Story 20: The Musician Who Cured Me of Music

As often as my revered teacher, Abu al-Faraj ibn al-Jawzi, God's mercy upon him, told me to give up listening to music and pointed me toward solitude and seclusion, the fever of my youth got the better of me, and desire and craving pulled the other way. So, against my mentor's counsel, I would inevitably take a step, enjoy the music and the company, and whenever the sheikh's advice came back to me I would say: If the judge himself sat down with us, he'd clap his hands to the beat; if the vice officer drank wine, he'd forgive the drunkard. Until one night I came upon a gathering, and among them I saw a musician; His clumsy plucking seemed to tear the very cords of life; his voice was more dreadful than the news of your own father's death. Now and then the guests would jam their fingers in their ears, and now and then hold them to their lips: quiet down! We turn eagerly toward the sweetness of songs when they are pleasant, but you, singer: if you fell silent, we would be pleased. No one finds any joy in your singing except the moment you stop and hold your breath. When that lute player broke into song, I said to the host: for God's sake, either pour mercury into my ears so I cannot hear, or open the door so I can get out. In short, to keep my friends' feelings, I went along with it, and with much struggle I got through the night till dawn. The muezzin raised his call at the wrong hour; he has no idea how much of the night is left. Ask my eyelashes how long the night was, for sleep never once touched my eyes. In the morning, as a token of gratitude, I loosed the turban from my head and a gold coin from my belt, laid them before the singer, embraced him, and thanked him warmly. My friends found my devotion to him out of character, and put it down to a lapse in my judgment. One of them stretched out his tongue to object and began to scold me: this was not fitting for a sensible man, to give a Sufi elder's robe to a musician like this, who in all his life has never had a single coin in his hand or a scrap of it on his tambourine. A musician, far be it from this blessed house, whom no one has ever seen twice in the same place. The moment his voice left his mouth, the hair stood up on people's bodies. The bird on the porch flew off in terror of him; it stole away our wits and tore its own throat. I said: it would be wise to shorten the tongue of your objection, for this man's true miracle became plain to me. He said: won't you tell me what this miracle was, so that I too may seek his favor and apologize for the joke I made? I said: yes! Because my revered teacher told me again and again to give up listening to music, and delivered eloquent sermons, yet none of it reached my accepting ear. But tonight a lucky star and a fortunate turn led me to this spot, so that through this man I have repented: for the rest of my life I will keep away from music and such company! A lovely voice from a sweet mouth and lips, whether it sings or not, still steals the heart. But even if it strikes the modes of Ushaq, Khorasan, or Hijaz, it means nothing from the throat of a repulsive singer.