"O my cousin," said she, "do not blame me for this I have done; for I have news that my mother is dead, that my father has fallen in battle and that both my brothers are dead also, one of a snake-bite and the other of a fall from a precipice, so that I have good reason to weep and lament." When I heard this, I did not reproach her, but said to her, "Do what thou wilt: I will not baulk thee." She ceased not to mourn and lament for a whole year, at the end of which time she said to me, "I wish to build me in thy palace a tomb with a cupola and set it apart for mourning and call it House of Lamentations." Quoth I, "Do what seemeth good to thee." So she built herself a house of mourning, roofed with a dome, and a monument in the midst like the tomb of a saint. Thither she transported the slave and lodged him in the tomb. He was exceeding weak and from the day I wounded him he had remained unable to do her any service or to speak or do aught but drink; but he was still alive, because his hour was not yet come. She used to visit him morning and evening in the mausoleum and carry him wine and broths to drink and weep and make moan over him; and thus she did for another year, whilst I ceased not to have patience with her and pay no heed to her doings, till one day I came upon her unawares and found her weeping and saying, "Why art thou absent from my sight, O delight of my heart? Speak to me, O my life! speak to me, O my love!" And she recited the following verses: My patience fails me for desire: if thou forgettest me, My heart
and all my soul can love none other after thee.
Carry me with thee, body and soul, wherever thou dost fare, And
where thou lightest down to rest, there let me buried be.
Speak but my name above my tomb; the groaning of my bones,
Turning towards thy voice's sound, shall answer drearily.
And she wept and recited the following:
My day of bliss is that whereon thou drawest near to me; And that
whereon thou turn'st away, my day of death and fear.
What though I tremble all the night and be in dread of death, Yet
thine embraces are to me than safety far more dear.
And again the following:
Though unto me were given all that can make life sweet, Though
the Chosroes empire, yea, and the world were mine,
All were to me in value less than a midge's wing, If that mine
eyes must never look on that face of thine!
Continued next week. Tomorrow's installment from The Illiad by Homer.
From the Arab world: these stories date back to the Middle Ages.
Picture: Queen Scheherazade tells her stories to King Shahryār.
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