and when I strike his thigh, do thou spring on him and slay him." Qays himself relates: "Accompanied by Khidash, I approached him until I stood over his head when Khidash sat with him, and as soon as he struck the man's thigh I smote his head with a sword named _Dhu 'l-Khur?ayn_" (the Two-ringed). "His folk rushed on me to slay me, but Khidash came between us, crying, 'Let him alone, for, by G.o.d, he has slain none but the slayer of his grandfather.'" Then Khidash called for one of his camels and mounted it, and started with Qays to find the 'Abdite who killed his father.

And when they were near Hajar Khidash advised him to go and inquire after this man, and to say to him when he discovered him: "I encountered a brigand of thy people who robbed me of some articles, and on asking who was the chieftain of his people I was directed to thee. Go with me, then, that thou mayest take from him my property.

If," Khidash continued, "he follow thee unattended, thou wilt gain thy desire of him; but should he bid the others go with thee, laugh, and if he ask why thou laughest, say, 'With us, the n.o.ble does not as thou dost, but when he is called to a brigand of his people, he goes forth alone with his whip, not with his sword; and the brigand when he sees him gives him everything that he took, in awe of him.'

If he shall dismiss his friends, thy course is clear; but if he shall refuse to go without them, bring him to me nevertheless, for I hope that thou wilt slay both him and them." So Khidash stationed himself under the shade of a tree, while Qays went to the 'Abdite and addressed him as Khidash had prompted; and the man's sense of honour was touched to the quick, so that he sent away his friends and went with Qays. And when Qays came back to Khidash, the latter said to him, "Choose, O Qays! Shall I help thee or shall I take thy place?" Qays answered, "I desire neither of these alternatives, but if he slay me, let him not slay thee!" Then he rushed upon him and wounded him in the flank and drove his lance through the other side, and he fell dead on the spot. When Qays had finished with him, Khidash said, "If we flee just now, his folk will pursue us; but let us go somewhere not far off, for they will never think that thou hast slain him and stayed in the neighbourhood. No; they will miss him and follow his track, and when they find him slain they will start to pursue us in every direction, and will only return when they have lost hope." So those two entered some hollows of the sand, and after staying there several days (for it happened exactly as Khidash had foretold), they came forth when the pursuit was over, and did not exchange a word until they reached the abode of Khidash.

There Qays parted from him and returned to his own people.

[Sidenote: Song of Vengeance by Ta'abba?a Sharran.]

The poems relating to blood-revenge show all that is best and much that is less admirable in the heathen Arab--on the one hand, his courage and resolution, his contempt of death and fear of dishonour, his single-minded devotion to the dead as to the living, his deep regard and tender affection for the men of his own flesh and blood; on the other hand, his implacable temper, his perfidious cruelty and reckless ferocity in hunting down the slayers, and his savage, well-nigh inhuman exultation over the slain. The famous Song or Ballad of Vengeance that I shall now attempt to render in English verse is usually attributed to Ta'abba?a Sharran,[193] although some p.r.o.nounce it to be a forgery by Khalaf al-A?mar, the reputed author of Shanfara's masterpiece, and beyond doubt a marvellously skilful imitator of the ancient bards. Be that as it may, the ballad is utterly pagan in tone and feeling. Its extraordinary merit was detected by Goethe, who, after reading it in a Latin translation, published a German rendering, with some fine criticism of the poetry, in his _West-oestlicher Divan_.[194] I have endeavoured to suggest as far as possible the metre and rhythm of the original, since to these, in my opinion, its peculiar effect is largely due. The metre is that known as the 'Tall' (_Madid_), viz.:--

Thus the first verse runs in Arabic:--

_Inna bi'l-s.h.i.+' | bi 'lladhi |'inda Sal'in la-qatilan | damuhu | ma yu?allu._

Of course, Arabic prosody differs radically from English, but _mutatis mutandis_ several couplets in the following version (_e.g._ the third, eighth, and ninth) will be found to correspond exactly with their model.

As has been said, however, my object was merely to suggest the abrupt metre and the heavy, emphatic cadences, so that I have been able to give variety to the verse, and at the same time to retain that artistic freedom without which the translator of poetry cannot hope to satisfy either himself or any one else.

The poet tells how he was summoned to avenge his uncle, slain by the tribesmen of Hudhayl: he describes the dead man's heroic character, the foray in which he fell, his former triumphs over the same enemy, and finally the terrible vengeance taken for him.[195]

"In the glen there a murdered man is lying-- Not in vain for vengeance his blood is crying.

He hath left me the load to bear and departed; I take up the load and bear it true-hearted.

I, his sister's son, the bloodshed inherit, I whose knot none looses, stubborn of spirit;[196]

Glowering darkly, shame's deadly out-wiper, Like the serpent spitting venom, the viper.

Hard the tidings that befell us, heart-breaking; Little seemed thereby the anguish most aching.

Fate hath robbed me--still is Fate fierce and froward-- Of a hero whose friend ne'er called him coward: As the warm sun was he in wintry weather, 'Neath the Dog-star shade and coolness together: Spare of flank--yet this in him showed not meanness; Open-handed, full of boldness and keenness: Firm of purpose, cavalier unaffrighted-- Courage rode with him and with him alighted: In his bounty, a bursting cloud of rain-water; Lion grim when he leaped to the slaughter.

Flowing hair, long robe his folk saw aforetime, But a lean-haunched wolf was he in war-time.

Savours two he had, untasted by no men: Honey to his friends and gall to his foemen.

Fear he rode nor recked what should betide him: Save his deep-notched Yemen blade, none beside him.

Oh, the warriors girt with swords good for slas.h.i.+ng, Like the levin, when they drew them, outflas.h.i.+ng!

Through the noonday heat they fared: then, benighted, Farther fared, till at dawning they alighted.[197]

Breaths of sleep they sipped; and then, while they nodded, Thou didst scare them: lo, they scattered and scudded.

Vengeance wreaked we upon them, unforgiving: Of the two clans scarce was left a soul living.[198]

Ay, if _they_ bruised his glaive's edge 'twas in token That by him many a time their own was broken.

Oft he made them kneel down by force and cunning-- Kneel on jags where the foot is torn with running.

Many a morn in shelter he took them napping; After killing was the rieving and rapine.

They have gotten of me a roasting--I tire not Of desiring them till me they desire not.

First, of foemen's blood my spear deeply drinketh, Then a second time, deep in, it sinketh.

Lawful now to me is wine, long forbidden: Sore my struggle ere the ban was o'erridden.[199]

Pour me wine, O son of 'Amr! I would taste it, Since with grief for mine uncle I am wasted.

O'er the fallen of Hudhayl stands screaming The hyena; see the wolf's teeth gleaming!

Dawn will hear the flap of wings, will discover Vultures treading corpses, too gorged to hover."

[Sidenote: Honour conferred by n.o.ble ancestry.]

All the virtues which enter into the Arabian conception of Honour were regarded not as personal qualities inherent or acquired, but as hereditary possessions which a man derived from his ancestors, and held in trust that he might transmit them untarnished to his descendants. It is the desire to uphold and emulate the fame of his forbears, rather than the hope of winning immortality for himself, that causes the Arab "to say the say and do the deeds of the n.o.ble." Far from sharing the sentiment of the Scots peasant--"a man's a man for a' that"--he looks askance at merit and renown unconsecrated by tradition.

"The glories that have grown up with the gra.s.s Can match not those inherited of old."[200]

Ancestral renown (_?asab_) is sometimes likened to a strong castle built by sires for their sons, or to a lofty mountain which defies attack.[201] The poets are full of boastings (_mafakhir_) and revilings (_mathalib_) in which they loudly proclaim the n.o.bility of their own ancestors, and try to blacken those of their enemy without any regard to decorum.

It was my intention to add here some general remarks on Arabian poetry as compared with that of the Hebrews, the Persians, and our own, but since example is better than precept I will now turn directly to those celebrated odes which are well known by the t.i.tle of _Mu'-allaqat_, or 'Suspended Poems,' to all who take the slightest interest in Arabic literature.[202]

[Sidenote: The Mu'allaqat, or 'Suspended Poems.']

_Mu'allaqa_ (plural, _Mu'allaqat_) "is most likely derived from the word _'ilq_, meaning 'a precious thing or a thing held in high estimation,'

either because one 'hangs on' tenaciously to it, or because it is 'hung up' in a place of honour, or in a conspicuous place, in a treasury or storehouse."[203] In course of time the exact signification of _Mu'allaqa_ was forgotten, and it became necessary to find a plausible explanation. Hence arose the legend, which frequent repet.i.tion has made familiar, that the 'Suspended Poems' were so called from having been hung up in the Ka'ba on account of their merit; that this distinction was awarded by the judges at the fair of 'Uka?, near Mecca, where poets met in rivalry and recited their choicest productions; and that the successful compositions, before being affixed to the door of the Ka'ba, were transcribed in letters of gold upon pieces of fine Egyptian linen.[204] Were these statements true, we should expect them to be confirmed by some allusion in the early literature. But as a matter of fact nothing of the kind is mentioned in the Koran or in religious tradition, in the ancient histories of Mecca, or in such works as the _Kitabu 'l-Aghani_, which draw their information from old and trustworthy sources.[205] Almost the first authority who refers to the legend is the grammarian A?mad al-Na??as ( 949 A.D.), and by him it is stigmatised as entirely groundless. Moreover, although it was accepted by scholars like Reiske, Sir W. Jones, and even De Sacy, it is incredible in itself. Hengstenberg, in the Prolegomena to his edition of the _Mu'-allaqa_ of Imru'u 'l-Qays (Bonn, 1823) asked some pertinent questions: Who were the judges, and how were they appointed? Why were only these seven poems thus distinguished? His further objection, that the art of writing was at that time a rare accomplishment, does not carry so much weight as he attached to it, but the story is sufficiently refuted by what we know of the character and customs of the Arabs in the sixth century and afterwards. Is it conceivable that the proud sons of the desert could have submitted a matter so nearly touching their tribal honour, of which they were jealous above all things, to external arbitration, or meekly acquiesced in the partial verdict of a court sitting in the neighbourhood of Mecca, which would certainly have shown scant consideration for compet.i.tors belonging to distant clans?[206]

[Sidenote: Origin of the collection.]