Anecdotes of Destiny and Ehrengard Read Free

on the beach. In spite of his demoniacal reputation he was, it seemed, on dry land and in daily life, a peaceful man.
    I am a poet, and something in these reports brought back to me tales of long ago. I resolved to look up this successfulperson and to make him tell me about himself. First, I sought him in vain in his pleasant house and garden; then one night I walked along the beach to his hut.
    The moon was full in the sky, the long gray waves came in one by one, and everything around me seemed to agree to keep a secret. I looked at it all, and felt that I was going to hear, and to compose, a beautiful story.
    The man I sought was not in his hut, but was sitting on the sand, gazing at the sea and from time to time throwing a pebble into it. The moon shone upon him, and I saw that he was a pretty, fat man, and that his tranquil countenance did indeed express harmony and happiness.
    I saluted him with reverence, told him my name and explained that I was out for a walk in the clear, warm night. He returned my greeting courteously and benevolently and informed me that I was already known to him by repute as a youth keen to perfect himself in the art of story-telling. He then invited me to sit down on the sand beside him. He talked for a while of the moon and the sea. After a pause he remarked that it was a long time since he had heard a tale told. Would I, as we were sitting so pleasantly together in the clear, warm night, tell him a story?
    I was eager to prove my skill, and also trusted that it might serve to forward my purpose with him. So I searched my memory for a good tale. Somehow, I do not know why, the story of the Softa Saufe had been running in my mind. Now in a low, sweet voice, concordant with the moon and the waves, I began:
    “In Shiraz lived a young student of theology …”
    The happy man listened quietly and attentively. But as I came to the passage of the lovers on the house-top and named the dancer Thusmu, he lifted up his hand and looked at it.I had taken much trouble in inventing this pretty moonlight scene, and it was dear to my poet’s heart; I recognized the gesture and in great surprise and alarm cried out: “You are the Softa of Shiraz!”
    “Yes,” said the happy man.
    It is to a poet a thing of awe to find that his story is true. I was only a boy and a novice at my art; the hair rose on my head and I nearly got up and ran away. But something in the happy man’s voice held me to the spot.
    “Once,” he said, “I had the welfare of the Softa Saufe, of whom you have just told me, much at heart. By this time I had almost forgotten him. But I am pleased to know that he has got into a story, for that is probably what he was made for, and in future I shall leave him therein confidently. Go on with your tale, Mira Jama, story-teller, and let me hear the end of it.”
    I trembled at his demand, but again his manner fascinated me and enabled me to take up the thread of my story. At first I felt that he was bestowing an honor upon me and soon, as I went on, that I was bestowing an honor upon him as well. The triumph of the story-teller filled my heart. I told my story very movingly and when I had finished it, there upon that lean sea-sand, with only myself and him under the full moon, my face was bathed in tears.
    The happy man comforted me and begged me not to take a story too much to heart. So when I had regained my voice I beseeched him to tell me all that had happened to him after he left Shiraz. For his experiences in the deep sea, and the luck which had brought him wealth and fame amongst men, would be sure to make as lovely a story as the one I had told him, and a more cheerful one. Princes, great ladies, dancers, I explained to him, love a sad tale, so do the beggars by thecity walls. But I meant to be a story-teller to the whole world, and the men of business and their wives will demand a tale that ends well.
    The happy man was silent for a while.
    “What happened to me,” he then answered