Story No. 12

During a drought in Alexandria, the poor had lost all their endurance. The gates of the sky stayed shut against the earth, and the cries of its people rose up to heaven. Not a single creature was left, wild beast or bird, fish or ant, whose lament of deprivation did not climb to the sky. How strange that the smoke of the people's grieving hearts does not gather into a cloud, so the flood of their weeping eyes might fall as rain. In such a year there was a debauched man, may friends be spared such company, whose description offends decency, especially in the presence of the great. Yet to pass over him in silence would be wrong too, for some might take it as the speaker's incapacity. So let me settle for these two lines, since a little points to a great deal, and a handful shows the whole load: If the Tatars kill this degenerate, there is no need to kill another Tatar in return. How long must he go on like the bridge of Baghdad, water flowing beneath him and men riding over his back? This very man, one side of whose character you have just heard, had boundless wealth that year. He gave silver and gold to the destitute and spread a table for travelers. A band of dervishes, worn down by the cruelty of hunger, meant to answer his invitation and came to consult me. I refused to go along with it and said: The lion will not eat what a dog has half-devoured, even if it dies of starvation in its cave. Bear your helplessness and hunger, but do not stretch out your hand before a base wretch. Even if such a man became like Fereydun in wealth and kingdom, count the man without merit as nothing. Silk and fine brocade on the unworthy are like gold and lapis painted on a wall.