The Spendthrift Heir

A rich man's son inherited a boundless fortune from the estate of Oman. He plunged into vice and debauchery and made a career of squandering. In short, there was no sin he did not commit and no wine he did not drink. One day I gave him this advice: My son, income is like flowing water and enjoyment like a turning mill; that is, only someone with a steady income can afford to spend freely. When you have no income, spend more carefully, for the sailors have a song they sing: If no rain falls in the mountains, in a year even the Tigris becomes a dry riverbed. Choose sense and good conduct and give up play and pleasure, for when your wealth runs out you will suffer hardship and drown in regret. The young man, drunk on the pleasures of music and wine, would not let this advice reach his ears. He objected to my words and said: Spoiling present comfort with worry about future misfortune goes against the judgment of the wise. Why should those who enjoy fortune and good luck endure hardship for fear of hardship to come? Go and be happy, my heart-lighting friend; today is no day to grieve for tomorrow. How much less should I, who sit at the head of generosity, wear the badge of chivalry, and whose gifts are talked of on everyone's lips? Whoever is famed for openhandedness and generosity should not put a lock on his money. Once a good name has gone out into the streets, you cannot shut the door on it again. I saw that he would not accept advice and that my warm breath had no effect on his cold iron. So I gave up counseling him and turned my face from his company, following the saying of the wise: Deliver your message; if they will not accept it, that is no longer your burden. Even if you know they will not listen, say it anyway, all that you know out of goodwill and good counsel. Soon enough you will see the reckless one fallen, both feet caught in the trap. He wrings his hands and cries in vain: I did not heed the wise man's words. After a while, what I had feared appeared before my eyes in the ruin of his state: he was stitching rags together and hoarding crumbs of bread. My heart ached at his misery, and I saw no decency in scratching a poor man's wound with blame and rubbing salt into it in such a state. So I said to myself: The low companion, in the depths of his drunkenness, gives no thought to the day of poverty. The tree scatters its blossoms in spring, and in winter, of course, is left with no leaves.