Story No. 22

I heard of a rich man as famous for his stinginess as Hatim Tai was for generosity. On the surface he was decked out with all the world's wealth, yet his inborn miserliness was so deeply rooted that he would not part with a loaf of bread to save a life, never fed a scrap to the cat, and never tossed a bone to a dog. In short, no one ever saw his door open or his tablecloth spread. The beggar never caught more than the smell of his food, and no bird ever pecked a crumb left from his meals. I heard that he had set out across the Mediterranean, bound for Egypt, with a pharaoh's pride in his head; until, just as drowning was about to take him, a contrary wind rose against the ship. What can anyone do with your sour temper if he cannot get along with you? The favorable wind is not always fit for the ship. He raised his hands in prayer and began his useless cries. And when they board a ship, they call upon God, sincere in their faith toward Him. What good is the hand of pleading to a needy servant who holds his prayers up to God but keeps his generosity tucked under his arm? Give others some comfort from your gold and silver, and take some enjoyment for yourself too. And for this house that will outlast you, lay down one brick of silver and one of gold. They say he had poor relatives in Egypt. With what remained of his wealth they grew rich; they tore their old clothes in mourning at his death, then cut themselves fine silk and linen. That very week I saw one of them riding a swift horse, a servant running behind him. Oh, if only the dead man could return to the midst of his family and kin, giving back the inheritance would be harder for the heirs than the death of their relative was. On the strength of an old acquaintance between us, I caught his sleeve and said: Enjoy it, you good-natured, decent man, for that wretch gathered it all and never tasted any of it.